Four Times Rejected, Destined for The Throne

"Alpha Atticus, you are sentenced to eighteen years for the cold-blooded, public murder of future Alpha Axel of Woodcrest. There is no possibility of parole, nor any chance of early release. All visits to your cell are strictly forbidden."

The implacable verdict echoed through the vast courtroom, each word landing like a heavy hammer against an unyielding stone. The Royal Secretary’s voice, sharp and cold, seemed to hang in the air, vibrating with a tangible finality.

A deafening silence descended upon the room, broken only by the faint, rhythmic scratching of quills against parchment as the Council members, seasoned and solemn in their dark robes, meticulously finalized his fate. Their faces betrayed no hint of emotion, only the stark duty of their office.

Every stroke of their pens seemed to carve deeper into Atticus’s future, sealing him away. The immense weight of the moment should have felt suffocating, a crushing sense of righteous closure. It should have felt like justice, a resounding victory after so much pain.

But as I sat in the front row, rigidly upright on the hard wooden bench, my gaze fixed on the man who had so brutally shattered my life, all I felt was the searing intensity of his eyes. His gaze was an unrelenting force, pressing against me like invisible chains, binding me, claiming me in the oppressive stillness of the courtroom. It was a silent, terrifying claim, a defiance of the very sentence just delivered, a promise of continued torment that sent a fresh wave of despair through me.

Atticus himself showed no reaction to the devastating verdict.

His expression remained utterly cold, a mask of stone that was impossible to read, as if none of this, none of the grave pronouncements, mattered to him in the slightest. His hands, bound in thick, gleaming iron restraints, rested motionless on his lap. His posture was impossibly relaxed, almost casual for someone whose entire future had just been etched into an irreversible fate, condemned to nearly two decades of imprisonment.

There was no flicker of fear, no hint of despair, only an unsettling, profound stillness that defied belief. It was the composure of a predator, utterly self-assured even in chains.

But his eyes, those chilling, obsidian eyes, burned into me with an intensity that sent a cold shiver down my spine. They were a silent command, a telepathic whisper that seemed to echo into the deepest chambers of my mind; 'Look at me, Anna.'

I fought against the urge to flinch, had a desperate need to look away, to hide from the burning intensity of his gaze.

I forced myself to breathe, taking slow, deliberate breaths despite the air thick with unspoken tension, almost suffocating in its silence. Yet, in contrast, I kept my spine ramrod straight, my shoulders back, a rigid defiance in my posture that belied the tremor deep within. My face remained carefully blank, a mask designed to hide the storm raging within.

 If I acknowledged him, if I allowed him even the faintest spark of recognition, a momentary waver in my composure, he would win. He would claim that small victory, and I refused to give him that satisfaction.

He had already taken so much from me. Everything, it felt like.

The Council chamber itself was a grand, imposing space, its high vaulted ceilings soaring far above, its towering pillars of dark, polished stone designed specifically to instill a sense of overwhelming authority and ancient power. Every single seat in the vast room was filled.

The pack’s Elders were also present here, their faces weathered by centuries of wisdom and judgment, their gazes heavy with the burden of tradition. Beside them sat stoic nobles from the various packs, in their finest attire. Each and every one of them was here, a grim audience gathered to witness justice, or at least its semblance, finally unfold, a communal vigil for a life irrevocably snatched away.

At one point, some started to whisper among themselves, their voices low and urgent, their eyes darting between Atticus and the Council members, exchanging hushed judgments.

"Shameless! It served him right! A fall from greatness!" was murmured throughout the room. Others simply glared at the condemned, their faces contorted with open disgust, their hatred almost evident, a visible shroud of animosity surrounding him.

Yet, in that entire, crowded room, filled with hundreds of powerful figures, none of them truly mattered to Atticus. His perception narrowed, focused on a single point in the sea of faces.

Because in this vast, judgment-filled space, Atticus only saw me.

His gaze never wavered, never shifted, never flickered away. It was a possessive, unsettling stare that pierced through the crowd, through my carefully constructed defenses, and straight into my soul. It was a silent declaration, a chilling reminder of his twisted obsession, a horrifying confirmation that even prison would not break his hold.

I clasped my hands tightly in my lap, my fingers tangling together, my nails biting into my palms, leaving painful crescent marks on my skin. The sharp physical sensation was a desperate attempt to anchor myself, to distract from the torrent of memories that clawed at the edges of my mind, threatening to overwhelm me.

My breath hitched in my throat, tightening, making it difficult to draw air into my burning lungs. It felt as if my very airways were constricting under the weight of my grief and fury. But I refused to let it show, refused to allow him the gratification of seeing my pain.

I would not break. Not here. Not now.

The judgment was now rendered, the elite warriors of the Council, formidable figures encased in dark, gleaming armor, stepped forward then, their movements precise and coordinated. They were prepared to drag him away, to enforce the sentence. The heavy iron chains on their belts clinked with a sinister, metallic sound as they tightened their grip on Atticus's already bound arms. Their faces were grim, their resolve resolute, intent on their duty.

Atticus didn’t resist the shove, didn’t stumble.

He simply continued his slow, deliberate pace, an unnerving calm in his movements. But at the door, his final threshold, he turned his head just enough, twisting his neck to an unnatural angle, to keep me in sight, his eyes locked on mine.

"Wait for me. I’ll be back."

His lips barely moved as they silently formed the words, and it was as if he was branding me with his final message, imprinting his promise onto my very soul before he vanished into the frozen hell awaiting him. An enduring mark that would never fade, a dark prophecy echoing in the newfound quiet of the chamber.

A deep, bone-chilling cold snaked its way down my spine, burrowing into my core, a colder, more insidious chill than any Arctic prison could conjure.

He was leaving.

He was being taken away, banished, imprisoned for nearly two decades. The logical part of my mind registered this, tried desperately to grasp it as a relief, as the end of a nightmare. The silence of the courtroom, once oppressive, now felt like a terrifying emptiness.

But every instinct, every fiber, every bone in my body screamed the terrifying truth.

This was far from over.

This was merely the beginning.