EPISODE 10: ALPHA'S SHADOW
964 Words
Riven POV
The first time Rowan noticed her, the forest had been quiet.
Too quiet.
Ashfold had come to Grayridge territory under the pretense of negotiations—border disputes, patrol lines, old grievances dressed up as diplomacy. Neutral ground. Neutral intent. Or so they claimed.
I remembered standing at the head of the clearing, my council behind me, power settled easily in my bones. Rowan stood opposite, relaxed in that irritating way of his, as if dominance were something he carried rather than enforced.
Then his attention shifted.
Not to me.
To the wolf behind my shoulder.
Nyra stood where she was told—silent, eyes lowered, posture obedient. She hadn’t shifted. Her wolf hadn’t surfaced. Nothing about her should have drawn notice.
Yet Rowan’s nostrils flared.
Once.
Twice.
His gaze sharpened, confusion flickering across his face before hardening into something like mockery.
“How do you keep someone like that in your pack?” he asked casually.
The clearing stalled.
I turned my head slowly. “Explain yourself.”
Rowan’s eyes never left her. “She doesn’t carry her wolf,” he said. “No presence. No pressure. It’s like she’s… hollow.”
A dangerous word.
Then he smiled, faint and sharp. “Or are Grayridge wolves so weak now that you shelter those without wolves at all?”
My claws slid free without conscious thought.
“Watch your mouth, Ashfold,” I warned, a voice cold enough to freeze blood. “You speak of things you do not understand.”
Rowan only shrugged. “Then perhaps you should understand what you’re keeping.”
The talks ended shortly after.
I should have killed the discussion then.
I should have listened to the instinct that told me she was not empty—only restrained.
The memory dissolved as the present snapped back into place.
_________________
The war room was silent, lit only by the dim glow of lanterns that threw jagged shadows across the stone walls. My pack shifted in place, disciplined, alert, every movement controlled and measured. Grayridge does not tolerate error. Grayridge does not tolerate weakness. And yet… Nyra survived.
I slammed my clawed hand against the table, the sound echoing through the chamber. “She’s with Rowan’s pack,” I growled, the words heavy with frustration. “The exiled wolf who dared defy us has found refuge, and now she grows stronger under their protection.”
My council remained silent, trained to measure every word. I did not need acknowledgment. I needed results.
“She is dangerous,” I continued, eyes narrowing. “Cunning, unpredictable, powerful beyond what we anticipated. Rowan’s pack protects her, yes—but strength without discipline is nothing. They may rally to her side, but they are no match for Grayridge at full force. Not if we strike wisely.”
I traced lines on the map in front of me, marking rivers, forests, and likely escape routes. Every path she might take, every potential ally, every vulnerability of Rowan’s pack was accounted for. Patience was key. I would not strike hastily. She was clever, but she was young, and overconfidence is a weakness I can exploit.
I paced the room, claws tapping against stone. “We wait,” I said. “We observe. We track. Every move she makes, every patrol Rowan sends, every step into the forest… we will be there, ready. And when she overreaches, when she makes her mistake, we strike. Swift. Decisive. Final.”
A few of my wolves nodded, understanding the order, feeling the weight of anticipation in their bones. Loyalty is tested in fire—and we will test hers.
“Rowan will falter,” I continued, my voice low but deadly. “He is loyal, yes—but loyalty has its limits. And when the bonds protecting her crack, when her allies hesitate, Grayridge will be waiting.”
Later, I walked along the balcony of the stronghold, the city sprawled below, quiet and unsuspecting. My wolf stirred within me, coiled, tense, ready to strike. I imagined Nyra in the forest, her wolf alive, senses sharp, instincts honed by recent battles. The exiled wolf had grown stronger in a single night than many packs could train their strongest warriors to become in years.
She is dangerous, I reminded myself. And she is mine to deal with.
I spread the maps again, marking points of ambush, chockholds, and potential traps. Each scout’s observation, each patrol’s report, each weak spot in Rowan’s defenses was noted and weighed. Nothing was left to chance. Every advantage would be used, every opening exploited.
“She will make a mistake,” I whispered, eyes narrowing. “And when she does, Grayridge will strike.”
I paused, letting the night wind whip past me. The forest was alive with scent, power, and movement. I could feel Nyra’s presence even from here—sharp, intoxicating, a challenge to my authority. Every day she grows, every day her wolf strengthens, but she is still untested against the full might of Grayridge.
Patience. That would be the key. We do not act until the time is perfect. When she is weakest. When Rowan is distracted. When the bond that shields her falters.
Only then will Grayridge move. Only then will we remind the world why the Alpha of this pack rules without question.
I exhaled slowly, letting the wind carry my thoughts, plans, and anticipation. Every scout, every patrol, every whisper of movement in the forest is part of the strategy. Grayridge does not act impulsively. Grayridge does not hesitate. Grayridge does not fail.
Nyra may be powerful, cunning, unbroken—but she is still only one wolf, against the full force of an Alpha and his loyal pack.
And I will ensure that she understands her place.
The hunt begins.
- Writer
