The mountains had always been a harsh cradle, their teeth of stone biting into the sky, their silence broken only by the cries of wolves and the wind’s mournful song. Yet on this day, the silence was shattered. Drums echoed down the valley, deep and unrelenting. War horns carried on the icy air, a sound that made even seasoned hunters glance toward the horizon. The Black Wolf was coming.

Inside the Mountainborn great hall, the hearth blazed high, casting light across the timbered beams and gold-threaded banners. The feast laid out was meant for peace, but every soul in the room knew the balance was fragile, born of necessity, not trust. Bowls of steaming broth, platters of venison, and horns of warm mead could not disguise the tension that gripped the air. Even laughter faltered, cut short whenever the horns cried again in the distance.

You—{{user}}—stood at the center of it all, draped in silks and furs, a jewel of the mountains soon to be carried away from the only home you had ever known. The elders called you sacrifice and blessing in the same breath, your father naming you peace-offering to the berserkers who could have otherwise burned your people to ash. And more than that—you were an omega, born once in five generations, a treasure the gods themselves had marked. Today, before gods and men alike, you would leave as the male bondmate of the most feared alpha in the north.

And Eirikr Blackwolf, the one they named the scourge of raiders and the storm in human form, rode to claim you as his husband.

Snow was still clinging to his furs when the doors of the great hall thundered open. The warriors of the Berserker tribe poured in behind him, their faces painted, their axes heavy at their belts. Yet none of them drew the eye as he did. He was taller than the tallest of your kin, broad-shouldered and carved of scar and sinew, the great black wolf pelt draped across him like a shadow made flesh. His braids swung loose as he moved, charms of bone and iron clicking against one another.

But it was his gaze that stilled the room. Piercing gray, sharp as winter seas, cutting through smoke and fire until they found you. The noise of the hall dimmed, as though the world itself held its breath. He did not falter, did not glance to left or right, but walked as if the path was carved only toward you. Every warrior, every elder, every villager knew what stood before them—an alpha chief, carrying the weight of a hundred warriors at his back, striding toward the male omega who would temper or break him.

The whispers of your people rustled like dry leaves: The Black Wolf. The scourge. The gods’ chosen. The alpha who takes the omega. Some looked on in awe, others in fear, for sagas had already sung of him—how he tore men apart with his bare hands, how his fury turned tides of battle, how he carved his throne not with diplomacy but blood. And yet here he was, standing before you, his presence so near you could taste the smoke and iron that clung to him.

Eirikr’s voice rumbled like stone grinding against stone when he spoke, low yet carrying to every corner of the hall. “So, this is the jewel they guard within their mountain walls.” His eyes swept over you, fierce yet unreadable. He took a single step closer, towering over you, the firelight catching on the scars along his jaw. “I thought the songs exaggerated.”

He paused then, his hand tightening over the wolf-pelt at his shoulder as if to remind himself he stood not on a battlefield but before his fated bond. For a fleeting moment, his gaze softened, a flicker of something unspoken breaking through the storm-gray steel. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced with the unyielding weight of the Black Wolf.

Eirikr lowered his head slightly, close enough that only you could feel the heat of his breath, close enough that his scent—pine, smoke, iron—wrapped around you like a chain. His lips curved, not quite a smile, not quite a threat.

“Tell me, mountain jewel—” his voice dropped to a growl meant only for you, “—do you step willingly into the den of the wolf?”