Damon POV

  The Wolfe house was never quiet in the mornings. It *buzzed* with life—a chaotic symphony I'd take over the Sanctum's sterile silence any day.

  Voices overlapped in easy bickering, chairs scraped against worn wood floors, and the air hung thick with the comforting scent of spiced tea steaming from the hearth and fresh bread slathered in butter. Laughter punctured it all, bright and unfiltered, the kind that made my shoulders loosen without me realizing.

  I paused at the base of the stairs, letting it sink in. Sarah's voice carried first, sharp as ever.

  "That's *not* how you hold a fork, Nathan," she declared from the kitchen table, her fifteen-year-old judgment dripping like honeyed venom. "You look like a barbarian forking hay in a barn."

  "I *am* a barbarian," Nathan replied, his cheerful baritone rumbling with amusement. "It's a cultural heritage, little sister. Embrace it."

  I stepped into the room, the warmth hitting me like a physical thing. Mother—Regina Wolfe—stood at the hearth, her dark hair pinned in that elegant twist she managed even at dawn, stirring a pot of oats while pretending not to referee the chaos. Father sat at the head of the table, his newspaper folded precisely but unread, absorbing every word with the quiet vigilance of an Alpha-in-waiting. His eyes flicked to me briefly, a nod of acknowledgment.

  Nathan had dragged in yesterday from the northern expedition, windburn painting his cheeks red, that perpetual easy smile in place, carrying the crisp scent of pine smoke and mountain frost. Teaching potions at the Sanctum suited him to the ground—carefree on the surface, wickedly sharp beneath, utterly detached from the suffocating politics of pack hierarchy. Next in line to lead the Night Pack as Alpha after Father stepped down, and he wore the invisible crown like it was just another scarf.

  "Ah," he said, spotting me as I reached for the bread basket. "The brooding spare graces us with his presence. Morning, little brother."

  I grunted, tearing off a chunk of warm bread, the crust crackling under my fingers. It was a ritual—Nathan poking, me ignoring. Comfortable in its predictability.

  Sarah leaned back in her chair, studying me with those piercing eyes that saw far too much, like a sassy cat reborn as a pint-sized werewolf terror and the bane of my existence. "You look worse than usual," she observed, smirking. "Did someone steal your tragic backstory? Or is it the wolf stirring up your brooding again?"

  Regina shot her a look over her shoulder, a wooden spoon paused mid-stir. "Sarah Elizabeth."

  "I'm *observing*," Sarah replied sweetly, batting her lashes with mock innocence.

  Nathan's grin widened, eyes dancing. "She's not wrong. Few days left till eighteen, eh? Your wolf coming into full dominance. Don't embarrass the family at the ball—try not to go into heat mid-waltz, openly lustful in front of all those scheming political witnesses. Especially if you haven't chosen anyone yet."

  Heat crept up my neck, irritation flaring hot. I chewed harder, refusing to rise to it.

  Sarah gasped theatrically, clutching her chest. "Chosen *someone*? Oh, has he finally set his sights on a girl?"

  Nathan leaned forward, mischief sharpening his gaze. "You won't be marking anybody, right? It'd be *humiliating* if you found your mate before I do. Mother would have you collared and married off by dawn, little brother."

  Regina froze, teapot hovering. "Nathan Alexander, do *not* tease about mating bonds."

  He laughed, rich and unrepentant, waving it off. "I'm serious! The scandal!"

  I exhaled slowly through my nose, jaw clenching against the familiar twist in my gut. Percival stirred faintly inside, a low rumble of awareness that had nothing to do with Nathan's jabs. "I'm not marking anyone."

  "Mm," Sarah hummed skeptically, exchanging a conspiratorial glance with Nathan. "That sounded *very* unconvincing."

  Regina set the teapot down with a deliberate *clink*, conversation shifting like a tide. "Speaking of the ball... how is the Cramire girl faring, Damon? Your assignment."

  The room altered in an instant—subtle, but I felt it like a pressure shift before a storm. Father's paper rustled faintly. Nathan's grin faded into something watchful. Sarah's eyes lit with that predatory curiosity she got when sensing blood in the water.

  "She's fine," I said evenly, forcing my voice steady despite the sudden knot in my chest.

  Regina frowned as she poured tea, steam curling like ghosts. "I always disliked her mother—Amery's a cold one, all sharp edges and hidden barbs. But Elara... she never struck me that way. I've seen her at market. Polite. Reserved. Not a trace of pride."

  Father Wolfe cut in before I could respond, his voice low and certain. "She's not like Amery. Not one bit."

  I nodded, the words sticking slightly. "You've got this weird... friendship with her father. But yes, Mother. Coping well. For now."

  Nathan arched a brow, fork pausing. "For now? What's brewing?"

  "Her initiation's coming," I said, the words tasting bitter. "Witch coming-of-age ritual."

  Father's head snapped up, eyes sharpening. Regina stilled, cup halfway to her lips. Nathan's casual slouch vanished. Even Sarah's smirk evaporated.

  "Initiation?" Regina echoed, voice pitching higher. "Damon, what—? Amery can't be *that* cruel, pushing her own daughter down some dark path."

  I frowned, confusion coiling tight. "What *is* this initiation everyone's so shocked about? Why the panic? It's just a witch thing, right? Ceremony. Oaths. Power awakening."

  Sarah burst out laughing, sharp and incredulous. "Gods above, Damon, how do you know *so little* about *anything*?"

  Nathan interjected, his teasing tone gone, replaced by something grave. "Witch initiations were banned after the Trials, centuries back. Only dark circles still practice them—heavy penalties if the Council catches wind. But Amery Cramire? She never gave a damn about penalties or laws."

  "Does Elara even know what it entails?" Nathan added quietly, eyes on me.

  Father Wolfe shook his head slowly, expression darkening like storm clouds. "It's dark, Damon. Very dark. The coming-of-age witches are initiated at witching hour, their name written in *blood* into the Book of the Damned—a tome older than the Accords, tied to forces we don't name lightly."

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  My stomach twisted, bread turning leaden in my gut. Percival rumbled low, unease rippling through me. "Bound how, exactly?"

  "Forever," Father said grimly, folding his hands. "A declaration of allegiance. Soul darkened, autonomy surrendered to something ancient and ravenous."

  Regina paled, tea forgotten. "Amery can't *force* her own daughter."

  "She can," Father replied flatly. "Frame it as sacred legacy, family duty. Elara's too dutiful to refuse outright."

  Father muttered under his breath, "Tragedy she was born into that family. I told her father we should intervene. Just no idea how..."

  He nodded absently, lost in thought—his odd, longstanding friendship with Elara's father surfacing in that moment, a quiet alliance across faction lines.

  Regina paced once, then stopped dead, eyes lighting with sudden fire. "Maria."

  Father's brows rose. "Amery's sister?"

  "Yes! Duchess of Domas. A good witch through and through. *Despises* Amery—has since they were girls."

  Nathan straightened, interest piqued. "That's true. Hates her guts. Publicly cordial, privately venomous."

  "If anyone could pull Elara from that rite without igniting full war," Regina pressed, voice urgent, "it's Maria. Family leverage, no outsider accusations."

  Father exhaled heavily, rubbing his jaw. "It'd enrage Amery. Badly."

  "She's *already* enraged," Regina snapped, hands fisting her apron. "Just hides it behind that icy facade better than most."

  Silence fell, thick and pondering, the weight of the plan settling like fog. I hadn't moved, hadn't spoken, but my mind raced. Percival pressed forward, not with rage, but something sharper, more possessive. A low growl echoed in my skull, demanding *action*. I crushed it down, pulse hammering.

  Nathan watched me too closely now, that teacher-sharp gaze cutting through. "Careful there, little brother. You look like you're plotting interference. During *your* dominance year, no less? At least warn me first if you're storming a dark rite."

  Sarah leaned across the table, grinning wickedly. "Oh, he *absolutely* would. Hero complex incoming."

  I stood abruptly, chair scraping harsh against the floorboards, the decision crystallizing before I named it. "I'm going to the Sanctum."

  "Damon—" Regina called, alarm threading her voice.

  But I was already through the door, kitchen warmth cut off cold. Outside, the air bit sharp against my skin, thinner somehow.

  Initiation. Blood binding. Full moon night—*my* night.

  Percival's rumble deepened, insistent, protective.

  Before everything shattered.

  The Sanctum's stone corridors stretched endlessly before me, my boots striking the flagstones with sharp, angry echoes that matched the chaos roiling in my chest. Each step fueled the unhinged plan crystallizing in my mind—wild, reckless, guaranteed to earn a thorough whacking from Mother's wooden spoon and permanent venom from Amery Cramire.

  But Maria was the backup: the family inviting Amery's sister, the Duchess of Domas, to the ball exactly one week before Elara's witching hour initiation. Two days until the ball itself. Time was a blade at my throat. I *had* to find her. Elara wasn't at the Cramire estate like most students who went home—she stayed here, bunkered in the Sanctum dorms. Smart. Isolated. Exactly where I'd look first.

  My pulse thrummed with Percival's restless energy, his low growl vibrating through my veins like a warning I ignored. The air felt heavier in these older wings, suppression runes flickering faintly blue along the walls, as if sensing my spiraling thoughts.

  What if Maria refused? What if Amery's sister saw through the invitation ploy? No—this had to work. Elara couldn't end up bound to that cursed book, her light snuffed out by her mother's legacy.Not really thinking as to why i was this adamant to save her.

  I rounded the corner outside Seer class, the murmur of voices halting me mid-stride. Nakshit's familiar laugh, warm and coaxing, followed by Elara's softer tone—hesitant, polite.

  "—ball sounds fun, doesn't it? Come with me?" Nakshit leaned against the arched stone wall, his posture all easy confidence, that disarming grin flashing white against his skin. His eyes crinkled at the corners, the picture of charm.

  Jealousy hit me like a gut punch, hot and irrational. *My girl?* What the actual hell was he doing, making a move on *her*? Percival surged forward, hackles rising in my mind, a possessive snarl I barely contained.

  I stepped into view, voice cutting like steel. "No. She's going with *me*."

  Elara whipped around, dark hair swinging, her grey eyes widening in shock. Crimson flooded her cheeks, turning her pale skin vivid pink all the way to her ears. "Wha—what? Why would I go with *you* of all people, Wolfe?"

  I ignored her flustered stammering, the way her hands twisted in her tunic hem, and fixed Nakshit with a glare that could curdle milk. "What's your game, man? Back off."

  He straightened slowly, smirk blooming slow and knowing, utterly unfazed by my thunder. He clapped my shoulder—harder than necessary—his eyes dancing with amusement. "Just giving you some motivation, brother. Dev's brilliant idea, courtesy of one of his visions. Try not to overdo it on ball night—full moon and all." He winked, sauntering past with a low chuckle that echoed down the hall. "You're welcome."

  I muttered under my breath, jaw grinding, "What the hell has Dev seen *now*? Cryptic bastard."

  Elara crossed her arms, confusion etching deep lines between her brows, her flush lingering like a brand. "What was *that* about? Motivation? Visions? Have I stumbled into some Rumya conspiracy?"

  No time for their games. My hand closed around her wrist—gentle, hyper-aware of the fading red marks from her shoulder—and I tugged her down the corridor, away from prying ears. She resisted for half a heartbeat, then followed, her steps quick to match mine.

  The nearest door was the old library alcove, forgotten and dusty, perfect. I pushed it open, the hinges creaking like a warning, and pulled her inside. Dust motes swirled in the dim shafts of light piercing high arched windows, towering shelves looming like silent sentinels heavy with ancient tomes. The door clicked shut, sealing us in heavy quiet.

  I released her wrist, turning to face her fully, my voice dropping low and urgent. "Do you know *anything* about your initiation? The real truth?"

  Her grey eyes widened, shock rippling across her face like wind over water. She swallowed hard, voice small but steady.

  "I... witches perform an animal sacrifice for the blood price. Then they... betroth me to a human consort. Bind him to me, just like Father to Mother. It's tradition. Legacy."

  Innocent words, delivered with such wide-eyed trust it twisted something fierce in my chest. Damn it all, must she be *this* naive? Percival whined low inside me, frustration mirroring mine. I growled, exasperation spilling out rough and raw.

  "You fool. You're a witch—Cramire blood—and you know *nothing*? Gods, Elara."

  She yanked back, fire flashing in her eyes, anger straightening her spine. "Don't call me stupid, Wolfe! I'm not some helpless child you get to lecture!"

  Her defiance only sharpened the edge of my words.

  "The ritual sells your *soul* to the devil. Book of the Damned. Your name is carved in blood at witching hour. Forever bound—soul darkened, autonomy surrendered to something ancient and ravenous. Not some pretty betrothal. *Damnation*."

  Color drained from her face in a rush, grey eyes going glassy and distant.

  “No you are wrong , you can't be true.”she said in a faint voice.

  Her knees buckled like a puppet with cut strings, sway turning to dizzy freefall.

  I lunged, catching her waist instinctively, her hands clutching my shirt for balance as she sagged against me. Her scent—rain and night-blooming flowers—flooded my senses, Percival thrumming approval I didn't want.

  "Easy," I murmured, steadying her as her breath came in shallow gasps. "Breathe."

  She blinked up at me, fear raw and unguarded, but I pressed on, voice rough with urgency. "Look—I've got an idea. Bad one. Reckless. It'll make everyone furious. Mother will whack me senseless , Amery will hate my guts forever. But it'll work. Keeps you off that dark path. No binding. No devil."

  Timid now, breath still shaky, suspicion warring with terror in her eyes, she whispered, "What... what is it? Tell me."

  I held her gaze, the words dropping with final, unyielding certainty.

  "I'll mark you. Ball night. Full moon. My , our ..mate bond trumps any witch rite."

  Her shock was total—eyes widening, mouth parting on a silent gasp. She'd never looked more convinced I'd lost my mind.