Alpha Unleashed

Some thrones are not made of gold. They are carved from shadow, sealed in breath, and earned in silence.”

The train pulled away behind her, a long, metallic sigh lost in the fog.

Dominique stood alone on the edge of a cracked platform. Overhead, gray clouds smeared across the sky like bruises. The station was dead—no signs, no staff, only silence and smoke curling from the rusted chimneys in the distance.

She stepped forward, boots echoing over the concrete like war drums in a funeral hall.

The coordinates had led her here.

And she wasn’t afraid.

Not anymore.

The location came into view after half a mile of walking through fog and ash. At the far end of a gravel path stood a towering industrial relic: an old hydroelectric plant long since abandoned by the state and reclaimed by time.

Broken windows. Steel stairs. Chain-link fences twisted with ivy.

At the entrance: a single door. Black. Steel.

And above it, painted in blood-red strokes:

𝛂

A single Greek alpha.

She knocked once.

The door buzzed.

Then opened.

Inside was darker than she expected.

Lit only by a series of flickering wall sconces—real flame, not electric. The hallway was long, stone-lined, and quiet. She walked slowly, her breath the only sound.

Then the first figure appeared.

Head to toe in black.

No mask, no words.

Just a nod.

He led her deeper, down winding staircases and across marble floors until they reached a set of large oak doors.

He stepped aside.

She opened them herself.

It was a theater.

But not for plays.

Circular. Velvet-lined. Seats built into the walls, rising like an amphitheater. In the center: a single platform, illuminated by a soft, low-hanging light. A stage. A ring. A throne room.

Masked figures occupied the seats. Men, women, neither, both. Some sat with hands folded. Others leaned forward, elbows on knees, hungry. None spoke.

They had all seen her.

They had all come for her.

On the far wall, a massive screen played muted clips—moments from her streams. Her collar. Her glare. The WREC Room. Her howl.

“We have observed,” a voice said.

It came from nowhere.

Everywhere.

“We have tested. We have pulled back the veil.”

A pause.

Then—

“Now show us what you are without the veil.”

The floor beneath her feet trembled.

Then a circle of red light bloomed around the center platform.

“Step forward.”

Dominique removed her coat.

Let it fall.

Beneath it, she wore nothing.

No boots.

No gloves.

No mask.

Her skin prickled with cold and exposure.

Her power was naked now.

Her hair hung loose down her back, and the collar from Madam still hugged her neck.

One of them—an older figure in a crimson mask—stood.

“You are not Domica here.”

“You are Dominique.”

“And you will make us kneel.”

She walked barefoot to the center.

Every step pulsed with gravity.

She stood tall. Spine straight. Eyes sharp.

And waited.

They didn’t move.

No safe word.

No instructions.

Just her.

And them.

She started with breath.

Slow. Intentional.

Letting them hear the inhale. Letting them watch her own power rise.

Then—her voice.

Low. Controlled. Precise.

“You came to see if I am real.”

“You came to see if I could dominate without toys or thrones.”

“Let me remind you…”

She took a step forward.

“Domination isn’t about the crop.”

Another step.

“Or the straps.”

“It’s about presence.”

“It’s about truth.”

She turned slowly, letting her eyes sweep across the faces behind the masks.

Some leaned closer.

One exhaled like a moan.

“Your spine wants to bend for me.”

“Not because I order it…”

She paused.

Then whispered:

“But because you ache to be beneath something real.”

Silence.

Tension.

Then—movement.

The first figure rose.

A tall man in a black mask.

He stepped down the stairs.

And knelt.

Head bowed.

Then another.

Then a woman in silver.

Then another.

One by one, they left their seats and dropped to their knees in a circle around her, silent as snowfall.

Twelve in total.

A ring of submission.

Dominique’s throat burned.

Her pulse thundered.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t smile.

She simply stood taller.

A final voice—one different from the others—came from the shadows behind her.

Deep. Familiar.

“The wolf did more than return.”

“She reminded the forest why it stays quiet at night.”

Her eyes widened.

She didn’t turn.

She didn’t need to.

Because she knew that voice.

WolfEyes.

But this wasn’t the time.

This was hers.

She walked to the edge of the circle.

Lifted her chin.

And said, in a voice steady as flame:

“You may rise.”

They obeyed.

“But remember what it cost you.”

A beat.

“Now bow again.”

They fell like dominos.

And the circle of The Order belonged to her.

Later, in the dark corridors, someone placed a note in her hand. Sealed in red wax.

She didn’t open it.

Not yet.

She walked to the upper chamber alone, barefoot, blood buzzing.

When she reached the window, she looked out over the old ruins.

The world was quiet.

And finally—so was she.

The room emptied slowly, like smoke after a fire. One by one, the masked figures filed out, heads still bowed. None dared to look her in the eyes as they passed.

She didn’t move.

She stood in the center of the chamber long after the final figure disappeared down the shadowed corridor, heart drumming a steady, slow rhythm beneath her skin.

Her lips parted—not for breath, but for belief.

She had done it.

Not as Domica.

Not as a mask.

As herself.

And the world hadn’t collapsed.

It had knelt.

Footsteps echoed behind her. One pair.

She didn’t turn.

Not yet.

The air shifted. Warmer. Charged.

The voice that spoke next was velvet dipped in heat:

“I told them you’d be the one.”

It was him.

WolfEyes.

Not hidden behind a screen.

Not wrapped in riddles or keystrokes.

Here.

In the room with her.

In the aftermath of her crowning.

She turned slowly.

His mask was off.

And he was beautiful in a way that was almost cruel. Not perfect—but feral. Unbrushed dark hair. A scar beneath one eye. A mouth that looked like it had bitten its way out of trouble and liked the taste.

Their eyes locked.

Neither flinched.

He took a step closer.

But she held up a hand.

“Don’t,” she said, voice rough with something new.

“Why not?”

“Because I still want to bite you more than I want to know you.”

He smiled.

Not wide. Not smug.

Just real.

“Good,” he whispered. “Then you’re not finished yet.”

He stepped back, leaving something on the edge of the stage.

She looked down.

A small token.

A pendant.

Not of a crown.

Not of a wolf.

But of a key.

Later, after the hall was silent again, Dominique walked barefoot through the upper corridors, the pendant tucked into her fist.

When she reached a tall glass window at the back of the compound, she paused.

Outside, the wind rolled over the rusted bones of the power plant.

And inside her, something opened.

Not softly.

Not gently.

But wide—like a ribcage splitting to let the soul out.

She lifted the pendant to the moonlight and whispered:

“I will not kneel.”

And somewhere in the dark below, she swore she heard:

“No, Alpha. You’ll make them.”