Cast Out, CrownedUpdated at Jul 3, 2026, 18:51
For twenty-three years, I was the wolf who never woke.
Wolfless. That's what they called me, soft, behind their hands, like it was something they might catch. Alpha Aron took me in as a pup and fed me and sat me at the far end of his table, and the whole pack loved him for his mercy. The kind lord and his broken stray.
Today he put me on the marking stone in front of everyone, to burn the word defective into my skin so no pack would ever be fooled by me.
The iron touched me. And my skin answered it in gold.
Nobody told me the truth. Not the man who was paid in northern silver to keep me small. Not the pack that watched me kneel. My wolf never came because someone buried it when I was a child, sealed it deep and marked me weak, and raised me to believe I was empty so I'd never come looking.
The seal only breaks one way. Cast out. Cut from the bond, stripped of the name, left standing alone. The one thing they were sure would break me.
They have it exactly backwards.
Aron thinks he cast out a foundling. The Lycan who walked out of the northern trees knows better. And the ones who hunted my bloodline to ash just felt me wake, a hundred miles off, and they're coming to finish it.
They should have looked closer at what they were throwing away.