Bound To the Cruel Alpha

Seraya After over five years on the run, Seraya Voss had grown used to being a shadow in the world of the living. With years of practice, she had perfected the art of moving like a ghost. She walked with her hood low over her long black hair, and boots silent against the muddy streets, always keeping her eyes trained on the ground before her. Even with dusk approaching, the port city of Ardmore bustled around her with the usual chaotic energy expected from a thriving port city, unaware or uncaring of the type of people walking in its midst. The city was situated between high cliffs and the sea, its air was heavy with the scent of salt, cod liver oil, and smoke from a hundred burning fires. Ships groaned in their docks like restless animals, with their sails flapping in the sea wind. Ardmore was like a melting pot. It was the last neutral zone between the broken territories of the continent. Rogues, traders, mercenaries, witches, and wolves alike drifted through it easily, like leaves in a storm. As she walked along the main street, Seraya mentally ticked off her priorities for the day. First, she needed new boots. The pair she wore were falling apart—ruined from her last escape. It was still damp and heavy after she spent days wading through riverbeds to throw off pursuit of Elite Enforcers. The leather had cracked at the seams and squelched with each step she took. She winced slightly at the memory of plunging into the cold river without hesitation just to avoid leaving footprints and vanish from the Crimson Howls' tracking hounds. They were after her again. She could feel it in the shift of the wind, and the restless itch beneath her skin. The Crimson Howls had been relentless these past months. Their hunt for rogues was becoming more brutal than ever. Entire rogue camps had vanished overnight, turned to ash or filled with bodies. Their new alpha—Draven Thorne, the Crimson Butcher, they called him—had declared open war on wolves like her. And Seraya, despite her efforts to live alone in her solitude, was always a target. Second on her list was food. Her stomach growled as she passed a scrawny little girl nibbling a roasted potato by the roadside, with grease glistening on her small fingers. Seraya's hand went to the coin pouch tied beneath her cloak. She had enough for one potato, maybe two, if she haggled hard. She might have enough left over, hopefully, for a pair of secondhand boots and a spot on a ship out of here. She had heard whispers about smugglers ferrying werewolves to the far eastern isles, and other places safer for her kind. She took a step toward the potato vendor. Her eyes were locked on the crispy tubers roasting over a smoky fire, when three men in dark cloaks brushed past her roughly. "Watch it," one muttered, catching her arm to steady her before moving on. His voice was low, and his accent was northern. Their eyes met for half a second. He had red-rimmed irises, like hers. The unmistakable glint of a rogue. He didn’t linger. He just turned away and vanished into the crowd with his companions. All of them hooded and moving with an urgency she was familiar with. That was too many rogues together in one place. They were either gathering—or fleeing. Seraya tensed. She needed to be out of here as soon as possible. She has to stuck up on supplies and be on her way, then she'll get on that ship smuggling rogues to other side of the continent where they weren't being massacred or kidn*pped to be sacrificed during rituals involving traditionalists and— Wait. She was getting lost in thought more often these days. Coupled with the strange dreams she's been having, it's too dangerous. She can't guarantee her safety if she keeps drifting off like that. She crossed the street fully now, walking past a group of traveling minstrels with panpipes and laughing fox spirits tied to their belts. The potato vendor raised a suspicious brow as Seraya approached. "Are you buying or gawking? I got mouths to feed and coins to count," the woman barked, arms crossed over a grease-stained apron. Seraya blinked, dragged from her thoughts. "Right. Sorry. I'll take that small one." "Two silver. If you want salt, that's extra." "Plain is fine." She handed over the coins, took the warm potato, and bit into it as she turned deeper into the market. The further she went, the louder the sounds of Ardmore became. It was a city that never slept, especially around the harbor. Temporary tents crowded the stone alleys in every color imaginable. The air was filled with languages both human and otherwise, with vendors shouting over each other, hawkers darting between carriages with painted signs and glass vials. "Butter honey, fresh from the hive!" "Spidersilk thread, stronger than steel!" "Paradian lilac perfume—guaranteed to stop a man’s heart!" Every vendor's claim was more ridiculous than the last. Seraya walked through them, careful not to draw attention. She kept her ears open for trouble, and eyes peeled for a stall selling boots. Secondhand traders were often hidden toward the back alleys near the old broken aqueduct, where the scent of mildew clung to every wall and the crowd grew thinner. Then— HOOOOOOOOONNNNN. A deep, bone-vibrating sound rolled across the harbor. She froze. At first, she thought it was another ship departing. Ardmore’s dock horns were loud and crude, always echoing between the cliff and sea. But something felt wrong. A second horn followed, almost identical—but the sound was deeper. Older. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Around her, the atmosphere shifted. Vendors stopped shouting. Conversations hushed. Then, chaos. "Get the children!" a woman shrieked. "They’re here!" Crates were overturned, stalls were being abandoned mid-transaction. Mothers screamed names of their children, fathers pulled knives from beneath coats. The crowd surged with panic. And Seraya knew. That wasn’t the farewell horn of a merchant vessel. That was a Crimson Howl warhorn. They were here and they were not just searching. It was worse. They were hunting.