Marked By Alpha's Curse

The cold always woke me before dawn. It crawled through the cracks in the walls, biting into my skin until sleep became impossible. The others snored softly around me , a dozen humans crammed into one stone room, each clutching what little warmth they had left. When I breathed, I could see the mist of it in the dark. They said wolves could smell fear. If that was true, I probably reeked of it. I rose from the floor, careful not to wake the others. My back ached from yesterday’s work, my hands raw and blistered. The scent of damp straw and unwashed bodies clung to everything. I tied my hair back with a strip of cloth, picked up my empty bucket, and slipped out before the guards started shouting. The world outside was still gray, the air thick with mist. From where I stood, I could see the great stone walls of the fortress cutting across the hills , sharp and endless. Beyond them, the wolves lived like kings. Inside, we served. I walked toward the well, keeping my head low as a group of wolf soldiers passed. Their boots splashed mud on my bare legs, but I didn’t flinch. You learned not to. The moment they sensed weakness, they made sure you remembered your place. I filled the bucket, water sloshing over the sides, and started the climb back. My arms trembled under the weight, but my mind wandered — as it always did when the world was too quiet. Lately, I’d been dreaming strange things. Of running through trees so fast the wind cut my face. Of howling that didn’t sound foreign , it sounded like mine. And when I woke, my heart pounded like I’d been running for real. Once, I told another girl about it. She laughed until the guard heard us and made her scrub the courtyard all night. I never mentioned it again. Slaves didn’t dream like wolves. We weren’t supposed to dream at all. By the time the sun rose, the main yard was alive. Wolves barked orders at us while we scrubbed the floors, carried firewood, and prepared food for their training. My body moved out of habit , bend, lift, clean, repeat , but my mind drifted to a single thought: this was all I’d ever known. Humans served. Wolves ruled. That was the law of the Crescent Realm. They said the Alpha King ruled through fear, and fear alone. Even the high Alphas bowed to him — except one. The King’s Blade. The cursed warrior. The one they said even the moon had rejected. I’d never seen him, but the stories painted him as half-man, half-shadow — stronger than any wolf, colder than death itself. “They say his blood kills whoever it bonds with,” an older slave once whispered to me. I’d laughed then. “Then who’d ever love him?” She’d only said, “The cursed don’t choose love. They survive it.” I didn’t know why that memory stayed with me. “Lyra!” Mistress Venn’s voice snapped through my thoughts. “You’re staring at nothing again.” I looked up quickly. She stood at the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, eyes sharp enough to slice skin. “Get those trays to the barracks. The warriors need their meal before they train.” “Yes, Mistress,” I murmured, grabbing the heavy tray. The smell of roasted meat filled my nose — the kind I’d never be allowed to taste. My stomach twisted, but I steadied my grip and hurried down the corridor. The barracks were crowded. Wolves in half-shifted form lounged around the fire, their golden eyes following me as I passed. One of them — broad shoulders, smug smile — stuck out a foot. I stumbled. The tray hit the floor. Meat scattered everywhere. Laughter erupted. “Well, look at that,” the wolf sneered. “The little slave thinks she can walk.” I bent to pick up the pieces, but he kicked one aside, boots smearing it into the dirt. My hands shook. Every instinct screamed at me to stay quiet, to bow, to apologize. But something inside me burned. I looked up. Just a second — just one heartbeat — but I met his eyes. He froze. It wasn’t defiance, exactly. It was exhaustion. The kind that made fear lose its edge. He bared his teeth, ready to strike me for it — but Mistress Venn’s voice cut in before he could. “Enough,” she barked. “If you mark her face, the King’s steward will have your hide. She’s assigned to the hall tomorrow.” He huffed and turned away, muttering something about “filthy humans.” I picked up the last scraps with trembling hands, my throat tight, eyes burning. When I was done, I carried the ruined tray back to the kitchen in silence. Mistress Venn didn’t even glance at me. “Clean yourself up,” she said. “The King’s ritual is tomorrow. You’ll be serving in the great hall. Don’t embarrass me.” That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling. The others were asleep, but I couldn’t stop hearing her words. The ritual. The sacred mating rite — where wolves found their destined partners. It was supposed to be beautiful, holy. But for humans, it was a nightmare. We served wine, food, and sometimes our dignity. The nobles liked to humiliate us, to remind us what we weren’t. I’d seen what happened to the ones who spoke out. I swore I never would. Still, something restless stirred inside me. That same feeling from my dreams. That pull toward something I didn’t understand. Outside, a wolf howled — long, mournful, carried by the wind. My heart jumped. For a second, I almost felt it echo in my chest. I pressed my hands over my ears and squeezed my eyes shut to avoid hearing it. If I’d known what tomorrow would bring — that the monster everyone feared would look at me and see something worth breaking the world for — I might have run.