The biting wind of late autumn howled through the jagged peaks of the northern territories carrying with it the bitter promise of winter.
Down by the banks of the Silverbend River where the water ran the color of crushed slate Isolda Sterling knelt in the freezing mud.
Her bare hands numb and cracked from the cold dug desperately at the frozen earth to harvest the last of the seasons comfrey root.
In the Ironpine Pack an omega was less than a servant.
They were property.
But an albino omega was considered a curse from the Moon Goddess herself.
Isoldas hair was the stark blinding white of fresh snow.
Her skin porcelain and prone to burning and her eyes held a pale haunting violet hue.
To Alpha Rhett Sullivan she was a defect an omen of bad harvests and harsh winters.
She was kept alive only because her mother had been a highly respected healer before she passed and the pack still demanded the medicinal poultices Isolda had learned to craft.
She wore a thin burlap tunic that offered no protection against the elements.
Her shoulders hunched as she worked.
The sun was beginning to dip below the tree line casting long skeletal shadows across the riverbank.
It was then that she smelled it.
Copper.
The heavy unmistakable stench of fresh blood mixed with the deep earthy scent of pine needles and raw rain.
Isolda froze her sharp omega senses flaring with a primal instinct to run.
Rogues often crossed the Silverbend desperate and starving and a lone omega was nothing but prey.
But another scent beneath the blood anchored her feet to the mud a scent of unimaginable power tinged with the suffocating smell of burning flesh.
It was the distinct acidic odor of raw silver reacting to werewolf blood.
Against her better judgment Isolda crept through the dense thicket of frosted ferns.
Beside a cluster of jagged river rocks half submerged in the freezing shallows lay a monstrous black wolf.
It was twice the size of any wolf in the Ironpine Pack its fur a midnight void against the pale river stones.
The beast was barely breathing its massive ribcage rising and falling in shallow jagged gasps.
Protruding from the thick muscle of its left shoulder was a heavy crossbow bolt.
The shaft had been broken off but the broadhead remained deeply embedded.
Even from a distance Isolda could see the blackened necrotic veins spreading from the wound.
It was a pure silver broadhead forged to kill an alpha.
Pack law was absolute.
Let outsiders die.
To harbor a stray was treason.
To touch one was a death sentence under Alpha Rhetts brutal regime.
But as Isolda stared at the dying creature the wolfs massive head twitched.
One eye opened a piercing molten gold that locked onto her pale violet gaze.
There was no aggression in that look only a weary silent acceptance of death.
Isoldas heart hammered against her ribs.
She dropped her basket of herbs and rushed forward her knees splashing into the icy river.
Do not move she whispered her voice rasping from disuse.
She reached out her trembling snow white hands hovering over the black fur.
The heat radiating from the beast was immense a fever burning through its massive form.
She knew what she had to do and she knew the agony it would cost her.
Silver was toxic to all werewolves even the lowest ranking omega.
To touch the metal directly would sear her flesh.
She had no tools no forceps only her bare hands.
This is going to hurt she breathed bracing her knees against the slick river stones.
Both of us.
Isolda gripped the broken wooden shaft her fingers sliding down until they touched the exposed blood slicked base of the silver broadhead.
The moment her skin made contact with the cursed metal a searing white hot agony shot up her arm.
The smell of burning flesh filled the air.
Her flesh.
She bit down on her lip so hard she tasted copper stifling a scream.
With a guttural desperate cry she wrenched the bolt upward.
The massive black wolf convulsed a deafening earth shattering snarl ripping from its throat.
Its jaws snapped inches from her face but it did not bite.
The silver broadhead slid free with a sickening squelch accompanied by a geyser of dark poisoned blood.
Isolda fell back into the river gasping for air the cursed arrow dropping from her blistering blackened hands.
The wolf whimpered its head collapsing onto the muddy bank.
The silver was out but the infection was deep.
Ignoring the excruciating pain in her own palms Isolda scrambled back to her basket.
She frantically crushed the fresh comfrey root and yarrow between two smooth river stones mixing it with the frigid river water and a desperate addition her own blood.
Her mother had once whispered that the blood of an albino wolf carried ancient forgotten properties a purity that accelerated cellular regeneration.
Isolda bit her tongue letting a few drops of her own blood mix into the herbal paste.
She packed the deep gaping wound with the poultice tearing the hem of her own ragged tunic to bind the shoulder tightly.
The black wolf lay perfectly still its golden eyes watching her every move with an intense unfathomable focus.
For hours as the moon climbed high and bathed the river in silver light Isolda sat by the beaSt. She pressed her small pale body against its massive side sharing her meager body heat to fight off its shock.
In the dead of night she felt a heavy warm snout press gently against her neck.
The wolf breathed in her scent a unique blend of winter rose and crushed herbs before closing its eyes to reSt. When Isolda awoke at dawn shivering and covered in frost she was alone.
The black wolf was gone.
Only a massive paw print in the mud and the blood stained river stones remained.
She returned to the Ironpine settlement with raw blistered hands only to be met with a backhand to the jaw from Alpha Rhett for being late.
She took the beating in silence hiding her burned palms in her sleeves.
She had saved a ghost and she knew she would never see him again.
A month passed the cold hardening the earth into iron.
The wounds on Isoldas hands healed into thick silver white scars that stretched across her palms a daily reminder of the monster in the river.
Tonight was the Harvest Moon Festival the most sacred night in the werewolf calendar.
It was also the night the Ironpine Pack owed their annual tribute to the crown.
Whispers had been circulating through the pack for weeks.
King Silas Blackwood the Alpha King of the Unified Territories had recently survived an assassination attempt by his own inner circle.
Rumor had it he was currently purging his court sweeping through the northern packs with a ruthlessness that made even the hardest alphas tremble.
The Ironpine settlement was chaotic with preparation.
Torches blazed along the wooden palisades and the smell of roasting venison filled the air.
Alpha Rhett clad in his finest furs stood at the center of the courtyard with his mate Luna Beatrice.
They had lined up the packs strongest warriors and most beautiful unmated females hoping to impress the king and perhaps offer a concubine to lower their heavy tax burden.
Isolda however was nowhere near the courtyard.
Get in there you pale freak spat one of Rhetts enforcers shoving Isolda down the stone steps into the root cellar beneath the pack house.
Alpha says the king does not need to see our dirty laundry.
You stay in the dark where you belong.
The heavy oak door slammed shut and the iron deadbolt slid into place with a terrifying clack.
Isolda hit the cold dirt floor her scarred hands scraping against the stone.
She did not cry.
She was used to the dark.
She curled her knees to her chest listening to the muffled sounds of the festival above.
An hour later the festive music abruptly stopped.
Even through the thick floorboards Isolda felt the sudden crushing weight in the atmosphere.
The air in the cellar grew dense heavy with a suffocating dominating aura that forced Isolda to her knees.
It was the presence of an apex predator.
The alpha king had arrived.
Above the silence was deafening.
Then the deep rumbling voice of Alpha Rhett echoed through the floorboards laced with a nervous tremor.
King Silas we are deeply honored.
Iron Pine stands loyal to the crown.
We have prepared our finest feast and our strongest omegas are at your disposal.
Silence.
The single word cut through the night like a guillotine.
It was a voice that vibrated with raw unchecked power.
Down in the cellar Isolda gasped her hands flying to her cheSt. Her heart was beating so fast it threatened to break her ribs.
She knew that presence.
She remembered the heat of it.
I am not here for your feast Rhett.
King Silas spoke his voice dangerously calm.
Nor am I here for your taxes.
A month ago I was betrayed by my beta.
I was shot with a silver bolt and left to drown in the Silverbend.
A collective gasp echoed from the pack members above.
I survived Silas continued the sound of his heavy boots pacing the wooden floorboards right above Isoldas head.
I survived because a healer found me.
I spent a month tracking the scent of winter roses and crushed comfrey across this frozen wasteland.
The trail ends here in the center of your territory.
My king Beatrice the Luna interjected nervously we have many healers.
Perhaps one of our girls.
Bring them all to the courtyard Silas commanded.
For twenty minutes Isolda listened as every female in the pack was paraded before the king.
She heard the soft whimpers of fear the heavy sniffing of the kings royal guard and Silass low growls of frustration.
This is everyone Silas demanded his voice dropping into a lethal guttural register.
You dare lie to me Rhett.
My king I swear to you by the moon Rhett pleaded his voice cracking with genuine terror.
This is every female in the pack.
We have hidden no one.
Above ground Silas Blackwood stood towering over the trembling alpha.
The king was a terrifying sight six feet five with shoulders like boulders and eyes the color of molten gold.
He closed his eyes inhaling the frigid night air deeply.
His nostrils flared.
You lie Silas snarled his eyes snapping open.
He turned his gaze away from the lined up females and looked directly at the pack house.
The scent is buried but it is here.
Silas marched toward the pack house ignoring Rhetts frantic protests.
He followed the invisible thread in the air a scent that had haunted his dreams every night since he woke up healed on the riverbank.
He stopped in the kitchen staring down at the heavy oak trapdoor that led to the root cellar.
My king wait That is just an old storage room Rhett cried out running in after him.
There is nothing down there but spoiled roots and a cursed mistake.
An albino my lord.
She is defective diseased.
Silas did not even look at him.
He raised a massive leather clad boot and kicked the heavy iron deadbolt.
The metal shattered like glass.
With a violent heave Silas ripped the oak door off its iron hinges and tossed it aside.
He descended the stone steps into the pitch black.
Isolda pressed herself against the farthest wall of the cellar trembling violently.
The massive silhouette of a man filled the doorway.
He stepped into the sliver of moonlight filtering through the cracks and Isolda stopped breathing.
He was magnificent terrifying and scarred and he was staring right at her.
Silas slowly crossed the dirt floor his imposing frame dropping to one knee before the terrified white haired girl.
He reached out his massive calloused hand gently taking hers.
He turned her palms upward his thumb tracing the thick silver burn scars that marred her skin the exact width of a crossbow bolt.
Winter roses Silas murmured his molten gold eyes softening as he looked up into her pale violet ones.
I found you.
You were the wolf Isolda whispered her voice trembling.
And you are the one who pulled the silver from my flesh Silas said his voice reverent.
He stood up gently pulling her to her feet dwarfing her small frame.
Before Isolda could process what was happening Alpha Rhett stumbled down the stairs flanked by two royal guards.
My king please Rhett begged eyeing Isolda with disguSt. She is a cursed albino an untouchable.
She is not fit to breathe the same air as you let alone.
In a blur of motion too fast for the human eye to track Silas lunged.
His hand clamped around Rhetts throat lifting the massive alpha off the ground as if he weighed nothing.
Silass eyes bled into full glowing gold the aura of the alpha king exploding outward forcing every wolf in a mile radius to their knees.
You will not speak of her Silas roared his voice shaking the stone foundations of the cellar.
You will not look at her.
The blood that runs in her veins is the ancient blood of the Sterling line a bloodline of pure healers that your wretched pack sought to erase.
Silas threw Rhett against the stone wall the crack of bone echoing sickeningly in the confined space.
The king turned back to Isolda his terrifying demeanor vanishing in an instant.
He knelt before her once again right in the dirt of her prison and bowed his head.
You saved my life Isolda Sterling King Silas declared his voice carrying up the stairs for the entire terrified pack to hear.
And by the laws of the moon you are not a curse.
You are my mate and the new queen of the unified territories.
The journey to the capital was a blur of velvet lined carriages towering snow capped mountains and a dizzying shift in reality.
Isolda Sterling who had never known anything but the damp freezing floor of a root cellar now found herself wrapped in heavy cloaks of spun silk and arctic fox fur.
Beside her sat King Silas Blackwood a silent unmovable mountain of protection.
Every time she flinched at a sudden noise his massive hand would gently cover hers his thumb brushing over her silver burn scars in a grounding rhythm.
Obsidian Keep was a fortress carved directly into the black basalt cliffs of the Kings Mountains.
It was a marvel of medieval architecture bristling with heavily armed royal guards and fluttering banners depicting the Blackwood direwolf.
But as the carriage doors opened and Isolda stepped onto the cobblestone courtyard the biting wind brought a new chilling scent to her sensitive nose the sickeningly sweet perfume of hidden ambition and deceit.
The royal court was a vipers neSt. The unified territories were held together by a fragile alliance of powerful noble houses the most prominent being House Harrington.
Lord Benedict Harrington the kings master of coin and his daughter Lady Genevieve stood at the front of the welcoming party.
Genevieve was a striking statuesque female with raven hair and piercing blue eyes widely rumored to be Silass chosen queen before his sudden disappearance.
When Genevieves eyes locked onto Isoldas blinding white hair and pale violet eyes a perfect smile tightened into a rigid dangerous line.
My king Lord Benedict bowed low his velvet cape sweeping the stones.
We feared the worst and you returned to us not only alive but accompanied by a feral pack omega no less.
Silass eyes flashed molten gold a low rumble vibrating in his cheSt. You will address her as your future queen Benedict.
Isolda is of the Sterling bloodline.
She is my fated mate.
A collective gasp rippled through the gathered nobility.
The Sterling name had not been spoken in polite society for decades.
They were an ancient revered house of healers who had supposedly died out in a plague.
To the court Isolda was not a miracle.
She was a political disaster.
Over the next two weeks Isolda was subjected to the grueling process of royal integration.
Silas provided her with the finest tutors seamstresses and maids but he could not protect her from the whispered venom in the corridors.
They called her the ghost queen mocking her sun sensitive skin and her quiet submissive demeanor forged by years of abuse.
Genevieve Harrington was the architect of this psychological warfare.
Under the guise of friendship she invited Isolda to the solarium for afternoon tea.
It must be so overwhelming for you dear Isolda Genevieve purred pouring a steaming cup of Earl Grey.
From the mud to the throne room you must know the kings affection is born of gratitude a trauma bond.
A man like Silas needs a strong politically connected Luna to rule these territories not a fragile little bird who burns in the daylight.
Isolda stared at the teacup her violet eyes narrowed.
Years of harvesting wild flora and surviving on scraps had honed her senses to a razors edge.
Beneath the bergamot and honey she smelled it.
A faint powdery aroma.
Belladonna.
Deadly nightshade mixed with a microdose of silver ash.
Not enough to kill an alpha but more than enough to induce a fatal heart attack in a fragile malnourished omega.
You are very kind to worry about the kings political standing Lady Genevieve Isolda said softly her voice barely above a whisper.
She did not touch the cup.
But my mother taught me that true power does not need to hide behind poisoned tea leaves.
Genevieves face drained of color.
I do not know what you are implying.
I am implying Isolda stood up the heavy silk of her gown rustling that you should be very careful.
The king was shot with a silver bolt that carried traces of northern ash the same ash that clings to the hem of your cloak.
I may be a ghost Genevieve but I am not blind.
Isolda left the solarium without a backward glance her heart pounding.
She had inadvertently stumbled upon the truth.
House Harrington had not just opposed her they had orchestrated the assassination attempt on Silas to seize the throne.
And now they knew she was onto them.
The night of the coronation gala arrived coinciding with a rare lunar eclipse.
The great hall of Obsidian Keep was a sea of glittering jewels clinking crystal and roaring hearts.
Silas looked like a true god of war in his ceremonial black armor a crown of iron and onyx resting on his dark hair.
Isolda stood beside him breathless and radiant.
She wore a gown of midnight blue velvet that contrasted starkly with her snow white hair a silver diadem resting on her brow.
Despite the grandeur Isoldas stomach was tied in agonizing knots.
She had tried to warn Silas about House Harrington but Benedict had masterfully covered his tracks producing false ledgers and alibis.
Silas believed her but as king he could not execute a high lord without irrefutable proof lest he trigger a civil war.
Stay close to me Silas murmured his hand resting securely on the small of her back as they descended the grand staircase.
The feast commenced a dizzying array of roasted meats exotic fruits and heavy wines.
Lord Benedict stood at the head of the high table raising a massive golden goblet.
To our king Benedict bellowed his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings.
And to his new bride may their reign be long and prosperous.
Genevieve stepped forward carrying a ceremonial silver tray bearing two ornate crystal goblets filled with deep red wine.
It was a traditional offering of peace from the highest noble house.
A toast my king my queen.
Silas reached for his goblet giving Genevieve a curt nod.
Isolda reached for hers.
As the crystal neared her face her breath hitched.
There was no belladonna this time.
Instead the scent hitting her nose was far more insidious masked entirely by the heavy spices in the wine.
It was crimson root a rare botanical that when mixed with alpha werewolf saliva triggered an instant irreversible paralyzing stroke.
It was an untraceable assassination method.
Silas raised his glass to his lips.
No.
Isolda did not think she reacted.
She slapped the goblet from Silass hand with such force that the crystal shattered against the stone floor splashing dark red wine across the kings black boots.
The great hall plunged into a deathly horrifying silence.
Gasps erupted from the nobility.
An omega striking a drink from the alpha kings hand was an act of profound disrespect a treasonous offense.
Isolda Silas frowned his eyes flashing with confusion not anger.
She is feral Genevieve shrieked pointing a trembling finger at Isolda.
The cursed omega has lost her mind.
Guards seize her She is unfit to sit beside the king.
Two royal guards stepped forward hesitantly but a guttural terrifying snarl from Silas froze them in their tracks.
He stepped in front of Isolda shielding her with his massive body.
Explain little bird he commanded softly looking over his shoulder at her.
Crimson root Isolda gasped pointing at the spilled wine bubbling slightly against the stone floor.
It reacts with alpha saliva.
It would have paralyzed you Silas.
And the only people with access to crimson root are those who trade with the southern ports.
House Harrington controls those ports.
Lord Benedicts face twisted into an ugly sneer.
He realized the game was up.
The delicate easily frightened omega had outsmarted them twice.
Kill him Benedict roared drawing a hidden silver dagger from his cloak.
Kill the king Take the throne.
Chaos erupted.
A dozen guards loyal to House Harrington threw off their cloaks revealing crossbows loaded with silver bolts.
Panic swept through the nobility as they scrambled for the doors.
Silas roared his body exploding in a blur of black fur and lethal muscle.
The king shifted midair becoming the monstrous black wolf Isolda had saved by the river.
He tore through the Harrington guards with devastating ferocity a force of pure untamed nature.
But there were too many.
A Harrington guard aimed his crossbow directly at Silass blind spot.
Isolda saw the silver bolt lock into place.
Without hesitation Isolda threw herself in front of the king.
Thwack.
The silver bolt embedded itself deep into Isoldas abdomen.
She collapsed hitting the stone floor with a sickening thud.
Silas let out a roar of pure earth shattering grief.
The sound shattered the remaining crystal in the hall.
In seconds he annihilated the remaining traitors his massive jaws snapping Lord Benedicts neck like a dry twig.
Genevieve fell to her knees sobbing in terror as the kings loyal guards subdued her.
Silas shifted back to his human form ignoring his own minor wounds and fell to his knees beside Isolda.
He pulled her fragile bleeding body into his arMs. The silver was already burning black veins spreading across her porcelain skin.
No no no Silas choked tears streaming down his scarred face.
Isolda please stay with me.
Fetch the healers now.
Silas Isolda whispered her pale violet eyes fluttering.
She reached up with a bloodstained scarred hand pressing it against his cheek.
It is all right.
You took a silver bolt for me he wept pressing his forehead against hers.
You are an omega the silver it will.
I am a Sterling she breathed a faint smile touching her lips.
As Silas watched in stunned disbelief the black necrotic veins on Isoldas skin began to recede.
Her blood an ancient lineage blessed by the moon goddess possessed regenerative properties that defied werewolf biology.
The albinism was not a curse it was the physical manifestation of her pure concentrated healing magic.
With a painful gasping breath Isolda gripped the silver bolt and pulled it from her own stomach.
The wound sizzled smoked and slowly began to knit itself back together.
The surviving nobles were not just looking at an omega and they were not looking at a ghoSt. They were looking at a living legend.
King Silas Blackwood scooped his mate into his arms rising to his feet amidst the silent kneeling crowd.
He looked down at the woman who had saved him in the mud who had braved a vipers nest and who had taken a fatal bolt to protect his crown.
Behold your queen.
Silass voice boomed filled with an overwhelming consuming love.
Isolda of House Sterling the white wolf of Obsidian Keep.
And may the moon have mercy on anyone who disrespects her name.
