*Chapter 6 – First Sight Under a Silver Moon
Three days passed in a blur of stone-cold silence and profound isolation. Aren's world had shrunk to the dimensions of his cell-like room, the echoing stairwell he was escorted down for his daily "walk," and the small, walled section of the lower courtyard where he was allowed to pace under the watchful eyes of a rotating guard. Meals—simple, hearty fare of stew, dark bread, and water—were delivered in silence and taken away without a word. He saw no one except the guards and the stoic omega woman who brought his food, who never met his eyes.
He spent his time observing. From his high window, he learned the rhythms of the fortress. The changing of the guards at dawn, noon, and dusk. The patrols departing and returning. The times when the courtyard was busiest with training and work. He listened to the sounds—the clash of practice weapons, the low murmur of conversations he couldn't make out, the distant howl of a wolf on the heights. He was a ghost, haunting the edges of a life that pulsed with a vitality he was forbidden to touch.
His own wolf was a restless, mournful presence inside him. It hated the confinement, the alien scents, the utter lack of pack connection. It paced the confines of his mind, whining softly, seeking an anchor it couldn't find. Aren did his best to soothe it, but his own anxiety was a poor comfort.
On the evening of the third day, as the last light bled from the sky and the fortress torches were lit, the bolt on his door slid back with a heavy *thunk*. It wasn't the omega with his dinner. It was Lyra.
"Come," she said, her expression as inscrutable as ever. "The Alpha will see you now."
Aren's heart, which had settled into a dull, steady thud of resignation, suddenly leapt into a frantic gallop. *Now.* It was happening. The moment he had both dreaded and, in a strange way, longed for—an end to the unbearable waiting. He stood, smoothing his hands over the simple tunic and trousers he'd been provided, clothes that were clean but coarse and hung loosely on his frame.
He followed Lyra through the labyrinth of torch-lit corridors. They didn't go to the main hall where the treaty had been signed. Instead, they climbed another, wider staircase and emerged onto a vast, open terrace at the rear of the keep. It was a sheer drop on three sides, overlooking the deep, moon-washed valley below. The fourth side was the mountain itself. The air here was bitingly cold and pure, filled with the scent of night-blooming mountain flowers and ancient stone.
And there, standing at the very edge with his back to them, was Kael.
He was silhouetted against the immense, star-strewn sky and the silver crescent of the moon that hung just above the highest peak. He wore no ceremonial garb, just dark, fitted trousers and a linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows despite the chill. He looked less like a political figure and more like an elemental part of the landscape—a pinnacle of rock given life and formidable will.
Lyra stopped at the archway leading onto the terrace. "Alpha," she said, then gave Aren a slight push forward before melting back into the shadows of the stairwell, leaving him utterly alone with the most feared wolf in five territories.
For a long moment, neither moved. Aren stood frozen, five paces behind Kael, his breath forming small clouds in the cold air. The only sounds were the endless sigh of the wind and the distant rush of a waterfall.
Then, Kael spoke, his voice low and carrying easily in the thin air. He didn't turn. "Do you know why this is called the Black Moon Pack?"
The question was so unexpected it took Aren a second to find his voice. "N-no, Alpha."
"The moon is never truly black," Kael said, his gaze fixed on the celestial sliver above. "Even in its darkest phase, it is there. A shadow against the stars. It is a time of hidden power. Of potential unseen. My ancestors chose it not as a symbol of darkness, but of strength that does not need to blaze to be felt. Strength that waits in the silence."
He finally turned.
The torchlight from the archway didn't reach the terrace's edge, leaving his face in shadow, illuminated only by the cool, merciless light of the moon. Aren's first true sight of him was a shock. The reports, the stories, had painted a monster, a creature of brute rage. The man before him was not that. He was intensity personified. His pale gray eyes were like chips of glacial ice, but they held a piercing intelligence, not mindless fury. The severe lines of his face spoke of discipline, not cruelty. He was handsome in a stark, unforgiving way, like the mountains themselves. But the power radiating from him was tangible—a pressure in the air that made Aren's instincts scream to submit, to bare his throat.
Kael's gaze swept over him, the same flat, assessing look from the treaty hall, but closer, more intimate in the vast, empty space. Aren felt laid bare, every insecurity, every tremor, exposed under that moonlit scrutiny. He forced himself to stand straight, to meet that gaze, though every fiber of his omega being trembled.
"You are thinner than I expected," Kael stated, his tone devoid of concern. It was an observation of fact. "The journey was hard."
"The mountains are… steep, Alpha," Aren managed, his voice barely above a whisper.
A faint, almost imperceptible flicker crossed Kael's features. "They are. They separate the strong from the weak. They are our greatest defender." He took a step closer, and Aren had to fight not to retreat. "You are here because of a treaty. Because your pack was weak, and mine was strong enough to demand terms. Do you understand that?"
The bluntness was a slap. "I understand, Alpha."
"Good." Kael stopped, an arm's length away. Aren could smell him now, clearly—the crisp, clean scent of snow on granite, the underlying warmth of his skin, and that deep, wild power. It was not the stench of a monster. It was the scent of a force of nature, controlled and utterly formidable. "The treaty guarantees your safety. It does not guarantee your comfort. It does not guarantee you a place in this pack beyond the one I assign you. You will earn your keep. You will follow my rules. You will not speak of your old pack within these walls. Is that clear?"
Each sentence was a stone, building the walls of his existence higher. "Yes, Alpha."
Kael studied him for another long moment. The silver moonlight caught in Aren's hair, turned his wide, fearful eyes to pools of liquid shadow. He looked fragile, yes. But there was something in the set of his jaw, in the way he was forcing himself to hold that challenging gaze. A trembling resolve. Not defiance, but a refusal to completely shatter. It was unexpected.
"Why did you not fight?" Kael asked suddenly, the question sharp. "When your Alpha told you, why did you not run? Why did you come?"
The question pierced through Aren's carefully maintained composure. He looked away, out over the moonlit valley. "Where would I run to, Alpha?" he said, his voice thick with a truth he couldn't hide. "I am an omega. Unclaimed. In the wilds, I would be dead or taken by rogues in a day. In another pack, I would be a political problem, just as I was in my own." He looked back at Kael, a spark of something raw in his eyes. "I came because it was the only choice that offered a thread of… of order. Of a known outcome, however bad."
*However bad.* The words hung between them.
Kael was silent. He had expected bitterness, perhaps. Or tearful pleading. Or sullen resignation. He had not expected this clear-eyed, despairing pragmatism. This omega had looked at his options, all of them terrible, and had chosen the one with a structure, however harsh. It spoke of a mind that worked, not just a heart that felt.
His wolf, which had been observing with detached curiosity, stirred. *Not weak,* it murmured, a thought that felt foreign. *Adaptable.*
"The known outcome," Kael repeated slowly. "Is that you are here. In my territory. Under my law. The treaty binds us in law, Aren. But a pack is bound by more than law. It is bound by loyalty. By trust. By blood. You have none of those here. You may never have them. Can you live with that?"
It was the most honest thing anyone had said to him since he was chosen. Aren met his gaze, the fear still there, but beneath it, that cold, clear resolve solidified. "I don't have a choice, Alpha. So I will live with it. I will do what is required of me."
For a heartbeat, something shifted in the air between them. It wasn't warmth. It wasn't understanding. It was a mutual, stark recognition of the situation. They were two wolves caught in a cage of politics, one the warden, the other the prisoner. Both bound by chains not of their making.
Kael gave a single, short nod. "See that you do." He turned back to look at the moon, dismissing him. "Lyra will show you back. Your duties begin tomorrow. You will report to the healing quarters at dawn. It is noted you have some skill there. Use it."
Healing quarters. It wasn't the kitchens or the latrines. It was a place of purpose, however small. A thread of… something. Not hope. Not yet. But a direction.
"Thank you, Alpha," Aren said, the words automatic.
Kael didn't respond. He was already lost in the vista, a solitary king surveying his domain of rock and shadow.
Aren turned and walked back to the archway where Lyra waited. As he passed from the silver moonlight into the torch-lit gloom of the corridor, he felt strangely lighter. The terrifying unknown had a face now, and a voice. It was cold, it was harsh, it was unyielding. But it was not the mindless beast of legend. It was a man of calculation and control.
And in that first sight under the silver moon, Aren had seen something else, something he tucked away deep inside: a flicker of something like respect in those ice-gray eyes when he spoke of having no choice. It was a tiny thing, a spark in an ocean of darkness. But it was his. He had not broken. He had met the Alpha's gaze and stated his bleak truth.
He had survived the first sight. Now, he had to survive everything that came after.