In Alpha Kiera's Private Chamber.
Late Night.
The wind outside is like a creature—battering the windows, weeping, foreboding. Inside, the moonlight falls like silver droplets on the cold floor.
Silent.
That silence is dangerous.
Kiera's steps are heavy as she enters the room, as if the earth is trying to pull her down, as if it doesn't want her to ascend any further.
She is soaked from the snow, with wounds on her shoulders and side.
Her battle coat—torn, stained with dried blood, smelling of sweat, ash, and earth—is like a war trophy screaming of her ordeal.
She removes it carelessly and throws it to the side.
It hits the floor with a sound like a whiplash. With every movement, blood continues to trickle from the open wound on her side—but she doesn't even flinch.
"Grrr..." Inside her, the wolf stirs—her primal form.
It's restless, pacing, howling in the silence.
It senses something coming.
Kiera feels the tension at the back of her neck, like eyes staring from the darkness.
She approaches the open window.
The wind is cold, sharp, and carries the scent of pine and danger.
She glances at the moon-covered clouds, then returns her gaze to the shadows of the forest below.
A sharp sound shatters the silence—a hawk falls onto the balcony.
It's large, wounded on its wing, its feathers trembling, but alive.
In its beak, it clutches a scroll sealed with black wax—bearing the mark of the Council.
This is no ordinary message.
It is an order.
A judgment.
Kiera's heart beats faster—not from fear.
But from anger.
She approaches, takes the scroll from the hawk's beak, which immediately flies away, leaving her alone in the silver moonlight.
She stands in the middle of the room, examining the scroll in her hands.
It's heavy, as if it has its own pulse.
She tears the seal—uncaring of tradition or honor.
For her, the time for ceremony is long past.
She reads the contents, and from the first line, her wolf flinches.
"By decree of the Council, Alpha Kiera of the Northern Pack shall be bound in sacred union to Alpha Asher Navarro of the 13th District..."
The world stops.
Inside her, something breaks.
Her wolf howls—a howl of defiance and contempt.
The anger of her primal self echoes in her mind.
In an instant, the candles in the room die one by one, the wind seemingly summoned by her energy.
Only the moonlight remains a witness to her outburst.
Kiera's jaw tightens.
She tears the scroll in half, slowly tossing it into the burning flames of the fireplace.
As the paper burns, the Council's seal remains intact—as if mocking her.
She approaches the table, takes a crystal glass of wine, and drinks it without breathing.
Bitter.
Strong.
Like the decision being forced upon her.
She smashes the glass on the floor.
Ice and wine scatter.
One of the shards of broken glass lands at her feet.
She faces the full-length mirror in the corner of the room—bloody, breathless, with anger in her eyes like a storm.
She looks at herself.
She is not afraid.
She will not surrender.
And in a cold, deep voice—a statement, not a question—she whispers to herself:
"They crowned me in chains—and dared to call it destiny."
The fire in the fireplace seems to intensify.
Its light dances on her skin, on her eyelashes, on the wound on her shoulder.
At that moment, she is not just Alpha.
She is an approaching storm.
War Room. Early morning.
The smell of iron and ash. The sunlight is only just beginning to peek through the thick clouds. In the center of the room is the war table—old wood marked by wars, and the shadows moving around are even fiercer than the wolves.
Before the sun rises, the fortress is awake.
Outside the War Room, the guards can be heard patrolling, their hurried footsteps trying to ignore the weight of the news spread by the black hawk last night.
But inside this room, the air is heavier than the armor of any warrior.
The smell of iron and ash permeates every corner—a reminder of all the decisions made at the table in the center.
Kiera stands, still unclothed.
Her bloody battle coat speaks volumes of what she doesn't say: that she will not surrender to any order.
She silently stares at the map of the Northern Territory etched on the table—how many times has she defended these lands with blood, not politics?
In the distance, Freya, her Beta, leans against the wall.
Crossed arms.
Jaw tight.
Silent but clear is the message conveyed by her presence.
This is no simple conversation.
It's a reminder.
It's a warning.
Without preamble, Freya says:
"If you defy this, the Council will strip your title—and exile the pack."
Those words are like snake claws crawling through the air.
This is not a threat—it is law.
Kiera's back stiffens.
She stands tall, like a pillar carved from war and courage.
Her eyes, a cold blue like ice from the Northern cliffs.
And in a flash—Kiera slams her fist on the table.
The table rises.
The territory markers on the map scatter—like soldiers buried by a mountain collapse.
"Then I'll lead them from the shadows."
Each word is full of fire and purpose.
No hesitation.
If they take her throne, she will bury the Council in the very shadow of that throne.
But Freya remains silent.
She only moves slowly, as if unwilling to disturb the tension but needing to lay down the truth.
She produces a scroll—black wax, gold engraving.
She places it on the table between them.
That's no ordinary message.
Kiera approaches, gently takes the scroll.
The paper is cold to the touch, as if it has its own pulse.
Upon opening it, Freya doesn't need to speak.
The mark is there.
The signature.
The final judgment.
Her name is already signed in blood on the royal binding parchment.
It's not just an order—it's a magical contract.
Kiera swallows.
Not from fear.
From the pain of a truth she wasn't prepared for.
Several times she looks at the parchment, searching for a loophole—but there is none.
Each letter is etched in red ink that still moves.
Alive.
Like a curse.
The contract is not just writing.
It's a spell.
A rope without an end, a cage without bars.
And she, the Alpha, is chained without being asked.
Her neck burns.
Her vision darkens at the edges.
Before she can even choose whether to fight or not, the world has chosen the battle for her.
And under the light of the morning that is only just beginning to awaken, she whispers—not to be heard, but to mark that moment.
"They didn't ask for my consent. They stole my future—and dressed it in velvet."
Those words are like a knife slowly plunged into the silence.
Nothing more needs to be said.
No explanation is needed.
The queen has been robbed of her throne—and given a crown made of chains.
Sacred Wolf Altar.
A sacred place in the heart of the Northern Pack's forest.
Quiet.
No sound but the wind's whisper and the song of the dead.
Hidden from the eyes of the world is this altar—stone and earth shaped by time, bought with the blood of past leaders.
Here lie the bones of every Alpha who sacrificed their lives for their race.
Still dark.
The sun has not yet risen, but Kiera is awake.
She walks silently under the pine trees, accompanied only by the weight of the truth that deepens with each passing hour.
The ground beneath her feet is wet with dew and old blood—traces of history that cannot be erased.
In the middle of the clearing, the Sacred Wolf Altar is visible—a circular platform made of black stone, engraved with ancient runes, and in its center is the ossuary itself, where the bones of past Alphas are buried.
Kiera kneels before that stone.
Silent.
Without ceremony.
Without witnesses.
The wind caressing her skin is cold, but that's not what makes her tremble.
It is the weight of the silence of the dead—as if they are listening.
As if they are waiting.
She takes a small vial from her belt.
She breaks it on the ground.
Blood.
Her blood.
Her offering.
"They want me to kneel—just like you did." she whispers, her voice like a drizzle over sand.
"But I was born to rise.."
She looks up at the sky.
No stars.
Even the moon has hidden itself.
Even though her father is dead, she can't help but speak as if he can hear her.
She can't forget the day her father knelt before the Council—not out of weakness, but because he had no choice.
A day that drove Kiera to promise that she would not be like him.
But before she can close her eyes again, she hears footsteps behind her—not just footsteps.
Slow.
Careful.
Each step seems to carry the weight of a hundred years.
She turns.
A High Priest emerges from the shadows of the trees.
He is clad in gray robes with gold thread, with runes on the hem.
His eyes are white—blind, yet his gaze is clear.
He stops at the edge of the altar, not speaking immediately.
Then, in a voice like a mixture of wind and dust, he speaks:
"He's not just any Alpha."
Kiera turns.
Her neck stiffens.
"Asher Navarro commands more than a pack—He commands the Veil."
The wind stops.
The Veil—a name not spoken lightly.
An ancient shadow.
A kind of magic that was hidden, cursed, and relegated to the oblivion of history.
Shadow magic, forbidden since time immemorial.
Power that stains the soul and shrouds an entire race in darkness.
"Impossible…" Kiera whispers. "I thought the Veil was...Sealed,"
"They only thought so." the priest replies.
Kiera stands.
Her whole body feels possessed by fire—not from fear, but from preparation.
Now it's clear.
The Council's order is not a simple political union.
It's a ritual.
A binding.
A merging of fire and shadow.
"They want to bind fire to shadow," she whispers, brushing the dust off her palm. She looks at the altar.
"They forget… fire burns."
In the distance, the wolves howl.
A warning.
A storm is coming.
And Kiera—is no longer just Alpha.
She is now the burning ember at the end of a world consumed by shadow.