Claimed by the Alpha's Curse

The wind howled through the trees like a warning no one else could hear.

Lyra kept her eyes on the ground as she knelt by the stream, scrubbing blood from her hands that wasn’t hers. The frigid water bit at her skin, but she didn’t flinch. She had learned long ago that flinching made them hit harder.

Behind her, the forest of Shadow Ridge loomed thick and watching. The moon was hidden behind a shroud of clouds, just like it had been on the night she was born. A Moonless Omega. A bad omen. A curse.

She wasn't supposed to survive her first shift tonight.

At least, not according to Alpha Dren.

"Lyra!" The voice cracked through the trees like a whip, and her shoulders stiffened. It was Beta Elric. He always came to collect the 'trash.'

Lyra rose without speaking, brushing dirt from the threadbare cloak that barely clung to her shoulders. Her long dark hair, tangled and unkempt, spilled over her back like a veil. Her wrists were still red from the ropes that had bound her the night before. Punishment for daring to speak out when they mocked a grieving pack sister.

"Alpha wants you back in the hollow. You’re late." Elric’s eyes ran over her like she was something beneath him, like a stain on his boots.

She said nothing and followed, because silence was safer.

The pack grounds were preparing for the Shifting Moon—when all unmated wolves of age would shift under the Goddess’s light and present their wolves for the first time. For most, it was a celebration. For Lyra, it was a death sentence.

The Shadow Ridge Pack didn’t allow weak blood to taint its ranks. And Lyra, the orphaned child of unknown lineage, the girl born on a moonless night with no wolf ever whispering back—she was the weakest link.

And now, she was of age.

Torches lit the hollow as the other young wolves gathered in anticipation. Girls with braided hair and gowns stitched from moon-silver thread. Boys with armor etched in pack sigils and blood vows. And Lyra—shoved into the center of the circle like livestock.

She heard them whispering.

> “She doesn’t even smell like a wolf…”

“They say her mother ran with rogues.”

“They should’ve drowned her when they had the chance.”

Her heartbeat pounded like a warning drum in her chest. She didn’t cry. Not anymore. She’d wasted all her tears before she ever turned thirteen.

Alpha Dren stepped into the circle, his voice loud, commanding. “Tonight, the Goddess will mark her chosen. Let the strong shift and claim their birthright.”

He turned to Lyra then, his lips curling in disdain. “And let the cursed finally meet their end.”

The howl rose from the crowd—wild, eager. The pack craved blood more than moonlight.

"Strip," Dren barked.

Lyra obeyed, cheeks burning as she slipped the cloak from her shoulders and stood in her shift, barefoot, trembling. The earth beneath her feet felt heavy, expectant. Like something deep beneath it was stirring.

“Face the moon!” someone yelled, and Lyra raised her eyes.

But the clouds hadn’t cleared.

There was no moon.

Still, she felt… something. Not above. Below.

As the others began to shift—bones cracking, flesh warping, howls lifting to the sky—Lyra stood alone, unmoved. Her blood felt like fire in her veins. Her breath came in short gasps. Something ancient was coiling inside her, not rising but pulling.

Pain struck her chest like lightning.

She fell to her knees.

The pack laughed.

“She’s failing!”

“She has no wolf!”

But then the air shifted.

A silence fell over the hollow so sudden, so total, it was deafening.

The fire torches flickered low.

And Lyra screamed.

Not in agony. Not in fear.

In release.

Her back arched, and her skin pulsed with dark light. Not silver like the others. Not golden like Dren’s heirs. This light was blue-black, like midnight devouring starlight.

Her eyes burned as they snapped open—glowing the same cursed hue.

And then she felt it.

The wolf.

Not tame.

Not loyal.

Not pack.

A beast born of shadow and frost. One that had slumbered her entire life, waiting. Watching. Bound by something deeper than blood.

Lyra collapsed, her breathing erratic. Her shift hadn’t happened—not fully. Her bones hadn’t snapped, but her soul had split.

The Alpha stepped forward. “She’s corrupted,” he spat, his voice trembling, though he tried to hide it. “That’s not a wolf. That’s a curse.”

He raised his hand.

“End her.”

Several pack warriors stepped forward. She didn’t resist. Her limbs were too heavy. Her mind too shattered.

But before the blades could fall—

A wind swept through the hollow. Cold and unnatural.

And from the trees came a figure cloaked in silver and black, riding the backs of midnight wolves.

A howl split the sky—low, powerful, primal.

Every warrior froze.

Lyra’s heart thundered with something she didn’t understand. The wolf inside her growled—not in pain, but recognition.

The stranger stepped into the torchlight, revealing sharp amber eyes and a face carved from shadows and fire. Tall, lean, and deadly.

Alpha Kaelen of the Riftwood Pack.

Feared. Banished. Cursed.

Dren growled. “You dare step on my land, rogue?”

Kaelen didn’t even look at him. His eyes were locked on Lyra. A flicker of shock passed over his face. Then something else. Hunger. Rage. Need.

He stepped closer. The air thickened with power.

“You tried to kill my mate,” Kaelen said, voice like ice cracking over fire.

Gasps echoed through the pack.

Dren laughed bitterly. “She’s a curse. She has no mate.”

Kaelen growled—and the sound made the earth shake.

“She’s mine. And you just made a declaration of war.”

Lyra’s vision blurred, consciousness slipping.

But before darkness took her, she heard it—the words that changed everything.

“You carry the mark of the Shadowbound, Lyra.

You were never moonless.

You were chosen by something older.”

And then she knew:

This was just the beginning.