Alaric

CHAPTER ONE

“Alaric!”

The Alpha King’s voice tears through the foyer with the force of a maelstrom.

Alaric exhales slowly, eyes closed, head tilted back. It's going to be a long night, he muses. Tugging on his tie, he straightens the edges of the fabric.

He must have taken too long to respond, the next shout rings out like a thunderclap in the marble halls, shattering his focus.

A low growl stirs in his chest. He stifles it. Self-control and restraint — the two pillars of the Ozera bloodline. Failure in either, and the consequences are brutal. He isn’t ready for that tonight. His father’s creativity with methods has never been merciful.

“Coming, Father,” he calls, voice steady, almost too calm. He doesn’t need to raise it; one should never doubt the hearing of a wolf.

Moments later, he descends the grand staircase, the polished marble reflecting his figure — tall, sharp, regal. The dark blue suit fits him perfectly, creases crisp and deliberate. Every detail screams perfection.

The Alpha King gives a single nod of approval, then strides out the front door without a word.

Of course.

Alaric exhales, muttering under his breath, Mother Nature must be one hell of a b***h, pairing me with this self-righteous prick for a parent.

He follows him into the sleek black limousine waiting outside. The door closes with a soft thud — sealing him into another stretch of silence.

Fine. let's fill it then.

Most of you already know about the existence of the supernatural — at least in theory. In stories, we’re your monsters. In reality, we walk among you, blending into your chaos. Werewolves, witches, vampires. The rest? Just bedtime stories told to keep children in line.

I must say, you all have painted us an awful shade of grey — monsters lurking in the shadows. Savage creatures ruled by instinct. Every werewolf is born with a gift, something sacred. A power that lives within us. Some gifts are common, others rare. Three reign supreme. Two hold balance. One… has become a myth.

The Gift of Shadows belongs to the Northern Kings — my family, the Ozeras. Its counterpart, the Gift of Light, rests with the Southern bloodline, the Santez. Two halves of one coin: shadow and flame.

Among wolves, it’s just politics — meaningless noise. Magic isn’t light or dark. It simply is. Nothing given by the moon goddess is considered evil. What matters is how we use it. That’s what the Supernatural Affairs Council is for — to restore order when some forget.

Witches, on the other hand… they thrive on chaos. Necromancy, blood rituals, curses — filth they conjure to spite their own kind. We werewolves remain neutral in their battle between good and evil. By doing so we keep the balance. And because of that, we’ve managed to avoid war for centuries and hopefully much longer.

That’s the purpose of the Blood Moon Ball. A night when both domains gather beneath the gaze of the Moon Goddess — to remind ourselves we’re not rivals — exempting political affairs. Maybe even find our fated mates if she’s feeling generous. We take turns hosting the ball.

This year, the Southern domain will be our host. Personally, I think father sees this yearly exchange as an opportunity to show his superiority.

'You think?'

A familiar voice hums in his head, amusement dripping from each word. Arian. His wolf.

'Heaven forbid the old man pass up a chance to flaunt that grizzly joke of a mane.'

Alaric smirks. Thank the Goddess for small mercies, he thinks. At least one of them still has a sense of humor. Something everyone around him seems to be lacking.

'Please,' Arian scoffs, 'Your idea of humor is sarcasm and the sound of people's dying screams. Don’t throw stones, princeling.'

Alaric sighs. It's an oddly familiar feeling not being able to decide if he'd rather strangle the darn wolf or give him a pat on the back. Probably both.

'Tsk. Just kill yourself,' Arian mutters before fading into the edges of his mind.

The silence that follows feels heavier. Suffocating.

“We’ve arrived,” a guard calls, opening the limo door.

Alaric steps out, eyes sweeping over the line of men in tailored black suits paired with polished canvases crafted to look like dress shoes. Subtle. Practical.

Unexpectedly restrained for Edward.

For once, he didn’t overdo it. The shoes are new, but everything else carries the sam old grandeur. Predictable. Controlled.

Maybe this is the closest his father will ever get to normal.

The night air bites — sharp and cool — brushing against Alaric’s skin like a living thing. The Southern Domain is bathed in silver light — the moon suspended high above the grand manor. Everything gleams brightly, Clean, Radiant. It's all so perfect.

He already hates it.

Gold lanterns spill light across the marble courtyard. The epicenter, a massive water fountain in the form of a magnificent silver wolf, ensnared by a bed of thorn-clad roses, it's petals bleeding in the moonlight.

The air hums with soft chatter and distant music. Wolves of every rank mingle in glittering gowns and tailored suits. Tonight — distinctions aside — they all converge as one, beneath the watchful gaze of the Moon Goddess.

Edward straightens beside him, wearing that hollow smile that fools everyone but his son. “Keep your head high,” he murmurs without looking at

They walk through the archway, Alaric's presence drawing stares. The crowd parts — instinctively. Low-ranked wolves bow in greeting. He acknowledges none of them. His aura a raging storm, forcing them to acknowledge his superiority.

The world holds its breath, as the peculiar duo steal the spotlight.