Claimed by The Lost Alpha

Chapter 2: Lareina & Draven

Norman strode swiftly down the village path, his clothes still dripping from the river’s grip. In his arms, bundled in hastily dried hide, the infant clung to the faint rhythm of breath—fragile, but alive. Each step was a silent prayer that the child would survive the night.

The wooden door of his home groaned as he pushed it open. A low fire flickered in the hearth, painting the modest room with amber glow. The scent of simmering vegetable broth lingered in the air, mingling with the dampness that clung to him.

“Honey… look what I found in the river,” Norman gasped, voice uneven, lungs still burning from the run.

From the back chamber emerged a woman, her figure heavy with the weight of nearly nine months’ pregnancy. Her face, though pale with fatigue, carried the softness of quiet strength. This was Lizabeth—his wife, who had waited so long for the birth of their own child.

Her eyes widened as they fell on the stranger cradled in Norman’s arms.

“Norman… where did you—” The question broke off into a sharp gasp. She clutched her belly, her expression twisting, eyes flaring with pain.

A cry tore from her throat. “Ahhh! Norman—! It’s… it’s starting!”

Norman froze. “Now?!”

The river child whimpered in its bundle, a thin, fragile wail. Lizabeth’s screams joined it, filling the small home with two cries—one of a stranger’s infant, the other of a mother laboring to bring forth her own.

Panic seized Norman. He rushed to his wife, trying to steady her trembling form. “Lizabeth, hold on! I—I’ll fetch help!”

With hurried hands, he set the foundling upon a blanket near the fire’s warmth, then bolted through the doorway into the cold night air. His heart pounded louder than the wind.

Inside, Lizabeth clutched the sheets, her body wracked with contractions. By the hearth, the abandoned child lay quiet, firelight dancing in its eyes. For the briefest moment, those eyes glimmered with a strange, muted light—an unearthly gleam, as though the newborn were already studying this new world it had fallen into.

**

Norman returned in haste, his breath ragged, sweat streaming down his brow despite the night’s chill. Behind him shuffled an elderly woman—Elara, the village midwife, her hands famed for their gentleness, her prayers whispered into every birth she oversaw.

Lizabeth’s cries still tore through the house, raw and desperate. Norman ushered the midwife inside.

“Quickly, Elara! My wife cannot endure this much longer,” he pleaded, panic heavy in his voice.

The old woman moved with practiced calm, setting out bowls of warm water and her simple instruments. Soon the small home was filled with the cadence of agony and devotion—the mother’s screams, the midwife’s prayers, the steady rhythm of labor. Norman could only pace outside the chamber door, heart thundering harder than any storm.

Then, at last, the cries of pain broke into the sharp, pure wail of new life. The sound rang through the humble walls, fierce and victorious.

“A daughter,” Elara declared with relief. She cleaned the child, swaddled her in cloth, and placed the tiny bundle in Lizabeth’s trembling arms. Though pale and drenched in sweat, the woman’s lips curved with exhausted joy.

Norman entered, his face alight even as tears rimmed his eyes. “My child… my daughter…”

By the hearth, the river-found infant still lay, its breath even, its eyelids closed. Unaware of its origin, Elara had moved the baby closer to the fire’s warmth, setting it side by side with Norman and Lizabeth’s newborn.

Two infants now slept beneath their roof—one born of blood and flesh, the other delivered by the currents of fate.

Once assured that his wife lived, Norman busied himself with Elara, pressing into her hands both coins and the day’s catch. “Thank you, Elara. You saved them both.”

Meanwhile, Lizabeth turned her weary gaze toward the two small bundles beside her. Some pull in her heart urged her to check not only her daughter but the strange child as well. With trembling fingers she brushed the cloth from the foundling’s face.

“What are you, little one?” she whispered.

The baby boy lay serene, features soft, lashes shadowing his cheeks. But when her eyes drifted lower, her breath caught—this was no girl, but a son.

“A boy…” she murmured.

Before she could cover him again, moonlight broke through the window and kissed his face. His eyes flickered open. What stared back at her was no ordinary gaze: newborn eyes ignited in a sudden crimson glow, burning through the dim chamber like embers.

Lizabeth froze. Legends surged through her mind—tales of wolf heirs, of Alpha blood that blazed red beneath a full moon.

“Oh God…” The words trembled from her lips. “An Alpha heir… a werewolf child.”

Her pulse hammered, fear and awe twining in her chest. With urgent care she wrapped him tightly again, hiding away the secret light. Her eyes darted to her daughter, sleeping innocently beside the boy. She drew a shuddering breath.

“How could an Alpha’s heir have fallen here?” she whispered to herself. Then, firmer, with a quiet resolve: “I swear… I will guard this secret. No one must ever know what you are. You will grow with my daughter, and I will protect you from every shadow that hunts your blood.”

The door creaked as Norman stepped back inside, having seen Elara home.

Lizabeth startled, her hand hovering near the bundles as though caught stealing. She forced her eyes from the children to her husband, schooling her lips into a fragile smile.

Norman approached and sat beside her, brushing damp hair from her brow. “How do you feel now, Liz?” he asked gently.

She drew a deep breath, willing her racing heart to quiet. Meeting his gaze, she offered the only answer she could. “I… I’m fine,” she whispered, her voice quivering but steady enough.

Relief softened Norman’s face. “Thank the heavens. I thought I might lose you.” His eyes drifted down to the sleeping infants, and a rare tenderness filled his expression.

“Look at them, Liz… two little angels under our roof.”

Lizabeth nodded, though her heart knew one of them was anything but ordinary. Her hand brushed over both babies, a fleeting smile on her lips, her eyes shadowed by the weight of her vow.

Norman sighed, then said, “We must give them names. A name is a prayer—it will protect them.”

For a moment, only the crackling fire spoke. Lizabeth’s gaze fell on her daughter, so delicate, so serene. “For my daughter… I want her to carry grace and light. Let her be called Lareina d’Astoria.”

Norman repeated it softly, tasting the name. “Lareina… a beautiful name. Our little queen.” Pride lifted his smile.

His gaze then shifted to the stranger child. “And what of this boy?”

Lizabeth’s eyes lingered on him. The moonlight draped his tiny face, and something both regal and ominous seemed to emanate from him.

“He…” she whispered, “he needs a name of strength. A name that shields him from the world, yet reminds him he was meant for more than an ordinary life.”

Norman watched her curiously, but let her continue.

“I name him… Draven d’Lucienne.”

“Draven…” Norman echoed, nodding slowly. “A proud name. Then so be it—he is Draven d’Lucienne, a child we will protect as our own.”

Lizabeth bent over both children, her lips trembling into a faint smile. Her fingers brushed their heads, one after the other. And in her heart she whispered:

“Lareina, my own flesh and blood… and Draven, child of the forsaken moon. You will grow as siblings, bound together. And I swear, no one will ever know who you truly are, Draven.”