*Chapter 8 – The Alpha's Rules
The morning after the signing of the mating contract, the fortress felt different. It wasn't the stones or the air, but the weight of the gazes that followed Aren as Lyra escorted him to the healing quarters. The news had spread. He was no longer just the political omega; he was the *legally bound* mate of the Alpha. A mate who was forbidden to him, and he to the Alpha, by the very contract that created the bond. The irony was a bitter pill, and the pack's stares reflected a mix of confusion, derision, and a new, sharper curiosity.
Marlena greeted him with her usual grunt, but her eyes held a fraction more assessment. "Don't stand there gawking. The wintergreen needs grinding, and I've a dozen poultices to make before noon. Your… *status* doesn't earn you a lighter load."
"I wouldn't expect it to, Healer," Aren said quietly, tying his apron. He found a strange solace in the mundane brutality of the mortar and pestle. The rhythmic crushing of dried leaves into fine powder was a meditation. It gave his hands a purpose and his mind a focal point away from the memory of his own blood on the parchment, and Kael's icy dismissal.
He was measuring out powdered willow bark when the door to the healing quarters banged open. A young scout, barely out of his teens, stumbled in, supported by a comrade. His face was pale, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle below the knee. A compound fracture, the white of bone stark against torn skin and blood.
Marlena was at his side in an instant. "Fool boy! What happened?"
"Ridge patrol… loose shale gave way," the supporting scout gasped. "Fell twenty feet."
"On the table. Now." Marlena's voice was all business. "Aren, I need the poppy tincture, strong. And the bone-setting splints and straps. Move!"
Aren moved, his old training overriding his nerves. He fetched the dark bottle of tincture, measured a potent dose into a cup, and brought it to the injured scout. The boy's eyes were wide with pain and fear. He looked at Aren, the enemy omega, holding his medicine, and flinched.
"Take it," Aren said, his voice low and steady. "It will help with the pain before she sets it."
The scout hesitated, but a fresh wave of agony made him gasp. He grabbed the cup and downed it. Aren then laid out the splints and linen straps beside Marlena with efficient precision.
"Hold him," Marlena ordered the other scout. She looked at Aren. "You. You've set a bone before?"
"I've assisted," Aren said.
"Then assist. I need counter-pressure on the thigh when I pull. Don't let his knee bend. Understand?"
Aren nodded, positioning his hands on the scout's muscular thigh. His touch was firm but careful. The scout whimpered. Marlena took a firm grip on the ankle. "On three. One… two…"
She pulled. The sound of grating bone was sickening. The scout screamed, his body arching. Aren held fast, applying steady pressure, his own stomach lurching. He focused on the task, on being an anchor. After what felt like an eternity, Marlena gave a satisfied grunt. "It's aligned. Hold it there."
While Marlena swiftly applied the splints and bound them tight, Aren kept his hold. His eyes met the scout's, which were glazed with pain and tears. Aren didn't look away. He offered no false comfort, just a steady, calm presence. When the binding was done and the scout slumped back, panting, Aren gently released his grip and fetched a damp cloth to wipe the sweat from the boy's brow.
Marlena watched him, her sharp eyes missing nothing. "Fetch him a draught for the fever that'll come. Then clean this mess."
As Aren worked, the supporting scout, who had been silent, spoke up, his voice rough. "He'd have lost the leg without you, Healer. Or worse."
"He'll keep it if the fool stays off it for six weeks," Marlena snapped, but she was packing her tools with a satisfied air. She glanced at Aren. "You did adequately."
It was the closest thing to praise he'd received in the Black Moon fortress. A faint warmth touched the cold hollow in his chest.
That afternoon, his escort for his daily walk was not the usual silent guard, but Lyra herself. Her expression was grim. "The Alpha has summoned you to his study. Now."
A different kind of dread settled in Aren's gut. The formal audience on the terrace, the contract signing—those were ceremonies. A summons to the Alpha's private study felt ominously personal.
Kael's study was in the east wing, a place Aren had been explicitly forbidden to approach. It was a room of stark utility. A massive desk of dark wood dominated the space, piled with scrolls and maps. Books lined shelves on one wall. A large fireplace held a low fire, and the wall opposite the desk was glass, offering a dizzying, panoramic view of the mountains. Kael stood before this window, his back to the door, as still as the peaks themselves.
"Enter," he said without turning.
Lyra nudged Aren inside and closed the door, leaving him alone with the Alpha. The room smelled of leather, old paper, woodsmoke, and the potent, clean scent of Kael himself.
"You sent for me, Alpha?" Aren's voice was barely audible.
Kael turned. He was dressed more formally than usual, in a dark tunic edged with silver thread, the mark of his station. He looked every inch the untouchable ruler. His gaze swept over Aren, taking in his simple clothes, the faint smear of herb stain on his wrist, the wary tension in his posture.
"The contract is signed," Kael began, his voice devoid of inflection. "The law is satisfied. Now, we establish the reality. You will live in my territory. You will wear my name. But you are not my mate in any way that matters to this pack. To ensure there is no confusion, for you or for them, there will be rules."
He walked to his desk and picked up a single sheet of parchment. He didn't hand it to Aren; he held it, reciting its contents as if from memory, his eyes locked on Aren's.
"One. You will not enter the east wing, beyond the stairwell to your chamber, unless summoned. This study, my private chambers, are forbidden.
"Two. You will not approach me in public or private without express permission or clear cause.
"Three. You will not speak of our… arrangement, or express any expectation derived from the contract, to any member of the pack.
"Four. You will perform the duties assigned to you by Marlena or Lyra without complaint. Your value here is in your utility, not your title.
"Five. You will make no attempt to influence pack politics, tradition, or my decisions, directly or indirectly.
"Six." Here, Kael paused, the winter in his eyes deepening. "You will control your omega instincts. Any overt displays—scenting of distress, seeking proximity, submissive gestures—are to be suppressed. They are not welcome. They will not be answered."
Each rule was a deliberate blow, meticulously designed to carve out every possible connection, to reinforce the wall between them. The final one struck deepest. It wasn't just about behavior; it was an order to mutilate a part of his own nature. To hide his fear, his loneliness, his involuntary biological responses. To become a ghost in his own skin.
Aren felt a hot surge of something that felt dangerously like anger. He had accepted his fate. He was trying to be useful. He had not sought him out, had not begged for attention, had done nothing but exist in the space allotted to him. And still, Kael felt the need to codify his rejection, to legislate his indifference.
"Do you understand?" Kael's voice cut through his thoughts.
"I understand the rules, Alpha," Aren said, his voice gaining a sliver of strength. "May I ask a question?"
Kael's eyebrow lifted slightly, the only sign of surprise. "You may."
"The sixth rule. To suppress instinct… it is not always a matter of choice. Especially under stress. If I… fail to control an involuntary reaction, what is the consequence?"
It was a practical question, born of survival. He needed to know the boundaries of his punishment.
Kael studied him, as if seeing this practical, pragmatic side of him for the first time since the terrace. "The consequence," he said slowly, "is my displeasure. And you do not want that, Aren. You will learn control. You will have to."
The threat was clear, but so was the unspoken challenge. *You will have to.* It implied a belief that Aren *could*.
"Is that all, Alpha?" Aren asked, wanting nothing more than to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the room.
"No." Kael placed the parchment back on his desk. "Your performance in the healing quarters has been noted. Marlena finds you… adequate. You will continue there. You will also take your meals there from now on. You are not to eat in the common hall."
Even this small concession—eating in the healing quarters—was framed as an isolation, a removal from the pack's social body. Yet, it was also a slight loosening of his solitary confinement. A paradox.
"Thank you, Alpha," Aren said, the words automatic.
"Do not thank me for rules," Kael said, turning back to the window, his dismissal final. "Obey them. That is all."
Aren left the study, the phantom weight of the six rules settling on his shoulders like a yoke. Lyra was waiting outside. As they walked back through the cold corridors, Aren felt a strange detachment. The lines were now explicitly drawn. His cage had precise dimensions. There was a perverse comfort in knowing exactly how small his world was.
That night, as he lay in his narrow bed, the sixth rule echoed in his mind. *Control your omega instincts.* He thought of the scout's pain, the way his own instinct had been to offer comfort, not just medicine. He thought of the faint, traitorous pull he sometimes felt toward Kael's scent on the rare draft of air. These were not things he could switch off.
The moon, a waxing crescent now, cast a sliver of light through his window. He stared at it, the symbol of Kael's pack. Strength in silence. Hidden power.
Aren closed his eyes. He would obey the Alpha's rules. He would be silent, useful, and controlled. But as he drifted into a fitful sleep, a new resolve, hard and clear as the mountain rock, formed in the deepest part of him. He would learn the rules not just to obey them, but to understand the man who made them. To understand the fortress of discipline that was Kael, Alpha of the Black Moon. For in understanding his jailer, he might just find the key to surviving him.
The game had changed. It was no longer just about endurance. It was about observation. And Aren, the gentle omega, the healer, was a very keen observer.