A Different Kind of Alpha: Blood Oath

Kieran

The great hall of Silvercrest is a gilded cage, and I am its most decorated prisoner.

Sunlight, thin and sharp, spills through the high, stained-glass windows, painting the marble floor in fractured jewels of blue and gold. It illuminates the floating dust motes, tiny, glittering reminders that even in a fortress built to defy nature, decay finds a way in.

My father, Alpha Alaric, believed opulence was a weapon. He built this hall to intimidate, to make visitors feel small under the weight of so much polished stone and woven history.

I hate admitting that it works. Even on me.

I sit at the head of the long council table, the wood so dark and polished I can see my own distorted reflection in its surface. My hair is a smear of black ink, my eyes twin pools of violet shadow. I look like a ghost haunting a throne I never asked for.

“...and if we divert grain stores to the lower quadrant,” Vorlag is saying, his voice a gravelly rumble that grates on my last nerve, “We risk a shortage for the warriors before the spring thaw. Our fighting wolves must be our priority since we’re no longer employing those more suited to fighting to guard us.”

I keep my expression neutral, my hands resting lightly on the armrests of a chair that feels too large for my body.

Those more suited to it. The words are a subtle jab. A reminder that Silvercrest hasn’t been run like other packs for decades. The warriors we have are soft and I’m the one foolish enough to pay Blackthorn to toughen them up, when I could just be paying Blackthorn to do the job for us.

Vorlag is a relic of my father’s era. All scars and snarled pronouncements, he sees my every reform not as progress, but as a personal insult to the old ways. He’s the lead jackal in a pack of them, all seated around this table, their faces masks of feigned deference. They look at me and see a boy playing king. A soft Alpha. A broken heir who stole the throne through treachery.

“The lower quadrant is also filled with our wolves, Vorlag,” I say, my voice even, betraying none of the acid churning in my gut. “Children. Elders. The mothers who raise the pups who will one day become our warriors. They will not starve on my watch.”

A murmur ripples through the elders. It’s not agreement. It’s the rustle of disapproval, the sound of wolves who believe compassion is a terminal illness.

“Your father, Alpha Alaric, understood the necessity of sacrifice,” Vorlag counters, leaning forward. His bulk seems to swallow the light. “He knew that a pack is only as strong as its reputation.”

“My father ruled through fear,” I clip out, the words sharper than I intend. “I do not. The rations will be distributed equally. That is my final word on the matter.”

I can feel their collective resentment press in on me.

They miss the clarity of tyranny. They miss the simple arithmetic of a boot on their necks. I offer them fairness, and they see only weakness. Every day is a battle, not against enemies at our gates, but against the ghosts in this hall.

Before Vorlag can offer another thinly veiled insult, the great hall doors burst open with a crash that echoes off the vaulted ceiling.

A young guard stumbles in, chest heaving, his face pale with a mixture of terror and urgency. He’s broken every rule of protocol. You don’t run into the Alpha’s council. You certainly don’t enter unannounced.

These fossils are going to rattle and creak up a storm at the intrusion. I’m sick to death of following protocol. Meetings should be open to everyone. The decisions we make here concerns the whole pack.

I’ve been trying to keep everyone steady by not ruffling too many feathers, but I’ll have to put my foot down soon and replace the old guard with younger, more open-minded council members.

It would have been wonderful if I knew any.

Vorlag is on his feet in an instant, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “What is the meaning of this?”

The guard ignores him, his wild eyes finding mine. “Alpha,” he gasps, dropping to one knee. “Forgive the intrusion. We have a situation at the northern border.”

The room goes utterly still. The northern border is our most heavily fortified, facing the jagged, inhospitable territory of Redmaw.

“Speak,” I command, my own voice sounding distant to my ears. We’re not ready for an invasion. I’ll have to send a runner to Blackthorn for help.

“We have a prisoner, Alpha. A Redmaw wolf. He was caught just inside our markers.” The guard swallows hard, his gaze darting nervously. “He’s an Alpha. And he’s... he’s demanding an audience. With you.”

A collective snarl ripples through the council at the audacity of a Redmaw wolf making demands in Silvercrest territory.

“An audience?” Vorlag scoffs, his hand already resting on the hilt of the blade at his hip. “It’s a trap. An insult. A Redmaw Alpha doesn’t wander into our lands to ask for a polite chat. Execute him where he stands.”

“I agree,” another elder chimes in. “Show them what happens when they test our borders.”

They’re all nodding now, a chorus of bloodlust. This is the world my father built. Kill first, ask questions never. It’s simple. It’s clean. It’s the response of a pack ruled by fear.

But I am not my father.

“No,” I say.

The word drops into the hall like a stone, silencing the murmurs. Vorlag turns to me, his face a mask of disbelief. “Alpha?”

I get to my feet with careful precision. “We will not execute a wolf who has requested an audience. We are not savages who kill for sport.”

“He is Redmaw!” Vorlag spits. “They are savages.”

“And we will show them that Silvercrest is not.”

I let my gaze sweep across each of them, holding it until they’re forced to look away.

I project a confidence I don’t feel, a strength I’m not sure I possess. Keeping up appearances is the only useful thing my father taught me.

I look back at the young guard, who’s still on his knees, head bowed.

“Bring him in. Let’s see what this Redmaw Alpha wants so badly that he’s willing to walk into our den to ask for it.”

My command hangs in the air, absolute and unarguable. The council is seething, I can smell their anger, thick and sour. But they’re not openly defying me. Yet. If I don’t surround myself with loyal supporters it’s only a matter of time though.

The guard scrambles to his feet and rushes out. The hall is left in a silence thick with unspoken rebellion.

This is a test. My first real test. Every decision I’ve made until now, the rations, the training reforms, the small mercies, has been met with resistance. This is different. This is a choice between the old way and my way. Between the path of fear and the path of strength.

My heart hammers against my ribs. I don’t know if this is courage or foolishness. I only know that I cannot, will not, be him. I won’t kill a man simply because he asks to speak to me. Even if he is from Redmaw.

The great doors begin to swing open, groaning on their hinges, and a new scent bleeds into the air. It’s wild, unsettling, and utterly foreign. Damp earth and cedar, and underneath it, something else. Something hot, feral, and unapologetically male. The scent of a wolf who’s never once been told to kneel.

I turn from the window, squaring my shoulders, and wait. My reign as Alpha has been a performance of control. Now, the real show is about to begin.

Two guards haul the prisoner between them. He’s not struggling, but the heavy iron chains that bind his wrists and ankles seem less like a restraint and more like a grim accessory. He walks with a lazy confidence that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand up.

He’s huge. Well over six feet, with wide shoulders that signal brute strength, not courtly training. Tattoos crawl up his thick neck and disappear into a mane of honey-blond hair that falls in unruly waves past his shoulders.

His clothes are the rough leather and dark furs of a Redmaw warrior, worn and scarred. He looks like he was carved from the mountain itself, all hard lines and unapologetic power.

My wolf, the part of me that’s all instinct and dominance, bristles. It recognizes a rival. A threat.

The prisoner’s head is bowed, the curtain of his hair hiding his face. The guards shove him forward until he’s in the center of the hall. The sound of chains dragging across marble is obscenely loud in the hush.

He lifts his head slowly, and for the first time, I see his face and my breath catches.

He’s much younger than I thought and devastatingly handsome. Not in the polished, symmetrical way of Silvercrest’s court. This is a raw, predatory beauty. High cheekbones, a strong jaw shadowed with stubble, and a mouth that looks like it was made for snarling and sinning in equal measure.

But it’s his eyes that steal the air from my lungs. They’re the green of a deep, ancient forest, and they’re fixed on me.

Not with fear. Not with supplication. With amusement.

He assesses me, his gaze sweeping from my boots to my face with an insolent slowness that makes my cheeks heat. It’s a look of pure appraisal. Like he’s deciding if I’m worth the trouble of eating.

Something deep in my gut clenches. A hot, unwelcome coil of… something. Awareness. The primal recognition of one Alpha sizing up another. My body reacts before my mind can build its defenses, a low thrum of energy that is both fury and a humiliating flicker of interest. I hate it instantly. I hate him.

Vorlag takes a threatening step forward. “State your name and your purpose, Redmaw dog.”

The prisoner’s gaze doesn’t leave mine. His mouth curves into a slow, wicked grin.

“My name is Alexei Basov,” he says, his voice a low, rumbling drawl that seems to vibrate through the floor. “And my purpose?” He tilts his head, the movement fluid and animalistic. His forest-green eyes glitter with unholy light.

“My purpose,” he repeats, his grin widening, “Is you, pretty prince.”