When Fate Fails

Haunted by Duty

Gabriels POV

Gabriel stared out the window of the Alpha’s study, the frosted glass blurring the treeline into a smear of gray and white. The packhouse behind him buzzed with the familiar sounds of duty—voices calling orders, boots on stone, the faint clang of metal from the training yard—but Gabriel felt distant from it all, as if he were watching his own life unfold through a layer of ice.

He pressed his hands against the smooth wood of the desk, knuckles whitening. The desk had belonged to his father, and his father before him: both men stronger, more certain, more suited to the role of Alpha than he’d ever felt. It should have been Darius here, Gabriel thought—not for the first time. If things had gone as the Moon Goddess intended, his older brother’s laughter would still fill these halls, his sure voice would command respect, and Gabriel could have remained in the shadow where he belonged.

But fate—cruel, indifferent fate—had chosen otherwise.

He felt the weight of the mantle like an iron collar. Every decision, big or small, was a test he could never quite pass. The pack needed strength. They needed certainty. Gabriel had spent years trying to become the leader they expected, but it always felt like wearing someone else’s skin.

And then there was Lyra.

His little sister haunted these halls like a ghost, her presence both a constant reminder of loss and a silent accusation. Gabriel remembered when they were children, when Lyra’s laughter was bright and fearless, when she’d clung to him and Darius with utter trust. He remembered the day everything changed—the rogues, the blood, the howl that ripped their family apart.

The pack blamed Lyra, and Gabriel had let them. At first, he’d been too numb with grief to defend her. Later, it became easier to accept the story everyone told: that Lyra’s recklessness had cost them the true heir. Yet deep down, Gabriel knew the truth was more complicated. He’d seen the fear in Lyra’s eyes, the way she shrank away from their father’s anger, the way she bore every punishment in silence.

He’d told himself he was powerless to help her. That as Alpha, he couldn’t show weakness—not even for his own blood. But sometimes, in the quiet moments before dawn, Gabriel wondered if cowardice had played a part.

Guilt gnawed at him, sharp as broken glass. Lyra was a shadow now, her gaze shuttered, her spirit battered but not broken. She moved through the packhouse unseen except when someone needed a scapegoat. Gabriel tried to justify it—she had to pay for what happened, the pack needed closure, he had to be strong—but none of it felt right.

He remembered the way Darius used to laugh, the way he’d stood up to their father, the way he’d protected Lyra no matter the cost. Gabriel tried to be like him, but every time he looked at Lyra, he saw only his own failure.

The pack expected him to be Alpha. To lead with authority, to punish disobedience, to maintain order. But every command he gave, every punishment he allowed, chipped away at something inside him. Gabriel envied Darius’s certainty, his charisma, the way the pack had loved and followed him. Gabriel was tolerated, respected out of obligation, but never truly admired.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He wanted to be free of the burden, to go back to being just Gabriel—the quiet, thoughtful son, the one who never wanted power. But there was no going back. The only path was forward, and he would have to walk it, no matter how ill-fitting the mantle felt.

Outside, the wind howled through the trees, a lonely, mournful sound. Gabriel watched the snow drift past the window and wondered, not for the first time, if anything he did would ever be enough—for the pack, for his father, or for Lyra.