Alaric

CHAPTER TWO

Alaric Ozera

The ball is already in full swing by the time we arrive—much to Father’s displeasure. I, for one, could hardly care less for his pitiful pride. Arian says he needs little exhibitions like these more often. To remind him the world, sadly, doesn't orbit around his overinflated ego. And I agree.

The ballroom, exquisite in its glory, glitters beneath the watchful gaze of an enormous golden chandelier. Stained glass windows stretch from ceiling to floor, painted with images of past Alpha Kings and Luna Queens in various acts of valor. They make even the smallest gestures of kindness look grand.

A guard approaches, bowing low before gesturing toward the raised platform where the royal family sits with my father. I meet father's eyes. He looks less interested in their conversation and more so in me—if his not-so-subtle glare is anything to go by.

Giving him a look just as sharp, I turn away. Maybe I imagined it but for a fleeting moment, the ghost of a smile graced King Santez's lips. I walk away without a second thought. I can’t be bothered to care for their pitiful rivalry nor will I take sides in it. And right there's the problem — I simply can't care.

They call me arrogant. Cold. Unfeeling. Maybe they’re right. I lost the ability to care for anyone besides myself a long time ago. It’s made me ruthless, calculated, immune to the soft touch of conscience. Killing is easier when you feel no pity. So is lying, manipulating, exploiting—using others as pawns in a game that'll always been mine.

But such truths are better buried. The world loves its illusions, so I wear my mask well—smiles when I must, warmth when it serves me. The image of a perfect prince, built on pretense, lies, and endless deceit.

“Lose the old fart already. Let’s have a look around,” Arian says, voice alight with mischief.

There must be something wrong with the mutt. He’s being unusually cheeky tonight. A run will be in order when we return. For now, I'll ignore him—roaming the halls unguarded would be courting trouble.

Effortlessly, I flick my wrist towards a passing waiter. A glass of wine rises into the air from the serving tray and floats into my waiting hand. A few guests stop to watch. Some find it entertaining to watch other well versed wolves demonstrate their abilities. A few even applaud me.

A lovely brunette approaches— graceful, fearless. She offers her hand with a daring smile.

I smirk, intrigued by her audacity. Sending off my half-empty glass, I take her hand.

Her pulse trembles beneath my fingers. I feel nothing.

💠 💠 💠

Celeste Danver

The night of the Blood Moon Ball should be one of joy, yet unease coils deep in my chest. Something isn’t right—I can feel it. So can Mother, though she hides it well, sitting rigid on her throne, eyes locked on her crystal ball searching for answers the stars refuse to give.

The feeling grows stronger. It makes me dizzy, nauseous. It’s calling to me—leading me somewhere. I’ve always been more intuitively perceptive than Avaris, my older sister. Mother says it’s a gift every leader should possess. But it confuses me—I’m not heir to my mother’s throne, regent of the south.

It scares me. Could my sister’s fate be death—and the heavens have willed that I take her place? No. I refuse to believe it. The goddess wouldn’t be that cruel. The next pulse of magic drags me to my knees breaking my line of thought. A whimper slips past my lips. Mother’s gaze finds me.

"I’m alright,” I gasp, “just in need of a bit of air.”

Mother and Ava exchange knowing looks before she turns to me.

"Ava will take you,” she says. “Stay within the province’s borders. Leave your crystal hearts here.”

Ava removes her heart, then mine, handing them both to Mother. We vanish into a mist of black smoke—and reappear atop a hill overlooking the Blueridge Province.

The view is breathtaking. Below lies the Alpha King’s pack house, though from this height it looks more like a palace of light and stone. The largest in the southern domain, home to the Blueridge Pack—and tonight, the heart of the Blood Moon Ball.

The name pack house is fitting. Members of his pack, especially the youth throw parties and spend nights there. Wolves have a tight knit society. Their unity is enviable. If only witches could be the same. Things will be much better. Not to be crude, witches do coexist in their own way. Our covens hold over a hundred witches but a single pack can house over five hundred wolves.

I'm not naive to believe they are perfect in their ways. Some have gone rogue—proof of their moral failings but I won't deny they are holding out better than we are. We slaughter our own, drawing blood to cast dark spells.

The strong prey on the weak, draining them of their magic. Leaving them defenceless, sometimes dead. In the process, these witches lose their souls to the dark rot. A state in which they become vessels for darkness itself, void and hollow.

Sadly to some the allure of power is worth their precious souls.

Mother always said we never know what we have until we lose it. Sadly even then, we might never understand what it is we have lost.

Once, I asked why she didn’t outlaw the dark spells, why not label their use a death sentence. She said magic isn’t good or evil—it simply is. The difference lies in how we wield it.

Living proof lies in the wolves and how they use their goddess-given gifts. Magic isn't the problem, we are.

I turn toward the vast thicket before us. The air bellies a frosty chill, an ominous presence that stretches for miles. Somewhere in that sea of green, something stirs—and I feel it watching me.