Shackled to the Shadow King

02

The single word echoed inside my mind, heavy and impossible, though I didn't yet know it had crossed the distance between us.

Mine.

I stood completely frozen, my fingers still locked around the rim of the plastic trash bin. The sheer intensity of Gazero Wolfvad’s gaze felt like a physical weight pressing down on my shoulders, threatening to drive me to my knees. In the Silverfang Pack, low-born servants like me were invisible. We were ghosts who cleared the tables, scrubbed the floors, and stayed out of sight when the elites walked by.

So why was the most dangerous alpha in the country—a man who lived above the clouds in corporate towers and blood-soaked boardrooms—staring at me as if the rest of the courtyard had simply vanished?

"Move, girl!"

A heavy hand shoved my shoulder roughly from behind, snapping me out of my trance. I stumbled forward, almost dropping the heavy bin onto my own toes.

It was Derrick, one of the elite guards, his amber eyes flashing with warning and disdain. "What are you staring at? Clear out before the Alpha has your hide skinned and hung by the gates. Get those bins to the incinerator, now!"

I didn't dare look back. I forced my trembling legs to move, dragging the heavy containers toward the roaring furnace at the far end of the compound. But even as I turned my back, I could feel the microscopic weight of Gazero's eyes burning straight through the space between us.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

My heart battered frantically against my ribs, not just from terror, but from something entirely foreign. Deep within my chest, beneath layers of suppression, starvation, and exhaustion, a faint, dormant warmth flickered to life. My inner wolf—a weak, suppressed spirit I had long ago given up on hearing—let out a quiet, trembling stir.

No, I told myself fiercely, dumping the trash bags into the roaring orange flames of the incinerator as the heat washed over my face. Don't be stupid, Salem. Men like Gazero Wolfvad don't see outcasts. They destroy them.

By the time I finished my chores and slipped through the back entrance of the damp basement quarters, my muscles were entirely numb. I collapsed onto my narrow cot, pulling a thin, moth-eaten blanket over my shoulders. The air down here smelled of mold and damp stone, a stark contrast to the crisp, expensive scent of cedarwood, rain, and raw power that had drifted off Gazero in the courtyard.

That scent lingered in my mind, clinging to my senses like smoke.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

The iron bell of the packhouse rang out far too early the next morning. Shift change.

I dragged myself up, my body aching as if I had been beaten in my sleep. Today was the monthly general assembly in the grand hall—a mandatory gathering where every member of the pack, from the highest-ranking warriors to the lowest scrap-cleaners, had to line up to pay respects and receive work assignments.

When I stepped into the grand hall, the air was already thick with tension. The high-ranking pack members stood near the raised dais, dressed in immaculate silks and polished leather, whispering among themselves. Up at the very center, seated on a high-backed obsidian chair that didn't belong to our pack furniture, sat Gazero.

He had changed into a charcoal-gray three-piece suit that fit his towering frame with lethal precision. He wasn't even looking at our Alpha, Marcus. His cold, dark gaze swept listlessly over the crowd of bowing wolves, looking thoroughly bored—until his head suddenly jerked up.

His eyes cut straight through the sea of people, locking onto the far corner of the room where I stood half-hidden behind a massive marble pillar.

My breath hitched. The entire room seemed to tilt on its axis.

Before I could lower my gaze or take a step back, Gazero stood up. The sudden movement made the entire hall fall into absolute, terrified silence. Without a word to anyone, the shadow alpha began to walk straight toward my corner.