Three years ago, I had a fight with my father and fled the Silvercrest Den in a fit of anger, determined to chase my dream of a quiet life far from the pack.
I shook off every one of his scouts along the way, masking my scent with crushed moonroot and bitter sage until not even the sharpest tracker could follow. I settled at the foot of this mountain, deep in the borderlands where rank and bloodline meant nothing.
That was when I met Caelan Blackthorn. He was on horseback, his cloak whipping in the wind, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. One look was all it took. I fell for him completely.
I hid my identity from him, and he told me only that he was a lone wolf roaming the territories. We exchanged vows beneath the open sky, with the Moon Goddess and the wild earth as our witnesses.
We had no ceremonial furs or pack feasts, but we had each other. He hunted the forests while I kept our den, and we were happy.
Now the den was destroyed, and I was locked away in a side chamber of the Blackthorn estate.
The only glimpse of the outside world I could steal was through a crack in the wall.
A few women passing by were whispering about the Blackthorn mating ceremony.