Løne wølf

Twenty-four hours before his death, the moon bowed to him.

It hung low and heavy in the sky, swollen with power, stained crimson as if it already knew blood would be spilled. Wolves across the territory felt it—an unease crawling down their spines, a pressure in their chests that forced even the strongest Alphas to lower their heads.

Because he was awake.

Alpha stood alone at the cliff overlooking the Blackfang Territory, the wind tugging at his coat, his shadow stretching unnaturally long behind him. His eyes glowed—not fully wolf, not fully vampire—but something ancient in between. Something that had not walked this world in centuries.

A True Alpha.

Not chosen.

Not crowned.

Born.

He had been one in a million the moment he took his first breath.

The night of his birth, the moon split the clouds and turned silver-black. Wolves howled in terror. Vampires felt their blood kneel inside their veins. The elders called it an omen. The priests called it heresy.

His mother had screamed as the midwives fell to their knees.

Because when he was born, he didn’t cry.

He looked at them.

Eyes open. Aware. Watching.

The mark of the True Alpha burned into his skin the moment his heart began to beat—a sigil no ritual could grant, no challenge could earn. Leadership etched into his soul. Dominance written into his blood. Wolves would obey him even if they hated him.

Then the second truth revealed itself.

His blood wasn’t just wolf.

It was royal vampire blood—pure, ancient, descended from the First Court. Not turned. Not diluted. A lineage that ruled the night long before packs learned to howl.

A hybrid was supposed to be impossible.

A true hybrid was supposed to be a myth.

Yet there he was.

A child born with two crowns—and therefore, two death sentences.

The covens wanted him erased.

The packs wanted him controlled.

The elders wanted him leashed.

So they lied.

They told the world Alpha was dangerous. Unstable. A mistake of nature. They bound his vampire abilities at birth and shattered his wolf’s voice with ancient seals. They raised him as a weapon—but never a king.

And still, he rose.

By eighteen, he led without trying. By twenty-one, his presence alone could silence a room. Alphas twice his age felt their knees weaken when he spoke. Vampires avoided his gaze, instinct screaming that he was wrong—a predator that hunted predators.

That was why they feared him.

That was why, standing on the cliff now, Alpha felt the weight of eyes on his back.

Betrayal always smells like familiarity.

Behind him, the council chamber burned with torchlight. Elders whispering. Pack leaders conspiring. Vampires in silver-threaded robes smiling too calmly.

They had already decided.

Alpha exhaled slowly, fangs grazing his lip, claws flexing beneath his skin. His wolf stirred—restless, angry, caged. His vampire blood pulsed, ancient and insulted.

They thought they were ending a threat.

They didn’t understand the truth.

“You were never meant to rule,” one of them would say tomorrow.

But the truth was crueler.

He was never meant to bow.

As the moon reached its peak, Alpha turned away from the cliff and walked back toward his execution—toward chains, judgment, and death—with the calm of a king who didn’t know he would be reborn.

And somewhere deep within him, buried beneath seals and betrayal, something eternal waited patiently.

Because crowns can be stolen.

But power remembers its owner.