Abandoned Revenge

Chapter 3. Kayl

I woke up long before dawn, my body already tense, like a bowstring pulled tight before the shot. The wolf inside me growled quietly, impatiently, sensing the approach of the Blood Moon—its red light seeped even through the heavy velvet curtains in my chambers, casting b****y glints on the stone walls and the floor covered with thick pelts of slain beasts. The air in the room was heavy, saturated with the scent of leather from the armor hanging on the wooden rack by the wall, and the remnants of smoke from the extinguished hearth, where embers still glowed faintly, radiating weak heat. I sat up on the edge of the massive dark oak bed, muscles filling with power from last night's training—every nerve, every vein ready for action, for domination. Twenty-eight years old, and my body was a perfect weapon, honed by countless battles and hunts. Black hair to my shoulders slightly disheveled from sleep, the scar through my left eyebrow—a rough line from that old clash with the northern wolves, where I nearly lost an eye, a reminder of the price of any weakness, even fleeting.

I stood up, feet touching the cold stone floor, goosebumps running over my skin—pleasant, invigorating. I approached the basin of water—icy, as always—washed my face, the water burning my skin, droplets running down my neck and chest, washing away the remnants of sleep. My scent—heavy campfire smoke, cold blade metal, fresh pine needles after rain—filled the room instantly, dominant, overwhelming everything around, as befitted the future king-alpha. No one dared challenge this power. The pack from York to Cornwall knew by heart: Kayl Blackthorn forgives no weakness. In others. In himself. In anyone.

I donned my black cloak with the pack's emblem—embroidered silver wolf's head on black background, the heavy fabric falling on my shoulders like a mantle of absolute power, emphasizing broad shoulders and muscular back. Belt with dagger—cold metal on my hip, familiar weight. I stepped into the corridor—cold stone under bare feet, torches in iron rings hissing quietly, casting long shadows. The guards at the doors bowed their heads instantly, their energy pure submission mixed with fear, scent of sweat and metal. I passed by without nodding, without a word—power in pauses, in silence, in how they froze, holding their breath.

The training yard greeted me with the cold of morning fog and the smell of wet earth after nighttime rain. Fog swirled at my feet, torches along the edges burning dimly. Reyn—one of the Thorn twins, sixteen, brunet with a sturdy build for his age, mole on his cheek—was already waiting with sword in hand, head lowered in respect. His scent—fresh earth and sweat, energy unstable, youthful.

“Ready?” I asked shortly, taking my blade from the rack.

“Yes, my lord,” he replied quietly, voice even but with a slight tremor.

He attacked first—sword whistling through the air, quick thrust. I blocked easily, without effort, my blade's counterstrike landing on his shoulder with a dull thud, forcing him back a step, a groan escaping through clenched teeth.

“Weak,” I growled, voice low, pressing like a wolf's snarl. “You think enemies will spare you? Again. Harder.”

Reyn nodded, eyes lowered in full submission, breathing heavy, sweat beading on his forehead. We continued—strikes echoing across the yard, metal clanging sharply against metal, sparks flying into the fog. My muscles worked perfectly, every block, every lunge—control, strength, domination. The wolf inside calmed from this rhythm—movement, power over another. Sweat ran down my back, mixing with fog, breathing steady, powerful.

Father was waiting in the council hall—Lord Edric Blackthorn, fifty-five, graying black hair cropped short, massive build still imposing, deep wrinkles from decades of power and battles. Scent—old smoke and leather, energy fading with time but still pressing like a heavy mountain you can't stand under without permission. He sat at the head of the long dark oak table, hands folded on the surface, gaze piercing, cold.

“Kayl,” he said as I entered and sat opposite, voice low, without greeting, like a verdict echoing off the walls. “Sit. The Moon is tomorrow. Your bond must be strong. A political marriage will strengthen the pack for years. The northern lands of Silverclaw have been baring fangs too long—we cannot show weakness.”

I nodded slowly, sat, clenched fist under the table—wood creaking quietly under fingers, wolf inside stirring from tension.

Damian was already there—my beta, best friend since childhood, twenty-seven, light hair neatly combed back, green eyes with that signature charming smile hiding everything sharp inside. Athletic but not massive like me—light, quick. Scent—fresh wind and mint, energy deceptively light, relaxed, as if he's always one step ahead, observing from afar. He sat to the side, legs stretched under the table, smile playing on lips, fingers drumming quietly on wood.

“Selena Riverfall would be ideal,” Father continued, gaze on me heavy, unblinking. “Strong alpha female. Ambitious, cruel to enemies. Her lands in the south—ours if the bond confirms. The alliance will make us unbreakable.”

I was silent for a second, heavy pause, wolf inside growling quietly—bond chooses itself, Moon doesn't ask about politics, lands, plans.

“The bond doesn't choose by lands, Father,” I said finally, coldly, voice even but with growling notes on the edge. “It strikes like lightning. Without warning. Without choice.”

Edric leaned forward slowly, pause stretching, gaze piercing through like a blade.

“Then convince the Moon, son,” he said quietly, but every word—like a blow. “An omega has no place on the throne beside you. Weakness will destroy us all. Enemies smell blood—one c***k, and they'll flood in.”

Damian chuckled quietly, leaned closer to me, elbow on table, voice light but with subtext—as always, joke with sharp fangs under the smile.

“And if the Moon does err anyway?” he said, green eyes flashing with mockery, pause before words calculated. “Chooses... well, not Selena. Some quiet servant from the kitchens? An omega with downcast eyes and trembling hands? Just imagine—the future king with fate's mistake on a leash. The pack would laugh. Or fear.”

His words hung in the air with heavy pause. The wolf inside me flared with rage instantly—fist slammed the table with a loud c***k, wood splitting deep, goblets with wine jumping, red splashing on the cloth. My scent of anger—thick, heavy smoke—filled the hall instantly, pressing on everyone.

“Never,” I growled, voice low, vibrating, gaze locking on Damian like claws. “A weak pair—shame for the pack. For me. I'll tear the bond myself if needed. Kill the mistake. Without regret.”

Damian raised hands in mock submission, smile not fading, but eyes—cold, calculating, flashed something hidden for a moment.

“Of course, my alpha,” he said softly, voice even, but pause before words—like light mockery. “Just a joke. You know I'm for the strong. Always. Selena—ideal. Or someone like her.”

Father nodded slowly—approval in silence, gaze shifting to me, heavy.

“Show strength in the rehearsal today,” he said. “The pack is watching. Everyone is watching.”

We left together from the hall. Yard turned to corridors, then the great hall—I walked ahead, steps confident, Damian and Reyn following a step behind. Reyn carried my cloak, head lowered low, energy—pure submission, no questions.

The hall already gleamed with cleanliness—servants had worked through the night diligently. Scent—fresh wax from tables, pine from hung branches, but beneath it all weak, foreign: rain after storm and wild herbs, light, calming, but irritating the wolf inside like a hint of weakness in the air that shouldn't be. I growled quietly to myself—distraction before such a night unacceptable.

The rehearsal went strictly by ritual. Alphas in the circle, brides beside them. Selena stood close to me, her spice scent irritating more than usual today, clawing at nostrils. I stood in the center, repeating words—ancient, growling, full of power, energy building gradually, wolf calming from familiar rhythm.

But the scent—that weak, foreign—hooked again and again, penetrating persistently. In the hall's corner, by one table—servant on knees, polishing wood with rag. Fragile, short stature, chestnut hair in simple braid, eyes down. Omega. Complete nothing.

Her scent—rain and herbs—penetrated quietly but insistently, wolf inside freezing for a moment, then growling irritably, demanding attention. Irritation flared stronger—weakness, distraction before such night.

Damian noticed my gaze during short pause, approached closer, voice quiet.

“Something wrong with the hall?” he asked, smile light.

“No,” I cut sharply, voice cold. “Speed up the rehearsal. All.”

But the scent remained in the air. Light, like a c***k in perfect control.

Inner thoughts swirled in whirlwind: bond must be strong. Only strong. Selena or another alpha like her. Omega—fate's mistake. Shame. Tear myself.

Reyn sparred with me after rehearsal in hall corner—short fight, strike to his arm, he retreated with dull sound, breathing faltering.

“Harder,” I ordered, but thoughts distracted.

He nodded silently, but I saw—as I was myself.

Anticipation of ceremony burned inside—confidence in worthy pair. Strong. Absolute. Without weaknesses.

But that weak scent in the hall—like betrayal, like warning.

Irritation built slowly. Wolf raged quietly, demanding full control.

Tomorrow the real Moon.

And if she errs...

No. Won't allow. I won't allow. Anyone.