Chapter 7 – Bound by Law, Not Heart
The morning after his moonlit audience with Kael, Aren was roused before dawn by the same silent omega who brought his meals. She placed a bundle of clean clothes—sturdy linen trousers, a wool tunic, and a leather apron—on the chest at the foot of his bed, along with a pair of well-worn but serviceable boots. Her eyes flicked to his face for a fleeting second, a glance that held neither warmth nor malice, only a weary acknowledgment of his existence, before she left, bolting the door behind her.
*Healing quarters at dawn.* Kael's command echoed in his mind. A duty. A purpose. It was a lifeline thrown into the stagnant waters of his confinement. He dressed quickly, the unfamiliar clothes scratchy but warm, and ate the bowl of porridge left for him. When Lyra arrived to escort him, he was waiting by the door, the leather apron tied neatly around his waist.
She gave him an appraising look but said nothing, leading him down through the fortress's belly into areas he hadn't seen. The air grew warmer, carrying the mingled scents of herbs, antiseptic washes, and the underlying, metallic tang of blood and sickness. They arrived at a large, vaulted chamber lit by high, narrow windows and a central fire pit. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with jars, bundles of drying plants, and rolls of bandages. Several pallets were arranged on the floor, some occupied by wounded or ailing pack members.
An older woman with sharp eyes and hair the color of iron stood over a young warrior whose forearm was laid open in a nasty gash. She was cleaning it with a solution that made the man hiss through clenched teeth.
"Marlena," Lyra announced. "The Alpha sends you the new assistant. Aren, of the Silver Fang."
The healer, Marlena, didn't look up from her work. "Does he know yarrow from wolfsbane? Can he set a bone without fainting?"
"His previous pack noted healing skill," Lyra said, her tone implying she placed little stock in the medical abilities of the Silver Fang.
"We'll see. Put him to work cleaning and sorting the incoming herb bundles. I haven't got time to coddle political baggage." Marlena's words were brusque, but her hands on the warrior's arm were deft and gentle.
Lyra left, and Aren was alone in this new arena. For a moment, he stood paralyzed, the hostile gaze of the wounded warrior and the dismissive attitude of the healer freezing him in place. Then, he saw the pile of freshly gathered, muddy plants in a basket by the door. A task. He moved to it.
He worked in silence for hours, shaking dirt from roots, separating leaves from stems, laying them out on drying racks. He recognized most of the plants—comfrey, chamomile, feverfew—common in his own pack's medicine. Once, when Marlena barked for more linen strips and her hands were full holding a wound closed, Aren instinctively moved. He fetched the roll, tore off strips of the correct width without being asked, and handed them to her in a neat pile. She took them without thanks, but her eyes narrowed thoughtfully at him.
Later, when a young mother brought in a feverish, crying pup, Aren, remembering his mother's ways, quietly prepared a tincture of elderflower and catmint. He approached Marlena. "For the fever, Healer. If it pleases you."
Marlena took the small cup, sniffed it, and gave a curt nod. She administered it, and soon the pup's cries subsided into fitful sleep. No praise was given, but no criticism followed either. It was a start.
His days fell into a new, grueling rhythm. Dawn in the healing quarters, endless tasks—cleaning, grinding, preparing poultices, assisting Marlena with increasingly complex procedures. The healer was a hard taskmaster, her tongue sharp, but she was fair. She corrected his technique, quizzed him on herb properties, and gradually gave him more responsibility. The pack members who came through were wary of him, often refusing to meet his eyes, but their need for care sometimes overrode their prejudice. Aren learned to be silent, efficient, and invisible, letting his hands speak for him.
He saw Kael only from a distance. The Alpha would sometimes stride through the lower courtyard, a vortex of authority, everyone snapping to attention. He never looked toward the healing quarters' doorway where Aren might be taking a breath of air. Their bond, such as it was, remained a line on a parchment, a distant, cold fact.
The physical proximity, however, was a constant, low-grade torment. Aren's room, he learned, was in the same wing as Kael's personal chambers, though separated by a long corridor and a guarded stairwell. At night, in the profound silence of the fortress, his omega senses, heightened by stress and loneliness, could sometimes catch the faintest trace of the Alpha's scent—snow and granite—carried on some unseen draft. It was a scent that should have been comforting to an omega, the scent of a potential protector. Instead, it was a reminder of the one who held all the power, who had refused to claim him, who was bound to him by law, not heart.
One evening, a week into his new routine, Lyra appeared at the healing quarters not to fetch him, but with a scroll in her hand. Marlena was stitching a deep laceration on a hunter's thigh. Lyra waited until the last knot was tied before speaking.
"The Alpha has formalized the mating contract. It requires both signatures in the presence of the pack elders. Now."
Aren's blood ran cold. The treaty signing had been a transfer of property. This… this was different. This was the personal, legal shackling of his life to Kael's. Marlena gave him a cloth to wipe the blood from his hands, her expression unreadable.
He followed Lyra to a smaller, more austere chamber than the Great Hall. A fire crackled in a hearth, but it gave no warmth. Kael stood before it, still in his day clothes, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else. Three elder wolves, two men and a woman with faces like weathered leather, sat at a heavy oak table. The contract, a smaller but no less ominous piece of parchment than the treaty, lay upon it.
"Sit," Kael said, not looking at him, gesturing to a chair on the opposite side of the table from the elders.
Aren sat. The elders looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. One of the males, Garrick, spoke, his voice like grinding stones. "The contract stipulates the terms of the mating bond as per the Treaty of the Blood Moon. Omega Aren is recognized as the legal mate of Alpha Kael. He is afforded all protections and privileges thereof. In return, his loyalty and obedience are sworn to the Black Moon Alpha and pack. The bond is one of political alliance. Any… *personal* aspects of the bond are at the sole discretion of the Alpha."
The words were a clinical dissection of his life. *At the sole discretion of the Alpha.* Kael's earlier refusal to claim him was now codified into law.
"The final clause," the female elder, Anya, said, her eyes sharp on Aren, "is one of intimacy. Given the political nature of this union, and to prevent any… unwanted complications or false expectations, physical consummation of the bond is hereby forbidden unless explicitly initiated and consented to by the Alpha, for the explicit purpose of producing an heir, should the need for one ever be deemed politically necessary by the Alpha and the council."
The air left Aren's lungs. He felt a hot flush of humiliation creep up his neck. They were writing his celibacy, his undesirability, into law. He was to be a mate in name only, a decorative seal on a document, his body further regulated by contract. He dared a glance at Kael. The Alpha's jaw was clenched, his gaze fixed on the fire. He showed no reaction, but a muscle ticked in his cheek.
"Do you understand the terms, omega?" Garrick asked.
Aren's voice was a dry whisper. "I understand."
"Then sign."
A bone stylus, similar to the dagger from the treaty signing, was placed before him. This time, it was just ink. He was to sign his name in his own blood, willingly. His hand trembled as he picked it up. He pricked his thumb, watching a single, perfect ruby droplet well up. He looked at the line where he was to sign, beside where Kael's bold, slashing signature was already dry.
For a moment, rebellion, hot and fierce, surged in him. He could refuse. He could dash the contract into the fire. But the consequences… for him, for the fragile peace, for his mother's pack… He saw Kael's icy eyes in his mind. *You will do what is required of you.*
He pressed his bleeding thumb to the parchment, scrawling his name—*Aren*—in a shaky script beside Kael's powerful mark. The two names sat together, a stark juxtaposition of strength and vulnerability, bound by rust-colored ink.
"It is done," Anya said, rolling the scroll with finality. "The mating contract is sealed. You are bound by law."
Kael finally moved. He turned from the fire, his eyes sweeping over the scene—Aren sitting small and pale, the elders looking satisfied, the signed contract. His expression was carved from stone. "Leave us," he said to the elders. They filed out without a word.
When the door closed, Kael walked to the table and looked down at the contract, then at Aren. "This changes nothing of what I told you," he said, his voice low. "The rules stand. This…" He tapped the scroll. "…is a formality for the record. It binds you to the pack's protection legally. It does not bind you to me. Do not expect it to."
Aren looked up at him, the humiliation curdling into a sharp, clear anger. "I expect nothing, Alpha," he said, and the words held a bitterness he couldn't conceal. "You have made that abundantly clear."
For a second, something flashed in Kael's eyes—surprise, perhaps, at the tone. It was gone instantly, replaced by a deeper frost. "See that you remember it." He picked up the scroll. "Return to your duties."
Aren stood and left the room, his thumb throbbing where he had pierced it. The physical pain was a welcome anchor. He walked back to the healing quarters in a daze. He was legally mated. He was also legally forbidden from any true intimacy with his mate. He was a prisoner, a worker, and now a bride in a paper marriage.
That night, in his cold room, he stared at the tiny pinprick on his thumb. The bond was now formal, written, signed in blood. But it was the most hollow bond imaginable. They were bound by law, not heart. Bound by ink, not bite. Bound by duty, not desire.
And as the moon rose, casting its silver light through his high window, Aren realized the deepest cut of all: in forbidding intimacy, the contract had made the faint, treacherous longing he sometimes felt in Kael's presence into a forbidden thing, a shameful secret. He was not only unwanted; his own unwanted feelings were now against the law.
The cage, he understood with a sinking heart, had just acquired another, even stronger lock.