THE ALPHA'S EXILE

The wind hung still, yet carried with it the acrid, metallic odour of blood. Kieran Thornbane stood among the pack's sacred grounds, his fists clenched, breath hard as shock and fear slithered about him like a serpent. The Nightfang Pack stood around him, their visages a crumpled mix of fear, distrust, and treachery, each pair of eyes laden with accusation. Beside him lay Elara Voss, the woman he loved. Her silver-blonde hair flowed over the icy earth like spun moonlight, her pale throat smeared with crimson—a discordant contrast to the earth. She was his heart, his mate, and now, the fateful cause of his downfall. His mind reeled, desperately trying to piece together what had happened. A second ago, she had existed in his arms, crying out his name, her warmth enveloping him. Alarms had sounded. Warriors had invaded his quarters, and now he stood in the blackness of her demise—accused of murdering the one creature he would have laid down his life for. A low rumble thrummed to his left, shattering his spinning thoughts. Garrick, the pack's head enforcer, was unwavering, his black gaze fixed on Kieran. A former close friend, a brother-in-war, he now viewed Kieran as he did any trespasser—a stranger. "Kieran," a voice hacked thick silence, cracking with feeling. Lyanna, Elara's dearest friend, fought through the vengeful crowd, her face streaked with tears. "How could you?" Her voice trembled, the hurt still raw and alive. "She trusted you! She loved you!" "Lyanna, I promise—" Kieran began, anguish ripping him apart, but was silenced by another. "Alpha Kieran." Lucian Drax stepped forward, his expression a mask of grim determination. His Beta. His brother. His betrayer. At that moment, something flickered in Lucian's eyes—delight, barely hidden—but Kieran sensed it. Felt it. The reality sat like an icy stone in his belly. Lucian's voice was heavy with venomous seriousness. "You have defiled the holy codes." The words echoed among the gathering, throwing Kieran's fate into shadow as though it had been sealed by an evil finality. "Exile." That is the price for killing one's mate. The Council has convened. Their word is absolute.". Kieran's wolf seethed within him, a tempest of anger and frustration. "I didn't do it!" he snarled, desperation rawening his tone. "I would never hurt Elara!" Lucian c****d his head to one side, feigning sympathy. "Then tell me, Kieran—why was she in your bed, her life ended by your claws?" Dissatisfaction flowed through the seated wolves. Some ducked his gaze, unwilling to meet his eye. Others, like Garrick, remained silent, his censure heavy in the air. Elder Magnus stepped forward, his weathered face unemotional but unyielding. In his tone was the cold conviction of obligation. "You are stripped of your title. You are no longer Alpha of the Nightfang Pack." Each word cut Kieran more cuttingly than any blow could. "You will be sent into rogue territory," Magnus continued. "From this evening on, you are dead to this pack." Kieran's gaze was directed at Elara's lifeless form. This was not justice; it was a trap, one too well-conceived and too calculated. Her murder, the rushed trial, Lucian's manipulation into authority—it was all pieces of a sadistic plot. And he had stumbled in. Five years have passed, like a ghost of the night, The howls of echoes lost their way in the fading moonlight. I stood where power had reigned, Now whispers only speak my name. Exiled, left to the wilderness bare, Stripped of my throne, my right to declare. The bond was lost, the strings uncut, A lone wolf beneath an unforgiving sun. The wounds remain, though years have passed, Each one enforces the desire for truth and revenge. But in the quiet, there I have been made stronger, Forced into darkness where no light was displayed. Did they forget the Alpha whom they betrayed? Or do I still bring them dismay? Their rule may reign, their flags wave, But storms still boil beneath the sky. It will descend like a mighty tempest of an angry sea. Kerian was brought back to reality as a rogue struck muscle striking muscle in a blur of anger and desperation. Kieran sidestepped, eyes locking with the brute's as he twisted the man's arm, hearing the sweet snap c***k out into the night air and the stifled snarl. The rogue stumbled to the ground, gasping for breath. "Stop playing with your meal," Ronan Blackwood spoke, his drawl heavy with languid amusement from a few feet away. Sitting against a twisted tree, arms loosely folded, the rogue leader gazed with an inscrutable face that tended to conceal his real thoughts. Kieran breathed out, ridding his hands of tension. The rogue beat a hasty retreat, acknowledgement gleaming in his eyes—he knew to stop short of trying to best Kieran twice. "You slow down each time," Ronan noted, the grin still tugging at the edges of his lips. Kieran glared at him, annoyance burning for a moment in his chest. "Perhaps if I wasn't scrapping for leftovers, I'd be at my best." Ronan's smirk spread wider. "You could remain. Become a part of the pack." It was an old offer, one he had extended many times before, but Kieran had made up his mind long ago. Not interested," Kieran replied, rolling his shoulders to shake off the tension. He did not look for another pack; his path was set. His fate is still plain. "Elara is alive" That fact burned in him like fire, making his exile more unbearable. It fueled every step, every decision he took. Ronan sighed, his body leaning forward ever so slightly. "One day, you'll realize you can't do this on your own." "Maybe. But that day is not today.". With that, Kieran spun about and vanished into the trees, the shadows covering him like a second skin. He had a pack to reclaim. And a mate to rescue. Kieran's body ached as he hauled himself up, agony slicing through his ribs like cruel reminders of his past. Another fight, another wound won. He had not yet recovered from the previous attack when the next rebel had sought blood. Live or die—these were the only laws in this dark world. He wiped the blood from his lip, taking a hard breath that was full of cold, bitter night air that clung to him. In front of him, the hulk of an old hunter's cabin loomed, half-destroyed and deserted. It would have to do. Within, the musty odour of decay filled his lungs, a sour reminder of lives lost, but better than slumber beneath the stars. He leaned back against the wall of the cabin with a groan, fatigue pulling him deeper into its grasp. Even now, as always, Lucian's name burned in his brain, an ongoing reminder of betrayal. Five years. Five years of exile. Five years of crawling through the mud while the actual traitor lounged on his throne. His teeth gritted, determination searing within him. He needed information—real answers. Going back to pack territory meant having a target on his back. The Council still wanted to kill him. But he didn't care. Kieran had spent five years hiding. That was enough. It was time to come out of hiding. Time to reclaim what was his. A rustling noise outside brought him to life. His senses snapped into high gear. Someone was close. He crept, leaning into the cabin wall, trying to listen. The wind screamed, but underlying it, he could pick up footsteps—light, stealthy, almost secretive. Someone who did not want to be detected. Kieran shifted, muscles tensing, prepared to fight. If this was another provocateur, they had picked the wrong night. A shadow flashed past outside—then another. More than one. He had barely time to prepare himself when the door crashed open with a resounding slam. The scent hit him first—familiar, pungent, impossible. Then super, desperation etched on it, hardly cutting through the tension. "Kieran…?" His breath caught in his throat. He knew that voice. Elara.