The Alpha’s Last Bride

Damien The storm clawed at the keep with greedy fingers, wind howling through the stone slit windows like a mourning beast. Rain lashed the shutters, each impact like a drumbeat announcing another death. Inside the chamber, all was still. Donna lay atop the cold linens of the bridal chamber, her skin the pale grey of untouched snow. Her lips had lost their color, her eyes sealed as if in sleep. There was no blood. No bruising. No marks of a struggle. The fire in the hearth had long since died, leaving only the bitter scent of damp ash. I stood over her, arms folded behind behind my back, face feeling like it was turning to stone. My jaw ached from clenching, unmoving. The chamber that held the dead never held a fire, my exhale misting faintly in the freezing air. Four. Four wives, and not a single heir. Not a single goddamn answer. You let her die in your home and didn’t even notice. You didn’t even know what she liked to read. Donna had kept her distance. She was sharp-tongued and uninterested in tenderness, and I, in return, had been cold. Civil, but detached. It was told himself it was better that way. Now she was dead. I turned slightly as the temple priestess stepped forward, robes whispering against the flagstone floor. Her face was drawn, hands trembling as she extended a scroll of prayers. “My Alpha… the body bears no sign of injury. No poison, no bruising, no rupture. She simply… stopped.” I didn’t take the scroll. I just looked down at the lifeless woman once meant to be the mother of my child and snarled low. “It’s the curse.” A nervous shuffle echoed near the door, where two guards stood stiff as iron posts. Neither dared look at the body. My eyes flicked toward them. “Leave.” They obeyed instantly, boots thudding in retreat down the stone hall. Without looking at the priestess again, I stepped forward and pulled the thick iron key from my coat. Locking the chamber door with a metallic click that echoed like a coffin nail. “No one is to enter,” I ordered. “Not until I say so. She’ll be buried before first light.” The priestess bowed her head, murmured something about the Moon Goddess. I had was already turning away, cloak flaring behind me as I strode back into the frozen corridor. I would mourn in silence. But not for long. There were preparations to make. The corridor was colder than the chamber. Stone devours warmth in this keep. Always has. My breath fogged in the air as I walked, sharp boots echoing against the floor. The torches along the wall flickered weakly, their flames losing a battle they weren’t built to win. Outside, the storm howled like it wanted to break in and finish what it started. Garrick Fenros, my beta was already waiting at the landing. Soaked through. Eyes hard. “She’s gone,” he said. I didn’t stop. “No wounds. No poison. No sign of struggle.” He let out a breath sharp enough to fog the air. “Just like the others.” “No.” I turned toward the war chamber and pushed open the heavy wooden door. “Not like the others.” He followed me in, the dripping sound of his cloak hitting the floor like a second heartbeat. I didn't look at him. I looked at the map. The border packs. The desperate ones. “Send riders,” I said. “Tonight. Offer gold this time. Prioritize the fringe territories.” He barked a joyless laugh. “You want to buy a bride now?” “I want a survivor,” I said, sharper than I intended. “You want someone so poor they won’t care if they die here.” “I want a Luna who can carry an heir and live to see spring.” He didn’t speak. Just stared at me like he expected something more. Sympathy, maybe. Doubt. “She didn’t scream,” I added, almost absently. “Elsabeth made it five months. She was the first. Kira convulsed. Thalia bled. Donna just... never woke.” I could still see her eyes closed like she was pretending. Still feel how cold her skin had already turned by the time I touched it. “I thought if I kept my distance, maybe it wouldn’t touch her,” I murmured. “If I didn’t love her. If I didn’t lie beside her. Maybe I could fool the gods.” “She didn’t love you either, hell you never seemed to care much for any of your brides.” Garrick said. “No. She didn’t.” I looked at my hands. They were shaking, but I curled them into fists. “But she still died.” “You think it’s a curse,” he said flatly. I met his eyes. “What else would you call it?” “I’d call it coincidence. Bad luck. The Moon’s sick sense of humor.” I laughed once. It came out bitter. “How many times does luck need to strike before it starts to look like a pattern?” He didn’t answer, Garrick had never been a believer of the curse. Even after all these years, it was a topic he chose to ignore. “Every Alpha born to this keep was raised by his father alone,” I went on. “You know that. I never knew my mother. Neither did mine. Or his. The women die. The sons live. And we inherit this cursed stone and the ghosts it shelters.” Garrick rolled his eyes. “You sound like your father on one of his bad nights. Raving to the fire about ghosts and omens while his wine ran dry.” “He died screaming about the curse.” “He died drunk and full of regret.” “Same thing,” I muttered. The keep moaned under another gust of wind. A shutter slammed somewhere far off — or maybe it was the chapel door again, warped from years of cold and rot. I let it ring in my ears. Garrick folded his arms across his chest. “You want to send riders? Fine. I’ll send them. But don’t ask me to start believing in fairy tales.” “I’m not asking,” I said. “You’ll obey.” “I always do,” he replied, quieter this time. “But don’t make me bury a fifth.” I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t. Because I already knew we would. Garrick turned to leave, his cloak trailing cold water behind him, when the double doors slammed open with a crash that echoed through the war chamber like a cannon blast. The wind came first — a freezing gust that swept through the room and killed every torch it touched. Then came the guard. He was young — too young, I thought grimly — and wide-eyed, soaked to the bone, mud splattered up to his thighs like he’d run the whole way from the valley. His chest heaved as he skidded to a halt inside the chamber. “Alpha!” he gasped, voice cracking. “Stormwatch is under attack!” The words didn’t register. Not at first. Garrick had already crossed the room, gripping the boy’s shoulders. “What do you mean? Who’s attacking us?” The guard shook his head, breath ragged. “The south ridge. Raiders from the No Lands. They crossed the border an hour ago and set fire to the eastern outpost.” The chill I felt in Donna’s chamber twisted into something sharper — colder than death, harder than grief. The No Lands, of course. “Who’s leading them?” I asked. The guard’s eyes darted to me, and in them I saw it — the fear. Not of battle. Of me. He swallowed. “They said his name was Rowan Morvain. He carries your crest on a broken spear.” The bastard had once knelt in my hall and begged me for shelter. For peace. Now he dared to raise steel against my gates? My hands curled into fists before I even realized they were moving. Garrick looked to me. “Orders?” But I was already moving. I crossed the chamber in five strides, snapping my cloak from the hook by the hearth and slinging it around my shoulders. I didn’t need time to think. I didn’t need a war council or a line of messengers. I needed blood. “Tell the stablemaster to ready my horse,” I said, my voice flat with resolve. “Wake the guard captain. Arm the ridge garrisons. I want them on horseback in five minutes.” “You’re riding out yourself?” Garrick asked, incredulous. “I’m not sitting idle while traitors light my territory on fire.” “Damien—” I turned back to face him. “This is not a debate.” He held my stare, jaw tight. But he gave a single nod. “I’ll ride with you.” Of course he would. I looked back at the guard. “Tell no one what’s happened inside the keep. Donna is to be buried at dawn. That is all they need to know.” “Yes, Alpha,” he breathed, before bolting from the room like a shadow chased by lightning. The torches still hadn’t recovered. The war room remained cloaked in flickering darkness, the edges of the map curling under sudden gusts. I stared at the ink-stamped border of the No Lands — that empty, lawless stretch of earth that had once belonged to kings and now belonged to no one. Rowan wanted war and I would bring it to him. The mountain pass was barely visible through the downpour. Rain lashed against my face as I rode, cloak snapping like a banner behind me. The hooves of my stallion pounded the earth in rhythm with the thunder above, and I could feel the others at my back — the garrison, the second wave, Garrick on his dark bay. But I wasn’t waiting for backup. I crested the ridge alone. Below, the flames of the outpost licked at the black sky. Smoke and sleet twisted together, casting the scene in chaos. Figures moved in the dark — too many for a raid. They weren’t running. They were digging in. They’d come to take. I drew my sword. Stormwatch had been generous. I had been generous. The No Lands — nameless, lawless, bloodless soil — had nothing when my great great grandfather claimed this keep. No harvest. No heat. Just scattered families clinging to the cliffs, starving through winters too long to count. It was us who brought them trade. It was our patrols who protected their roads from bandits, our food stores that kept their children from dying before spring. And Rowan Morvain had the gall to demand more. He sent petitions year after year. Letters scrawled with desperate pleas — more land, more aid, more power. “For the good of the people,” he said. “For freedom.” Freedom doesn’t come with fire. My sword met the first neck before he even saw me. A scream tore through the air — not mine, his — cut off by steel. The next man swung high and wide, blinded by rain. I ducked under his blade and drove mine straight through his gut, twisting once before I let him fall into the mud. They came at me three at a time. I didn’t feel the cuts. Not through the fury. This wasn’t a rebellion. This was betrayal. Another fighter lunged at me with a rusted axe. I let him come close, sidestepped, grabbed his collar, and slammed my blade down through his collarbone. Blood sprayed against my chestplate, warm even through the cold. They had no uniforms. No signal. Just desperation and fire. Farmers with makeshift armor. Pitiful. Dangerous. Traitors. I heard Garrick shouting behind me, steel singing through air. The rest of the guard had caught up. But I didn’t stop. I wouldn’t stop. Rowan had raised arms against Stormwatch. Against me. Let them see what I did to traitors. Let them remember this night — the rain, the fire, the bodies. Let them whisper that the storm itself rode with me. Because by the time I was finished, there would be no doubt: Stormwatch had no mercy left to give.