Claimed Beneath the Blood moon

Snow fell in thick, relentless sheets outside Blackthorn Keep, blanketing the jagged peaks of the Northern Territories in a silence so deep it felt like the world held its breath. Inside the ancient stone walls, however, tension crackled like dry wood waiting for a spark. The full moon was three nights away, and with it came the mating ceremony that would bind two of the strongest packs in the north. Everyone knew the stakes. Everyone knew the players. No one spoke of the one who had been erased from the story long before it began.

Ashley moved through the lower corridors with the practiced quiet of someone who had learned early that noise drew eyes, and eyes drew punishment. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight knot at the nape of her neck, strands escaping like rebellious threads she had no time to tame. The woolen dress she wore was patched at the knees and wrists, once a deep green but now faded to the color of old moss. It had belonged to Clara once, before it was declared unfit for the future Luna. Ashley had taken it without complaint. It was warmer than the threadbare shift she had worn the winter before.

She carried a heavy tray laden with polished silver goblets and a decanter of spiced wine meant for the high table. Her arms ached from the weight, but she kept her steps even, her gaze fixed on the flagstones. Servants did not look up in Blackthorn Keep. Not unless summoned. Not unless they wanted the lash or worse.

Tonight the great hall thrummed with voices. The pack elders had arrived from distant holds, their fur cloaks still dusted with snow. Alpha Gideon Voss presided at the head of the long table, his silver streaked hair pulled back severely, his face a map of old scars and older grudges. Beside him sat Clara, radiant in a gown of midnight blue velvet embroidered with silver thread. The sacred crescent moon birthmark on her left collarbone glowed softly beneath the torchlight, a perfect pale arc that had marked her worthy from the moment she drew breath. Clara Voss, the chosen, the perfect, the one who would secure the alliance with the Silverfang Pack and ensure the north remained unbreakable.

Across from them lounged the man who had ridden in at dusk with a retinue of twenty black furred wolves and not a single smile: Damien Blackwood, heir to Silverfang. He was everything the rumors promised and more. Tall enough that even seated he seemed to dominate the space, shoulders broad beneath dark leather armor edged in wolf pelt, hair the color of raven wings falling loose past his collar. His face was sharp angles and shadowed hollows, beautiful in the way a storm is beautiful before it destroys. And his eyes... storm gray, cold as the glaciers that fed the rivers, yet burning with something darker whenever they moved.

Ashley had intended to slip in through the side door,