Chapter 2: The Mandatory Summons

My life is a joke, but the punchline is always at my expense. “Pack your bags, Clark. You’re shipping out to the White Stone Castle tomorrow. It’s a diplomatic summit, or whatever the hell the elders are calling it this week.” My father’s voice boomed through the kitchen like a goddamn thunderclap. I was just trying to make a piece of toast—burnt, because obviously—when he dropped the bomb. I stopped, the butter knife frozen in mid-air. “White Stone?” I repeated, my voice cracking slightly. “Dad, are you high? That’s where the King holds court. The ‘Diplomatic Summit’ is just a fancy way of saying ‘come let the Alpha King judge which of you is the least annoying.’ Why in the world would you send *me*?” My step-mother, Grace, looked up from her tea, her eyes flickering with that mix of pity and annoyance I’ve grown to loathe. “It’s not a request, Clark. The King specifically asked for the Alpha’s children to attend. All of them.” “I’m human!” I snapped, finally turning around. I didn't care if I was being insubordinate. “I don't have a wolf, I don't have a pack, and I certainly don't have the ‘Alpha blood’ required to sit through a three-day lecture on territory disputes. Sending me is basically the pack waving a neon ‘WE’RE A MESS’ sign at the throne.” “It’s about alliances, Clark,” my half-brother, Sebastian, chimed in from the doorway. He was leaning against the frame, looking effortlessly powerful—the perfect golden boy, while I looked like the human equivalent of a participation trophy. “The Crescent Moon Pack and Pacific Rock are about to tear each other’s throats out over some land dispute. The King wants to keep the peace. He wants every pack’s future represented. You’re my sister. You’re part of the package.” *Part of the package.* I wanted to throw the toaster at his head. I looked down at my hands. They were just… human hands. No claws to unsheathe, no shifting skin to turn into fur. Just skin and bone. In a world where your value was determined by how well you could rip someone’s jugular out, I was basically a decorative lawn ornament. “And if I refuse?” I asked, testing the waters. My father’s eyes narrowed, a flash of red tinting his irises. It wasn't full-on shifting, just a reminder of who was in charge. “Then you prove to the King that our pack has no discipline. You’re going, Clark. Think of it as a… social experiment.” “Social experiment? Dad, that’s just a fancy term for ‘let’s see if Elian gets eaten before the appetizers are served,’” I muttered under my breath. “What was that?” “Nothing,” I said, forcing a smile that felt like glass shards against my lips. “I’ll start packing. Wouldn't want to miss the chance to be the highlight of the King’s dinner, right?” I stormed out before they could see the panic starting to set in. I didn't give a damn about the ‘Mate’ legends or the romanticized garbage the pack elders liked to spew about the White Stone Castle. I knew the truth: it was a place where people with too much power and not enough brain cells went to measure their dominance. But as I reached my room, I felt that same prickle on the back of my neck again. The air in the hallway felt ionized, like the seconds before a lightning strike. I pulled out my duffel bag and shoved a few hoodies into it. I needed my laptop. I needed my records. If I was going into the lion’s den, I wasn't going in blind. I was going in with the one thing no one in that damn castle would expect: a clear, human understanding of exactly who was stealing what, and why. Let them think I’m a ‘defective’ Omega. Let them laugh at the human sister. By the time I was done, I wouldn't just be a bargaining chip—I’d be the one holding the leverage that could burn the whole palace to the ground. I looked into my mirror, my brown eyes staring back, sharp and calculated. “Alright, Clark,” I whispered to my reflection, “let’s see how the King likes it when a human plays a wolf’s game.”