Rejected by My Alpha, Claimed by Fate

2.

She folded her napkin with care. “You’ve carried this puzzle since you were a boy. You believe the answer is in the past?”

“I know it does,” I said. “Sometimes to understand the future, you have to look to the past. Every scholar knows this.”

My father had hated that saying. He used to say the future favored those who acted, who pushed forward and created their own opportunities, not those who stared backward and searched for answers in books. He’d said it often—usually right before forbidding something.

“You are more than a scholar.”

“What I am is an alpha with fading magic,” I said. “I can feel it. If I don't solve this, I’ll fail our clan.”

Her expression softened. “You carry too much, Arthur.”

“I don't carry enough.” The truth sat heavy in my chest. “I can’t meet all my responsibilities. I spend my days researching, digging for answers no one else can find. And I spend my nights wondering if I’ve done enough for you. I worry you grieve alone. I worry I’m not doing anything well.”

The list of what actually troubled me was far longer than that, but I kept it trimmed for public consumption.

My mother reached across the table and placed her hand over mine, her touch warm and familiar. “Your father was a force. You aren’t him, but you were never meant to be him. His strength was in his body. Yours is in your mind.”

I looked down at our joined hands. “He was brave.”

“So are you. You’re different from him, but not less capable. He didn’t always understand that, but he loved you, Arthur.”

I’m not the alpha my people expected. They were used to power through physical strength and aggression. That has never been my strong suit. My father had made that quite clear repeatedly, and often in front of others. As if exposure might fix it.

The old ache pulled through me with the same precision as always. “We never found a way to speak to each other without misunderstanding.”

“You tried,” she said. “He tried. That is more than some families manage.”

I closed my eyes briefly, forcing the tension out of my shoulders. “You should not have to sit across this table alone. I should have done more when he died. I should do more now.”

It had been a year since my father died. A year of battling very confusing emotions. A year of wishing I had pursued this harder while he was alive. Even without his blessing.

Part of me wondered whether I could have saved him if I’d been able to figure this out sooner. I would carry the guilt of that for the rest of my life.

“You’re here,” she said. “That has always been enough for me.”

The falls glowed dimly through the protective magic, and the evening pressed in with a weight I had grown familiar with. Grief, duty, and unspoken expectations lived in the silence between us.

Just beyond the barrier, the human world existed, full of things my father had insisted were unnecessary distractions. According to him, our kind survived by staying hidden. He’d always said that curiosity invited danger, and that the world beyond our borders was shrinking magic, thinning bloodlines, and weakening discipline. He had never once allowed me to see it for myself.

My mother took a sip of her tea. “Even in the darkest nights, the sun returns with the dawn.”

Something inside me sharpened.

I sat up straighter. “Say that again.”

She tilted her head. “The sun returns with the dawn.”

Realization pulsed through me as I remember a phrase from an old genealogy letter I had dismissed as poetic nonsense. My father’s father had written it during the early years of their displacement, when dragons first began hiding from the world. I’d never thought it might be anything useful.

My father had hated that letter. He’d said it was nothing but sentimental, and that was a weakness in his eyes. But he had been wrong about other things—maybe he was wrong about this, too.

If the phrase repeated across generations, it might be more than comfort.

It might be a code, even if its deeper meaning had been forgotten by most.

“I need to check something,” I said. I placed money on the table before she could protest. “I’m sorry to cut this short.”

Human currency still felt faintly absurd in my hand. Paper and numbers, so transient. I had purchased my car with it two months earlier and still suspected I’d done it incorrectly.

She closed the journal of notes she brought for me, even though she hadn’t once read from it. “Go. When you return, I want to hear all about it.”

I stood. “I will.”

“And Arthur,” she added, touching my hand again, “you won’t solve everything in one day.”

“I can solve this.” The certainty in my tone surprised me.

I gathered my coat, stepped past the enchanted barrier, then shifted into my other form the moment I reached the cliff. My body stretched into its truest form, joints locking into place with familiar strength. Heat surged through my spine, wings opening with clean force as magic settled under my skin in a steady pulse. The ground fell away beneath me, replaced by the weightless clarity that came with being this version of myself.

This part, at least, had never confused me.

The sky held the cold snap of fall. My wings cut through it with precision. Each rise of air met the power in my chest, lifting me higher. The tension I carried in my human form loosened with every movement. I knew my direction. I knew my purpose.

I launched upward, toward the dark horizon.

The human world waited below, full of rules I had never been taught. I would deal with that later.