THE ALPHA OF NO HOME

King Skara was dying. The once-feared Wolf of Seven Deaths lay upon his bed, weak and restless, turning from side to side as though he could somehow escape the fate closing around him. His fingers gripped the sheets beneath him, tearing through the fabric as pain moved through his aging body. “Not yet, All-Father,” he growled. His voice was hoarse, yet it still carried the command of a king. “Not yet. I have not seen my son.” For decades, Skara had ruled the great kingdom of the North. In his youth, he had led the rebellion against Cronus, the Mad King, and helped break the tyrant’s hold over the land. On the bloodiest night of that rebellion, Skara had struck down seven of Cronus’s finest warriors before dawn. From that night onward, the North gave him a name that would follow him through war, victory, and finally old age. The Wolf of Seven Deaths. He had been a warrior before he became a king. A man who loved battle, feared no enemy, and believed strength was the only language the world truly respected. His enemies had fallen before him, kingdoms had bent beneath his rule, and even the strongest wolves in the North had once spoken his name with caution. Yet now, as death slowly claimed him, Skara faced an enemy he could neither challenge nor defeat with the strength of his claws. Beside Skara’s bed, servants moved nervously, unsure whether to approach him. The king clawed at the bedding, leaving deep marks in the foam beneath him as another wave of pain passed through his body. Still, he refused to cry out. A king who showed weakness, he believed, was no king at all. So he suffered in silence, waving away the servants whenever they dared move too close, determined that no one would witness the Wolf of Seven Deaths surrendering to pain. Sarah, his wife, was perhaps the only person in the kingdom who could have commanded him to rest and expected him to listen. She was respected throughout the North as the mother and teacher of the kingdom’s young female werewolves. Under her guidance, they were trained to become disciplined, sharp-minded, and dangerous. Sarah understood strength as deeply as Skara did, though hers did not come from bloodshed or battle. Even the king respected her. But Sarah was not beside him now. She was giving birth. Skara had waited for this child with a desperation he had never shown before. He had fought wars without fear, faced enemies who wished to tear his kingdom apart, and watched countless warriors die beneath his command. Yet nothing had frightened him more than the thought that death might take him before he had the chance to see his own son. He had begged the All-Father for only one thing. Let me see him before I die. A sudden knock broke the silence. Skara’s eyes opened at once, sharp despite the weakness consuming his body. “Who is there?” he barked. The servants immediately stepped back. From beyond the heavy door, a voice answered, “Master, I bring news.” Skara’s breathing grew heavier as he stared toward the entrance. What news could possibly matter now, when death was already waiting beside his bed? His jaw tightened, and his fingers curled around the sheets once more. “What news could possibly matter now?” he demanded. For a moment, there was silence beyond the door. Then the voice answered, “Your wife has delivered.” Skara went completely still. His eyes widened, and the pain in his body seemed to disappear beneath a sudden wave of disbelief. “My wife has delivered?” he asked, his voice quieter now. “Yes, my king.” Skara swallowed hard. There was only one question left that mattered to him. “The child?” “A boy,” the servant replied. “A strong and healthy son.” For the first time in days, Skara smiled. The expression looked almost unfamiliar upon the face of the dying king. “I knew the All-Father would not disappoint me,” he whispered. He closed his eyes briefly, as though offering a silent prayer to the gods. “Thank you.” His voice broke with emotion. “Now I can die in peace and be welcomed through the gates of Valhalla.” The servants rushed forward as Skara pushed himself from the bed. “My king, you must rest,” one of them pleaded. He ignored them. His legs shook beneath him, and his body no longer wished to obey his command, but Skara forced himself forward. One step. Then another. He had faced armies. He had faced Cronus. He had survived wounds that should have killed him. He would not allow death to stop him from seeing his son. By the time Skara reached Sarah’s chambers, sweat covered his face, and his breathing had become painfully slow. He paused at the doorway, one hand pressed against the wooden frame as he gathered what little strength remained within him. Then he stepped inside. The room was quiet except for the soft crackling of the fire. Warm light flickered across the walls, casting long shadows through the chamber and over the exhausted woman resting upon the bed. Sarah lay beneath the covers, pale from exhaustion but awake. When she saw Skara standing in the doorway, her eyes softened. In her arms rested their newborn child, wrapped tightly in soft cloth. For a moment, Skara forgot the pain tearing through his body. He forgot the weakness in his legs. He forgot death itself. Nothing existed except the small child lying in his wife’s arms. Slowly, almost carefully, the old king moved closer. Then he looked into his son’s eyes. Skara froze. The child’s eyes glowed red beneath the firelight. Not black. Not blue. Red. For several heartbeats, the king could not speak. His mind searched through memories, old stories, forgotten prophecies, and the legends whispered by warriors around sacred fires. Never before had he expected to witness such a thing with his own eyes. His son stared back at him, silent and unafraid. “Is this truly a miracle?” Skara whispered. Sarah watched him carefully. “Skara?” she asked, uncertain of what he had seen. But the king did not look away from his son. A slow smile spread across his face, though something deeper and more complicated moved behind his eyes. “My son is an Alpha,” he said. His voice trembled with wonder. “Not just any wolf. Not merely another descendant of the old blood.” He stepped closer to the child, his gaze fixed upon those glowing red eyes. “My son bears the eyes of Thor himself.” Pride filled his voice as the words left his lips. For all his life, Skara had fought to protect the North. He had overthrown a mad king and ruled a kingdom built from war and blood. Yet in that moment, he believed his greatest victory was lying silently before him. “My son is the chosen one,” Skara declared. For the first time since death had begun creeping toward him, the Wolf of Seven Deaths looked completely at peace. He had seen his son. He had seen the miracle the All-Father had granted him. Perhaps now he could finally rest. Slowly, Skara turned toward the doorway, intending to return to his chambers before the little strength remaining within him disappeared completely. Then he stopped. His hand tightened around the wooden frame, and the smile slowly disappeared from his face. Something had changed. For a brief moment, fear crossed the eyes of the man who had once faced seven warriors in a single night and lived to tell the tale. Skara slowly turned his head and looked back at his newborn son. Those red eyes... he had seen them before. Not in any Alpha. Not in any man he had ever known. He had seen them in only one person—the man he had once helped overthrow. Cronus. The Mad King. A gift like this could never come without a price. Skara felt the truth deep within his bones. The North had never been given something for nothing. Every victory demanded blood. Every crown demanded sacrifice. Every miracle carried a shadow. He did not know what price his son would one day pay, nor what darkness might follow the birth of a red-eyed Alpha. But suddenly, the old king understood that his son’s life would never be ordinary. Skara turned away from the child and began walking toward the doorway, his mind heavy with thoughts he dared not speak aloud. Behind him, the newborn remained silent, his red eyes glowing softly within the darkness of the chamber. Skara had seen those eyes before, and the memory had returned like a shadow from the grave. “What if our son becomes like him?” Sarah asked. Skara stopped. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he looked back at his wife and son. “Then the North will know what it means to fear a king again.”