The fortress of the Alpha King loomed like a mountain carved by gods and tempered by fire. Black stone walls rose into the thinning mist, streaked by the silver glow of dawn. The banners of old packs fluttered weakly in the wind, torn by years of war and shifting loyalties. From afar, it looked eternal—untouchable—but inside its walls, tension coiled like a living thing.
Lyra stood beside Lucian at the threshold of the King’s hall, her pulse thrumming in her ears. The scent of iron, of old battles, hung thick in the air. Lucian’s hand brushed hers, a fleeting touch, grounding her even as the world beyond those doors prepared to judge them both.
The guards swung the doors open, and the court fell silent.
The Alpha King sat upon a throne of obsidian and wolfbone, his presence radiating au
