#1: Nyra

Nyra

They say a condemned prisoner is supposed to be solemn on her way to the block. I, apparently, missed that memo.

The chains on my wrists rattled as two guards dragged me across the courtyard, their boots crunching on wet stone. The dawn mist clung to everything – my hair, their armour, the gallows waiting for me in the middle of the square. A nice touch. Very dramatic. The Alpha's castle certainly knew how to stage a spectacle.

My mind was too preoccupied to take it all in however. It was too busy going through my escape plan: 1. Get to the execution block 2. Anger the executioner just enough to distract him 3. Wait just until he raises his axe then...

A hard tug broke into my thoughts.

"I'd keep that hand steady, if I were you." I muttered as the guard on my left jerked me forward. "Would be a shame if your last memory was me cutting it off."

"Shut your mouth, witch," he spat.

"Hybrid," I corrected brightly. "Get it right. Don't worry, you'll be dead long before you get the chance to repeat that blunder."

He scowled. Good.

"Oh, don't look so sour," I added, flashing him a smile sharp enough to cut. "You'll get your moment of glory when they tell your fellow pups how you once dragged the big, bad hybrid to her death. Be sure to embellish it a little – say I begged. They'll eat it up."

The other one tightened his grip on my arm like I might suddenly sprout wings and fly. As if wings were my problem. If they'd had any sense, they'd have kept more distance. I'd already slit the throat of his cousin last night when I tried slipping out. Three dead before they finally got the drop on me.

Their fault for underestimating me.

His grip faltered just enough to make me smile. A flicker stirred at the edges of my vision- inky tendrils of shadow curling like smoke across the stone beneath me. The guards didn't notice. But the crowd did. Gasps and whispers rippled through the peasants gathered to watch the show. Children clutched their mothers. A drunkard blessed himself.

Lovely. I haven't even tried yet.

They shoved me up the steps toward the execution block. The axe gleamed dully in the morning light. The executioner stood waiting, hood pulled low, breathing heavy as if he were already exhausted. I gave him a look over. One tooth missing, eyes watery, shoulders hunched.

This was it? This was the big finale?

I should've been afraid. Anyone else would've been trembling, weeping, maybe begging. Me? I was more annoyed that my final audience was such a boring collection of slack-jawed onlookers.

Step 1: Get to the execution block. Done.

"You could at least oil the blade," I called to the executioner, raising my voice so the crowd could hear. "Wouldn't want it to get stuck halfway. Imagine the embarrassment... I'd never live it down."

Nervous laughter rippled through the crowd.

The guards forced me to my knees, pressing my face toward the block. The wood smelled of old blood and rot. Just the décor a girl dreams of when meeting her end.

Lyr, my wolf, nudged me, prompting me to let her loose on those who would dare harm us.

Down, girl, I whispered to her. Our time will come.

The officiator – some grey-haired advisor with a voice like a dying goat – stepped forward and unrolled a scroll. "By decree of Alpha Lucien Dreadmoor," he began, "you stand condemned for trespass, for murder of castle guards, for witchcraft, and for being an abomination born of forbidden blood– "

I yawned. Loudly.

"–and are hereby sentenced–"

"Sentenced to boredom," I muttered. Then I raising my voice, "Gods, you people could make a thunderstorm sound tedious. Skip to the part where something interesting happens."

The officiator flushed crimson. The crowd tittered. The guards jerked me back against the block. Shadows curled around my wrists, slipping into the cracks of the wood, restless and waiting for my word.

Now’s the time.

The crowd held its breath.

My shadows prepared to lunge.

The executioner lifted his axe.

And then...

"Enough!"

A loud voice ripped through the tense silence. Hard and deep, carrying across the courtyard without effort.

Everything stilled.

From the steps of the keep, he descended. Lucien Dreadmoor, Alpha of the Blackfang Pack. His presence cut sharper than the executioner’s blade, black cloak brushing the stones, boots echoing with measured weight, eyes as blue as winter storms fixed on me. The crowd shrank back as though the air itself had grown colder.

I tilted my head. Finally, the star of the show had arrived.

Lucien didn't look at the officiator, or the crowd, or even the axe. His gaze pinned me where I knelt, as if the rest of the world didn't exist.

"Unshackle her."

The guards stiffened. "M-My lord, she–"

"Did I stutter?"

The shadows at my wrists stirred like they heard him. Even I felt a twinge of chill at the way he said it – calm, unshaken, utterly in command.

The executioner lowered his axe. Chains fell away from my wrists. My blood sang with freedom, even as guards scrambled back like I might bite.

I flexed my hands, smirk tugging my lips. "About time. I was worried you'd let them bore me to death before you got here."

The crowd gasped again – because Lucien Dreadmoor, the Alpha no one dared question, stepped closer. Close enough that the shadows rising off my skin coiled toward him like smoke searching for fire.

His gaze never wavered. He studied me as though trying to unravel the secrets of my blood right there on the block.

At last, he spoke, voice soft but lethal:

"This one dies when I say so. Not a minute before."