Alaric Marlow
1267 Words
Elaria’s POV
The morning of my mating ceremony came with no warmth at all.
Just pale light through cracked windowpanes and the chill of a drafty attic room that had never really been mine. I sat on the edge of the narrow cot, staring at the small bowl of water I’d heated over a candle.
Not exactly bridal luxury.
Still, I moved with silent purpose. There was no time for grief anymore, the only thing I wanted to think about was survival. I combed through my dull, straw-blonde hair, the dye I’d prepared last night already set in the strands. I hated this part the most. Watching the soft silver wash down the drain, or in today’s case, into the rag, I used to press it into obedience.
Because silver hair drew attention. And attention was dangerous.
I couldn’t afford to stand out. Not here, not now, and not ever.
After a short while, I pulled the last pin holding my hair into place and examined myself in the broken mirror. My dress was a simple cream-colored cotton with a high collar and sleeves that I had mended twice already. I’d tied a small bouquet of wildflowers with a fraying ribbon, daisies, and pale thistles. Even though they were modest things, they were mine.
And despite everything, despite the bruises life had handed me, I didn’t look like someone begging for pity.
No. I looked like someone who would walk to her own execution with her chin held high. And right now, that is more than enough for me.
The mating ceremony was being held in the old Ebonreach reception hall, a drafty stone cavern left behind from a time when this pack was something more than whispers and shadows. The hall stank faintly of ash and wet fur. Cold seeped through the soles of my shoes as I stepped inside.
There was no music, no feast, no flowers decorating the inside.
Just a limp white ribbon lay out on the altar, unadorned and thin, barely glowing with any of the magic it was meant to carry.
A handful of low-ranking wolves had gathered already. Their whispers echoed louder than their presence. I could feel their eyes scraping over me, the wolfless girl forced into a cursed union with an exiled bastard. Great! Another thing to add to their gossip list.
“She doesn’t even have a wolf. Poor thing.” one said loud enough for me to hear.
“No wonder no real Alpha wanted her.” another replied,
“And him? Wasn’t he the one accused of attacking the old Alpha’s mate?”
“They say his wolf was sealed. What kind of freak can’t even shift?”
I stood alone beneath the gaze of the Moon Goddess, my self-made bouquet clutched between my hands tightly. My palms were sweating, but I forced my breath steady.
I wouldn’t flinch for them.
The doors burst open in a flourish of color and perfume.
Amara.
She swanned into the hall like a peacock on fire, all shimmering gold silk and tight curves, dragging Julian beside her like a prized accessory. His shirt was half-buttoned, his expression dazed.
I straightened instinctively. I wonder why I fell in love with the weak man.
She made a show of gasping dramatically, her eyes roving over the empty benches. “Oh my, Elaria. Is this really your grand ceremony? No music? No guests? Not even one of the decent omegas showed up?”
Julian’s gaze drifted toward me and lingered there, his eyes widened, his lips parted as if he was surprised to see me all dressed up.
Amara noticed.
She dug her nails into his arm.
I said nothing, refusing to give her the reaction she wanted.
Amara clicked her tongue. “Honestly, El, you really know how to turn every moment into a seduction attempt, don’t you? Even today. Who are you trying to impress with that poor girl's act? Don't look at Julian with those eyes. He belongs to me now” Just pathetic.
I smiled, calm, cool, and practiced. “At least I’m not trying to seduce my own sister’s groom at her mating ceremony. What are you wearing, sister?”
Amara’s face twisted. “Enjoy your little moment. I’m going to the main hall to see if the ancient mutt they scraped from the gutters even bothered to show up. Maybe even a wolfless illegitimate son has better standards than to marry you.”
She turned on her heel with a scoff.
The other wolves chuckled, some too loud, some quietly malicious. A few dared to whisper about how the groom had been exiled for treason, how his father had disowned him publicly. They don't even know him.
“That’s the one? Alaric Marlow? He was banished years ago.”
“Can’t shift, can’t lead, can’t even fight.” They don't hide their murmurs, they know I can hear, but still, they don't stop talking.
“They say he’s ugly and scarred.”
“Pitiful, really.”
Amara chimed in gleefully, throwing her voice over her shoulder. “Let’s hope he doesn’t look as tragic as the rumors say. The poor thing might faint at the sight of him.”
I snapped. “Under the gaze of the Moon Goddess, show some respect.” That shut them up, for a heartbeat and then it happened.
The moon shifted.
Its light poured through the high windows in blinding brilliance, flooding the stone floor with silver fire.
The room hushed.
Then the doors opened again.
And the air changed.
He walked in with the grace of a shadow and the presence of a storm. Tall, composed, wrapped in a simple dark coat that did nothing to mask the power thrumming beneath his skin. His hair was tousled, his green eyes steady and cutting. And despite the modest cut of his clothes, he carried himself like someone born to be obeyed.
No one spoke.
No one could.
Even the lowest-ranking wolves began to rise, their heads bowing instinctively, though they didn’t yet know why.
“Who is that?” someone whispered.
“He smells like an Alpha.”
“Maybe royalty…”
Even Amara stared, slack-jawed, her mouth working silently before she recovered. She sashayed forward quickly, pushing past Julian like he was just a piece of furniture.
“Hi,” she purred, tilting her head. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you here for the ceremony? You’re welcome to sit next to me.”
The man’s gaze slid over her like she was air.
Then he looked at me.
And everything inside me stilled. The man was looking at me.
He walked toward me, his steps unhurried but purposeful. He didn’t look at the ribbon. Or the altar. Or the crowd.
Only me.
Someone gasped. Another knelt.
It spread like wildfire.
Recognition.
Panic.
Realization.
“That’s him,” someone whispered. “That’s… the groom?”
“No way. That’s Alaric Marlow?”
“But. . . he’s. . . he’s not. . . He can't be”
Amara froze, her face draining of color as Alaric stopped in front of me.
He didn't say anything at first, he just offered his arm.
I took it, my hand was surprisingly steady despite the thunder in my chest.
And in that moment, every murmur, every cruel whisper, every mockery I had endured, fell silent beneath the weight of his presence.
I stood beside the “worthless groom.”
And for the first time, the pack looked up at me. I know my life will never be the same again.
- Writer
