THE ALPHA KING'S BASTARD SON

🌒 THE EASTERN WING GATE

For twelve months, Commander of the Chief Inspectors Garrick, the Omega, had positioned himself in the shadow of the eastern watchtower, his hands clasped behind his back, his amber eyes fixed on a single figure.

He observed the body movement of the young trainee, Danriv.

To the rest of the camp, Garrick was a silent judge, an Omega who had defied the genetic hierarchy through sheer administrative brutality and tactical genius.

But to the young boy Danriv, he was simply the shadow that watched him bleed.

The morning mist over the northern training grounds never truly cleared, it merely shifted, clinging to the boots of the conscripts like damp wool.

Garrick adjusted his heavy collar, the silver crescent pins of his rank catching the weak dawn light. His ledger remained closed beneath his arm. He did not need to write down what he observed, the data was already burned into his memory. For five consecutive years, while other young wolves boasted of their strength, chased high-ranking mates, or complained about the low-grade meat in the mess hall, Danriv had cultivated a terrifying, singular focus.

The boy was a marvel of patience.

Garrick had watched him spend four hours in the freezing rain simply balancing on a single wooden post, rhythmic breathing the only sign of life in his rigid frame.

He was waiting.

Every line of Danriv’s shoulders spoke of an internal clock set to an hour only he could hear. But it was not the patience that kept Garrick anchored to the watchtower, it was the nature of the wolf beneath the skin.

At fourteen, Danriv had shifted for the first time, an age so precocious it bordered on the unnatural. Most wolves required the full surge of post-pubescent hormones at seventeen or eighteen to survive the tearing of flesh and restructuring of bone. But Danriv had done it in the middle of a standard endurance run, without a single scream, collapsing into a lean, midnight-black predator that looked less like a juvenile pup and more like an ancient shadow made solid.

There is something else, Garrick thought, his gaze narrowing as Danriv drove a silver-tipped spear into a heavy leather dummy, the impact echoing across the courtyard like a small thunderclap. The wolf is big and healthy strong, but the boy is a well with no bottom.

Garrick’s Omega instincts, honed by years of surviving the volatile dynamics of the royal court, picked up on the frequency of a power that Danriv’s wolf had not yet claimed. It was an dormant current, a dense, heavy gravity that lingered around the boy’s scent profile, burned pine and cold iron. The wolf thought it was the master, but Garrick knew better. The boy housed an ancient power that would eventually swallow his wolf whole if it wasn't tested in iron and blood.

The training ground was no longer sufficient. The dummies were shreds, the instructors were terrified of the quiet intensity in the boy’s eyes.

Garrick turned from the railing, his long coat snapping against his calves. It was time to break the vessel or forge it.

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AFTER SIX YEARS OF TRAINING..

The law of the Alpha King Darius was absolute, no youth could join the Royal Vanguard without completing their Assessment Task. For an elite candidate, the standard trial was simple, enter the gray zone, eliminate ten verified enemy scouts, and return with their ears before the sun crossed the meridian.

The carriage ride to the Eastern Wing Gate took three days through the jagged teeth of the Border Ridge. Here, the air smelled different, less like the clean cedar of the capital and more like copper, stagnant water, and the sour grease of unwashed rogue packs.

The Eastern Gate was not a grand monument of marble, it was a jagged wall of black basalt driven into the throat of a mountain pass. Beyond it lay the Dead Scarp, a lawless expanse where the outcasts of three kingdoms gathered to rot and raid.

Danriv sat opposite Garrick, his hands resting flat on his knees. He was sixteen today.

"You have been quiet," Garrick said, his voice smooth, devoid of the gravel typical of military alphas.

"The air is cold and heavy here, Commander," Danriv replied.

His voice had dropped an octave over the winter, carrying a steady, rhythmic resonance.

"It is the scent of lawlessness," Garrick said, leaning forward.

"The wild rogues have built a settlement just beyond the tree line. They call it the Red Ditch. It is a tavern, a brothel, and a clearinghouse for stolen royal goods. The King requires ten lives to validate your sword. I am giving you the gate. Do you understand the difference?"

Danriv looked out the small iron-grated window of the carriage. The basalt wall loomed ahead, its massive iron portcullis dripping with rust.

"The King wants to kill. You want a clearance."

"I want to see what you do when the ink runs out," Garrick murmured.

"The gate is yours, Danriv. Do not return until the area is clean."

"Fine..." Danrive nod.

"Danriv, my boy.. please returned safely.." Garrick said. He is a brutal warrior, but he trusted this young one this time.

The iron gate groaned as it lifted three feet, just enough for a single body to slip through into the gray briars of the Scarp.

Danriv did not use a horse. He carried only a standard-issue short sword of gray steel and a hunting knife with a notched hilt. The mist here was thick, smelling of old ale and burnt lard.

A quarter-mile down the track, the rough timber structure of the rogue tavern emerged from the gloom like a cyst on the hillside. Smoke curled lazily from a chimney made of stacked river stones.

Outside, two guards in mismatched leather armor leaned against a hitching post, their laughter wet and heavy with morning mead.

Danriv did not shift. To shift was to invite the noise of the beast, the growling, the heavy paws, the predictability of a predator’s charge. He wanted the silence of his small sharp steel.

He moved through the briars without disturbing a single frost-hardened leaf. The five years of balance training on the wooden posts showed in his stride. His weight balancing was absolute, leaving no trace in the soft mud.The first guard died before his laughter finished.

Danriv’s small sword entered through the soft tissue beneath the jaw, piercing the brain stem with a neat, surgical thrust. The partner guard turned, his eyes widening as he reached for a rusty cleaver, but Danriv’s knife was already through his throat, splitting the windpipe with a dry snick.

Two down now.

The assessment had begun, but Danriv felt nothing, but cold.

Twelve wild rogues sat anchored to the long benches, their faces bearing the brutal of smallpox scars and knife fights. They are the deserters from the southern packs, they cornered the lone female werewolf against the splintered wall, their cruel laughter ringing loud as they began to close the trap.

Outside, a shadow loomed over the threshold, there is a hand resting heavily on the iron handle, just a single heartbeat before he pushed the door. Danriv hears their laughters. So he pushed the heavy oak door of the tavern open. The interior was dark, lit only by tallow candles that smelled of sheep fat.

The air froze as the sixteen-year-old boy stepped over, his royal uniform was clean, except for the two dark streaks on his sleeves.

"What’s this then?" a massive rogue with a broken nose roared, rising from his bench.

"The Alpha King’s sending us milk-teeth now?" the leader said.

The rogues laughed.

Danriv didn't answer. He closed the door behind him and dropped the heavy iron bar and locked them in, with him.

He turned and stand straight in front of them, with his silver eyes locked on them before he said, "Let her go"