ALEXANDER
I still remember the first life I ever took.
I was sixteen. We were in battle, and my father had always believed I was weak, though he’d never say it out loud. In his eyes, I wasn’t a son to be raised—I was a weapon to be sharpened.
A killing machine forged in blood and discipline. A future king who would rule not with wisdom, but with fear.
That day, we invaded a small pack on the outskirts of our territory. Their Alpha had been plotting rebellion, whispering treachery in dark corners—or so Father claimed. We crushed them easily. The survivors were dragged to their knees in the mud, beaten and broken, forced to witness the ruin of everything they’d built. And when it was over, Father called me forward.
The Alpha knelt before me, stripped of his power. He wasn’t old, not ye
