Sold to the Alpha King

Sold to the Alpha King

"Chapter 1”

Alara awoke to the sound of distant shouting. It was morning, although in the dreary corridors of her father’s fortress-like home, dawn brought little warmth or comfort. She inhaled slowly, pushing herself upright on a straw-filled pallet.

Her chamber, if it could be called such, was a cramped space above the kitchens. Every morning, the scents of yeast and baking bread drifted upward through the floorboards, bitter reminders of a castle’s life that she existed within but never truly inhabited.

She stared at her hands, callused from hours of scrubbing floors and polishing silverware. "If only my father could see how far I have fallen," she thought, though she knew the truth—he did see it; he had orchestrated it. "Alpha Marcus… my father…" The name felt bitter on her tongue.

He was once a man of strength and dignity, or so she remembered, glimpses of a father who had once laughed with her, teased her, lifted her high onto his shoulders. Then her mother—his mate, the Luna—had died. And the man who remained behind was an entirely different creature: cruel, exacting, and cold.

The memory of her mother, Luna Elaina, surged unbidden into Alara’s mind. Elaina had been the embodiment of kindness, her honey-brown eyes ever-filled with warmth. She carried a gentle power that soothed every wolf in the pack.

By her side, Alara had felt safe, special even. She still remembered running down the corridors at age ten, bright laughter echoing against the stone walls, and Elaina’s voice calling her name: "“Alara, darling, slow down! You’ll trip.”" But they would laugh together anyway, mother chasing after daughter until they collapsed in a breathless, giggling heap on the polished floor.

They had been happy once. Then tragedy struck—her mother’s death had shaken the entire pack. By Alara’s twelfth birthday, her mother lay buried, and Alpha Marcus was a shell of himself. His grief morphed into a bitterness that contorted both his face and soul. He blamed the fates for taking his mate; he blamed Alara for having Elaina’s same defiant spark.

Slowly, systematically, he had stripped away every privilege Alara possessed. No more tutors, no more comfortable rooms. No more mention of her birthright as an Alpha’s daughter. Now, she was forced to live like a servant, toiling alongside staff in the lower levels of the castle.

A sudden banging on her door made her flinch. She scrambled out of bed, forcing herself not to whimper. The handle jiggled before the door burst open, revealing a surly maid named Greta, one of her father’s accomplices in cruelty.

“Out of bed already, girl,” Greta snapped. “Alpha Marcus wants you in the main hall. You’re late.”

Alara swallowed her fear. “I—yes, of course.”

Greta studied her, lips curled in disdain. “Clean yourself up,” she spat. “He won’t be pleased if you show up like some beggar.” With that, the woman was gone, footsteps fading down the corridor.

Closing the door, Alara willed herself to remain calm. This was normal. Nothing in this castle was ever done with compassion anymore, least of all how they treated her. She had endured years of it.

For a moment, she let the memory of her mother’s gentle hand on her cheek guide her. If not for that memory, Alara suspected she would have fallen into utter despair long ago. She could still almost hear Elaina’s voice: "“You are stronger than you know, my darling.”"

She quickly washed her face in a small basin of lukewarm water, then smoothed down her ragged dress—one of the only dresses she owned since being cast out of her rightful bedroom. It was threadbare, a shade of dull blue that had once been vibrant.

Alara’s long black hair—one of the last vestiges of her mother’s graceful beauty—was hastily pulled back into a low braid. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in a shard of polished metal: silver eyes stared back, wide with lingering sorrow but also shining with a subtle determination.

"I am stronger than I know," she repeated silently, stepping into the corridor to begin her day of servitude.

The main hall stretched before her like a yawning mouth, marble floors gleaming under dim morning light. Alara clutched the hem of her skirt, knuckles whitening. She sensed tension in the air—guards and servants lined the walls in stony silence, heads lowered.

At the far end, a dais rose above the hall, and there her father stood in full Alpha regalia. Standing to his side were a few pack elders, their expressions unreadable.

Alpha Marcus’s cold eyes found her immediately. “You,” he barked. “Come forward.”

She did as commanded, passing rows of onlookers who had nothing but pity or disdain for her. She noted the hush that followed her every step. A thick knot of dread twisted in her stomach. This was no ordinary morning summons. Something significant was happening.

“Father,” she said quietly, bowing her head in deference, her voice echoing in the near-silent hall.

“I did not give you permission to speak,” he growled, glaring. Then, in a louder voice, he addressed the entire hall. “This… girl… continues to believe she is above her station. You all see the arrogance in her eyes, do you not?”

Alara’s cheeks flushed. She lifted her gaze just enough to see the sneering face of her father. The words hovered on her lips: "I am your daughter, not your servant." But she dared not speak them.

The hall was deathly silent. Marcus ran a hand through his graying hair, swallowing an unspoken rage. She saw the faint tremor in his fingers. He had not always been like this—once, he would stroke her hair affectionately, call her his “little star.” But that memory felt a lifetime away.

“Your shift in the laundry rooms starts at sunrise,” Marcus continued. “You missed that mark today. You were to be done with your tasks by now, not skulking about in your room.”

Alara steeled herself, desperation building. “I—my father—” She forced herself to look up, locking eyes with him. “I woke up late… I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

A tense murmur rippled across the hall. Some looked on with pity; others, like Greta, with smug satisfaction.

Marcus’s upper lip curled. “I’ll ensure it doesn’t.” He snapped his fingers, and a guard stepped forward, carrying a sturdy wooden rod. “Kneel,” Marcus ordered.

A tremor crawled up Alara’s spine. She had not been summoned for a simple reprimand; he intended to punish her publicly. Her first impulse was to protest—to lash out or flee. But the reality of her life here was ironclad. No one would defend her, and resistance would only worsen her fate.

In a single, trembling motion, she sank to her knees. The cold marble pressed against her skin. Her father approached, each step echoing. The rod’s tip hovered near her chin. She swallowed, heart pounding. She could smell his bitter rage.

“Think carefully,” he said, voice low enough that only she could hear. “You were the reason your mother left this world. You’re the reason I have lost everything I held dear. Don’t think, even for a moment, that I’ll spare you any kindness.”

Her eyes stung with tears, but she refused to let them fall. "Mother died because of an attack," she wanted to scream. "I had no part in it." But guilt had become her burden nonetheless. Over the years, Marcus’s cruel words had etched a deep self-blame into her soul.

Without warning, the rod came down across her shoulders once, a stinging blow that drew gasps from the crowd. Pain blossomed, but Alara locked her jaw to keep from crying out. She would not give him that satisfaction. Another blow. And another. Each time, her mind drifted to her mother’s face—Elaina’s gentle smile, her soft lullabies, her unwavering belief in Alara’s worth. The memory bolstered her, shielding her from complete despair.

Finally, Marcus threw the rod aside. “Get out of my sight.” His voice dripped with loathing. “Go to the laundry and remain there until further notice.”

Alara inhaled shakily, rising on unsteady legs. Her back and shoulders throbbed. She bowed her head one final time before turning away and limping off, ignoring the sting, ignoring the blood that began to trickle beneath the tattered fabric of her dress. "I am still alive," she thought bitterly. "That is all that matters here."

She spent the next few hours in the scullery, bent over steaming tubs of water, scrubbing piles of linens. Heat, humidity, and the pungent smell of soap battered her senses, but at least no one bothered her in this realm beneath the castle floors. Alara replayed the morning’s events in her mind, still tasting the humiliation on her tongue.

As midday approached, Maya—one of the kinder servants—slipped into the laundry room with a small plate of bread and a cup of water. “You must be starving,” Maya whispered, offering them to Alara.

Alara gratefully accepted, her arms trembling with exhaustion. “Thank you,” she murmured between small bites. The bread was stale, but in her current state, it tasted like a feast.

Maya placed a gentle hand on Alara’s back, wincing as her fingers brushed a bruise. “He went too far this time.”

Alara only shook her head. “It’s… fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Maya insisted, voice low but fervent. “You deserve better. You’re… you’re the Alpha’s daughter.”

Alara stared at the water’s ripples in the tub. "The Alpha’s daughter… but he sees me as nothing." She had stopped correcting people years ago when they called her a servant. “Doesn’t matter,” she replied quietly. “No one cares who I was born to be.”

Maya lowered her gaze, eyes misting with sympathy. She was about to respond when the sound of a horn echoing through the corridors made them both freeze. A commotion erupted upstairs, boots clattering on stone floors. Shouts. Urgent voices.

“What’s happening?” Alara asked, heart pounding.

The horn blared again. Maya’s expression darkened. “It’s the arrival horn,” she breathed. “Someone important has just entered the castle grounds.”

Moments later, a pair of guards burst into the laundry, their armor clanking ominously. One of them, a lanky man with a perpetual sneer, pointed at Alara. “You. The Alpha wants you in the throne room. Now.”

Fear rippled through her. Did Marcus plan to punish her again? But there was also something off in the guard’s manner—something more urgent than usual. The guard’s eyes flickered with something akin to dread.

Without a word, Alara handed the soap back to Maya and followed the guards out of the laundry room. Her muscles ached from the earlier beating, and each step sent a sharp reminder of how powerless she was.

The corridors hummed with tension as she was escorted up grand staircases and through long halls, each step reminding her of the difference between her old life and her new one. She passed tapestries, sculptures, and paintings depicting the glory of the pack’s lineage—a legacy she was once meant to inherit, now little more than a distant dream.

The throne room doors were thrust open. Stepping inside, Alara noticed the air crackled with an unfamiliar energy. Her father stood in the middle, posture rigid, eyes cold as ever.

Across from him, taller than nearly every guard present, stood a man with dark brown shoulder-length hair and intense amber eyes. He wore a finely tailored black coat that accentuated his broad shoulders and lean physique, and his expression was as hard as chiseled stone. Flanking him were several of his own warriors, all of them exuding raw power.

"That must be Alpha Ezra," Alara realized, her heartbeat quickening. She had heard whispers of him—tales of a ruthless Alpha from a rival pack, rumored to be as formidable as he was merciless. He was also said to have lost his mate, though the details were murky: some said she was murdered by rogues, others claimed a rival faction was responsible. Regardless, Ezra was known to be swift in administering vengeance.

She hovered near the door, her shoulders throbbing from the morning’s punishment. Marcus glanced over and crooked a finger at her to approach. She did so, head bowed. She sensed Alpha Ezra’s gaze slice across her face.

“Is this the whelp?” the visitor asked, voice low and resonant. Though his words were directed at Marcus, Alara could feel the weight of his eyes on her.

Marcus nodded stiffly. “My daughter,” he said, as though it pained him to admit. “Alara.”

Alara tried to keep her gaze on the floor. She wanted nothing more than to vanish into the shadows. Still, her curiosity overpowered her fear. She glanced up, meeting Alpha Ezra’s eyes. The moment she did, something inside her twisted—a faint, unexplainable sensation, like a near-silent whisper flickering at the edges of her mind.

Ezra’s expression barely flickered, but she sensed the minute shift in his posture, as if he, too, had felt something. His amber eyes narrowed, and then he turned back to Marcus. “This is the one you said is of your Luna’s lineage?”

Marcus inclined his head, though Alara caught the slight sneer on his lips. “Elaina was rumored to have ties to the old magic—my daughter might possess it, though we have yet to see any sign.”

Ezra’s gaze flicked over Alara once more, lingering on the bruises visible at her collarbone. “You expect me to believe she’s special when you treat her as a punching bag?”

Marcus’s eyes flared with anger. “How I discipline my offspring is no concern of yours, Alpha Ezra.”

A taut silence fell, and Alara’s heart pounded. "So this is how it feels to be in the presence of two powerful Alphas," she thought. The tension crackled like sparks in the air, leaving everyone watching warily. She nearly forgot to breathe.

Ezra’s hand curled into a fist. His eyes never left Marcus’s. “I came to negotiate an end to your provocations on our border. But from what you’ve implied, you have another proposal.”

Marcus’s lips curled into a grin that made Alara’s blood run cold. “Indeed,” he said. He paused for effect, letting the hush fall over the room. “I propose a means to settle our dispute for good. You’ll walk away with a boon of immeasurable value.”

“And that is?” Ezra demanded.

Marcus snapped his fingers. Without warning, two guards seized Alara by her arms. She let out a startled yelp.

“As of this moment,” Marcus declared, “I sever all paternal ties with this worthless child. She is yours to command, or kill if you see fit. Take her into your pack, do with her whatever you wish.” His voice rose with cold finality. “A permanent solution to ensure you remember I offered you something precious—my own daughter—for your acceptance of a truce.”

Disbelief, shame, and fury warred within Alara. Her throat went dry. She wrenched her arms in the guards’ grip, but they held her fast. "He is selling me?" Her chest constricted, a swirl of shock and horror crashing through her. "His own flesh and blood…"

A stirring in the crowd around them, gasps, mutterings. Even some of her father’s men looked uneasy. Alpha Ezra’s face remained stoic, but a muscle in his jaw twitched. His gaze shifted to Alara, then back to Marcus.

“That is a… bold offering,” he said quietly. “But I fail to see the boon if she is as useless as you claim.”

A triumphant light flared in Marcus’s eyes. “Her mother’s lineage is anything but useless. If you can unlock that dormant power, you will gain a formidable advantage. Word among the packs is you’re still seeking a solution to your tragic loss—some say a special she-wolf might restore your destiny.”

Ezra glowered, tension radiating from him like heat. For a moment, he looked dangerously close to lunging at Marcus’s throat. Alara sensed an undercurrent: something about her mother’s rumored magical bloodline was relevant to him in ways he did not want to publicly acknowledge.

Finally, he exhaled, turning his gaze to Alara once more. Something flickered in his expression—contempt, pity, or curiosity, she couldn’t decipher. “You truly stoop to selling your child?”

Marcus’s sneer was venomous. “She means nothing to me. Take her, or leave her to rot in my dungeons, for all I care.”

Alara’s vision blurred with tears she refused to shed. Pain spiked across her shoulders where she had been beaten earlier. Her father’s betrayal, though not surprising, still cut deeper than she thought possible. "I have no choice in this," she realized. "I am being handed off like chattel."

Ezra’s silence stretched, building tension in the room. One of his warriors stepped forward—an imposing man with a Beta’s insignia on his collar—and whispered in his Alpha’s ear. Alara caught the word “obligation,” though the rest was lost in the hush.

At length, Ezra spoke. “In the realm of werewolves, an Alpha’s offering of his daughter is… significant. Even if I wanted to decline—” He paused, glaring at Marcus, “—my own pack’s traditions and your brazen display leave me no choice but to accept. To refuse would be taken as an insult, sparking more bloodshed.”

Marcus gave a curt nod. “Then we have an agreement.”

Though the tension in the air remained thick, Marcus’s tone reeked of triumph, as if he had secured a final revenge on both Alara and Alpha Ezra. Meanwhile, Alara felt numbness spreading through her limbs. Her father had succeeded in discarding her, and she was being thrust into another den of cruelty. "I must survive," she told herself, head swirling. "I must endure."

The next minutes passed in a hazy blur for Alara. Her father’s men shoved her forward until she stood before Ezra. The difference in their heights was stark—she had to tilt her head back to meet his amber gaze. She steeled herself, refusing to cower. "I am a daughter of an Alpha. I will not break."

Ezra’s expression remained neutral. “You will travel with my warriors at once.”

She parted her lips, but no words came out. She thought she might beg him to spare her, or at least handle her more gently, but the shock robbed her voice. And even if she begged, would he care? She recalled the rumors of his cruelty, how he had torn enemies to pieces without remorse. He extended a leather-gloved hand, beckoning her closer, as if summoning a dog.

Reluctantly, Alara took a step, then another. She reminded herself to breathe. Although he showed no outward sign of aggression, there was a primal energy around him, coiled like a spring. Everything about him demanded submission.

A faint murmur in the crowd drew her attention. She glimpsed a slender, beautiful figure leaning against a column near the entrance—blonde hair and hazel eyes. The woman’s lips were curved in a small, mocking smile, eyes dancing with amusement or triumph. "She must be with him," Alara realized. "Perhaps she’s from his pack."

The woman gave Alara a slow, appraising look, then turned her attention back to Alpha Ezra. Something in that gesture sent a chill through Alara’s spine—it was as though the woman were silently staking her claim on him, warning Alara to stay away.

“Escort the girl outside,” Ezra ordered, flicking his gaze at the guards who had been holding her. “She’s my responsibility now.”

Marcus smirked. “A pleasure doing business, Alpha Ezra.”

Ezra glared. “I assure you, the pleasure is all yours.” His tone made it clear he would not forget Marcus’s machinations.

Alara was tugged along, guards guiding her toward the exit. At the threshold of the throne room, she felt compelled to glance back one last time. She saw her father turning away, dismissing her as though she were an afterthought. That final image stoked a spark of anger deep in her chest. "He will never see the day I bow to him again."

A short while later, Alara found herself outside, the sky above ominously overcast. She stood before an imposing carriage surrounded by Ezra’s pack warriors, their gazes swift and measuring. Some showed curiosity, others mild disapproval or pity. She guessed they were surprised at how battered she looked—she was, after all, the daughter of an Alpha. However, none of them said a word.

She could feel her own heart pounding. She had dreamed of leaving this place countless times, escaping her father’s cruelty. Yet never like this—never as a captive sold to the Alpha King who commanded a rival pack. The irony stung.

A hiss of shifting gravel indicated Alpha Ezra’s approach. She glanced up to see him stride toward the carriage, flanked by that striking blonde woman. The woman’s hazel eyes gleamed with a cold satisfaction, and her lips pursed as if suppressing a smile of triumph. Alara guessed this must be Tanya, rumored to be a Beta in Ezra’s pack. Her very demeanor radiated cunning and entitlement, as though she belonged at Ezra’s side.

Ezra shot Alara a brief, indifferent look. “Get in,” he said, voice low and authoritative. “We have a long ride.”

She stiffened. Part of her longed to protest, but reason prevailed. She could not go back to her father. She climbed into the carriage, feeling the weight of each step as if it signified another chain closing around her ankles. Once inside, she pressed herself to one corner of the seat, trying to create as much distance as possible from these strangers.

Ezra and Tanya followed, taking the plush seat opposite her. Tanya’s gaze flitted condescendingly over Alara’s ragged dress and bruised collarbone, lips curving upward in what could only be described as a sneer. Alara lowered her gaze, refusing to engage with the hostility. She felt no safety here, but with Tanya’s open disdain, the tension inside the carriage grew suffocating.

“Leave her be,” Ezra said to Tanya after a moment, catching the Beta’s scornful expression. “She’s of no consequence.”

“Of course, Alpha,” Tanya murmured demurely, though her eyes still flashed. “I’m simply curious why you would take her.”

“It’s politics,” Ezra replied tersely. “Don’t press me.”

Alara dared a glance up at him, heart pounding. She wanted to shout at him that she was more than a tool, more than a worthless bargaining chip.

But years of learned submission choked her words. She swallowed her resentment, focusing instead on the fleeting possibility that maybe, just maybe, her life in this new pack wouldn’t be as brutal as the one she left behind.

Ezra met her gaze for a split second, then looked away as if dismissing whatever he saw there. “Driver,” he barked. “Move out.”

The carriage jerked forward, wheels grinding into the gravel, leaving behind the fortress that had been Alara’s prison—and the father who had betrayed her. She did not dare look back.

They traveled for hours, the road winding through dense forests and rolling hills. Rain began to patter against the carriage roof, a soft lull that contrasted with the storm of emotions raging in Alara’s chest. She gazed out the window at the passing scenery, recalling fleeting memories of her mother showing her the forest pathways, naming wildflowers, teaching her small bits of herbal healing. A pang of sorrow struck her. "How did it come to this, Mother?" She closed her eyes, leaning her head against the seat.

During the journey, Tanya and Ezra spoke in low tones, sometimes too soft for Alara to catch. She heard fragments of conversation referencing tensions between packs, vague mentions of “border skirmishes,” and once, a hint about “the bloodline.” Every now and then, Ezra’s voice dipped, becoming tight, as if the subject troubled him.

Alara tried to ignore them, immersing herself in her own swirling thoughts. Yet one moment made her pulse quicken: Tanya mentioned a rumor that the late Luna Elaina’s heritage held powerful magic, something about an ancestral gift. Alara bristled. "Is that the only reason he took me?" She felt a rush of conflicting emotions—relief that she might be worth something, anger that it had little to do with her as a person.

As the afternoon deepened, the rain let up. The carriage slowed. Alara peered out the window to see tall gates opening before them, revealing a sprawling fortress. High walls of dark stone loomed, and a grand courtyard stretched beyond. Warriors patrolled the perimeter. Many paused to watch the carriage enter, their expressions curious or guarded.

“We’re here,” Ezra announced curtly. His eyes flicked to Alara, but he didn’t speak further.

A swirl of anxiety churned in her stomach. "This will be my new home?" The reality felt surreal. The carriage rolled to a stop, and the door opened.

Tanya exited first, stepping gracefully onto the cobblestones. She took a moment to brush invisible dust from her tailored cloak, eyes scanning the courtyard. Then Ezra followed, rising to his full, commanding height. Alara inhaled a shaky breath and forced herself to descend from the carriage, ignoring the sore protest of her bruised shoulders and back.

A crowd had gathered. In the forefront stood a broad-shouldered man with short-cropped hair—he wore a Beta insignia, and the concern in his gaze flicked from Ezra to Alara. She saw him quickly mask his expression with polite deference, but there was no missing the curiosity that lit his eyes.

“Beta Damien,” Ezra addressed him, “see that the men stable the horses and get the supplies unloaded.”

Damien inclined his head. “Yes, Alpha. And her?” He jerked his chin toward Alara, who stiffened under the scrutiny.

Ezra’s tone was cold, dismissive. “Take her to a guest chamber for now. She’ll start in the morning as we see fit.”

Alara’s cheeks heated. "At least a guest chamber is better than a dungeon," she thought, mentally bracing herself for the humiliations yet to come. She chanced a small nod, hoping to convey her readiness to follow orders—anything to avoid more conflict.

Tanya moved closer to Ezra, slipping an arm through his possessively. She glanced at Alara and smirked. “I’ll see that everything is in order for our new… arrival,” she said sweetly, although her tone implied quite the opposite.

Ezra didn’t react to Tanya’s clingy gesture, nor did he push her away. His attention shifted to the gates, as though something weighed heavily on his mind. Alara took a hesitant step forward, but no one acknowledged her. She felt painfully invisible. "So this is how it will be," she thought. "Marginally better than my father’s cruelty, but still the object of scorn."

Beta Damien cleared his throat. “Come with me, then,” he said quietly, indicating she should follow.

“Thank you,” Alara replied, voice subdued. She tried not to limp, swallowing the pain that flashed through her bruised body. With each step, she wondered what horrors—or possible mercies—awaited her in this place.

They traversed corridors lit by flickering torches, the gloom broken only by patches of fading daylight through narrow windows. Guards saluted Beta Damien as he passed, though some cast curious looks at Alara, making her skin prickle. She kept her eyes down, not wanting to draw attention.

Eventually, Damien stopped at a wooden door in a quieter wing of the fortress. He pushed it open to reveal a modest yet tidy room. A small bed stood against one wall, next to a window overlooking the courtyard. A washbasin and a small cabinet completed the simple furnishings.

“It’s… nice,” Alara ventured softly, stepping inside. After years of sleeping in a cramped, dusty servant’s quarters, this felt almost luxurious.

Damien nodded. “Better than you’re used to, I gather.”

She hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal. In the hush that followed, she noted the flicker of genuine concern in the Beta’s eyes. Was he different from the rest?

He continued in a subdued voice, “Look, I don’t know what your life was like back there, but it’s no secret you were—” He paused, weighing his words. “—not treated well. You have to understand that things here… well, they may not be easy, but the Alpha is fair in his own way.”

A bitter laugh rose in Alara’s throat. "Is that what they call fairness—accepting me like a transaction to settle a dispute?" But she held her tongue. If Damien intended kindness, she wouldn’t rebuff him.

“Thank you,” she finally said. “I—I don’t know what’s expected of me here.”

Damien grimaced. “We’ll find out soon enough. Tanya’s been close to the Alpha, and she isn’t… charitable. She’ll see you as a threat, especially if she thinks you have a claim to power. Be careful around her. She doesn’t speak for the pack as a whole.”

Alara nodded, absorbing the warning. "So Tanya truly holds sway here. And she already hates me." If the pack’s Beta was cautioning her, it meant the danger was real. “I’ll be careful,” she whispered.

A brief silence passed, thick with unspoken truths. Finally, Damien cleared his throat and gestured to the small cabinet. “There should be something cleaner for you to wear. I’ll have someone bring fresh water so you can wash. Rest tonight. The Alpha will summon you soon, or Tanya will.”

Alara’s heart pounded at the thought of facing either of them again, but she forced a smile. “Thank you… Beta Damien.”

He nodded, lingering a moment as if he wanted to say more, then exited, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. Alone now, Alara set a tentative hand on the simple bed, exhaling shakily. "At least for tonight, no one’s going to beat me." The realization was enough to let tension slip from her shoulders.

She moved to the window, gazing out at the courtyard. Dusk was descending, the sun’s last rays painting the sky in deep oranges and purples. Torchlight began to glow along the fortress walls. She could see warriors patrolling, their silhouettes sharp against the dimming light. Far below, stablehands led the horses from the carriage into a wide barn. The fortress bustled with life, and yet she felt alone.

"Mother, if you can hear me," she thought, tears prickling the corners of her eyes, "give me the strength to endure this new chapter." She let a shaky breath escape, recalling the fleeting sensation she’d felt when she locked eyes with Alpha Ezra. There had been a flicker, like a half-remembered dream, but it had vanished too quickly to make sense of it.

Behind her closed eyelids, her memories reached back to her mother’s final days. She remembered how Elaina had pressed a small, moonstone pendant into her hand—an heirloom from generations past. “Never forget who you are,” Elaina had whispered, voice weak but full of love. That pendant now rested in Alara’s meager belongings in the laundry quarters of her father’s castle, lost to her forever. The thought weighed heavily on her heart.

A faint sound stirred in her mind, so subtle she almost missed it. "Alara…" The whisper was distant, like a soft breeze through trees. Her eyes flew open, scanning the room. She was alone, and yet… "Alara… can you hear me?"

Goosebumps prickled along her arms. She recognized that gentle voice, though it felt as if it had been silent for a very long time. "Asena?" she thought wildly, heart hammering. Her dormant wolf spirit, silent since her mother’s death, seemed to stir. For years, she had believed she might never feel the connection to her inner wolf again, the bond that every werewolf had. Yet, in this moment, the faintest spark had awakened.

It vanished just as quickly, leaving Alara unsure if she’d imagined it. "I’m tired, bruised, and traumatized." Maybe it was simply a trick of her exhausted mind. But for an instant, she had felt a flicker of warmth, an echo of what her life might have been like had her wolf never gone dormant.

She crossed the small room to the cabinet. Inside, she found a plain but serviceable dress, soft enough to not aggravate her bruises. She changed carefully, biting her lip each time pain flared across her beaten flesh. Eventually, she sank onto the bed, mind swirling with questions, fear, and a strange, tenuous hope.

"I’ve escaped my father at last," she reminded herself. It was a twisted escape, given she was effectively a bargaining chip, but it was still a new beginning. "I survived one torment. I can survive this too."

Sleep came slowly. When it did, her dreams were a whirlwind: flickers of her mother’s smile, her father’s rod, Ezra’s intense amber gaze, and Tanya’s mocking grin. She saw glimpses of a white wolf running through a moonlit forest, howling with a voice that rang with sorrow and defiance. When she awoke, it was nearly midnight. She stared into the darkness, heart pounding, and realized she was trembling.

"I am here," she told herself, wrapping her arms around her knees. "Somehow, I’m still here."

In the silence of that new fortress, Alara closed her eyes, letting the last vestiges of dream linger. Beyond the window, the moon rose in a cloud-strewn sky, a silent witness to the forces converging around her. Betrayal, cruelty, destiny, and an unawakened magic—everything now swirled around Alara like a gathering storm.

She sensed the fortress held its own secrets, older and darker than she could yet comprehend. "You’re not alone anymore," the whisper seemed to say, carried by the faint breeze rattling the window. Whether it was Asena, her mother’s spirit, or her own longing, Alara couldn’t be sure. But the promise of a different tomorrow glimmered in her thoughts, urging her to remain steadfast in the face of what was to come.

Far below, in the courtyard, Alpha Ezra stood with arms folded, staring up at the moonlit windows. Tanya murmured something at his side, but he barely responded. His mind roiled with conflicting emotions—anger at Marcus, suspicion, and a reluctant fascination with Alara’s rumored lineage.

He had never wanted to take her, never planned to accept such an “offering.” But he couldn’t shake the memory of their brief eye contact, the strange flicker of energy that had coursed through him. It unnerved him how, for a fraction of a second, he felt… drawn.

Even so, he hardened his heart against such feelings. "She means nothing," he told himself. "I have my duty, my vengeance to see through, and no one—certainly not a scorned daughter—will sway me."

Still, he stared at the tower where Alara’s light had just gone out. Inside, a swirl of fate and fury was waking. Unbeknownst to them both, their meeting had set in motion the unraveling of secrets, an awakening that could reshape the entire werewolf realm.

And in that silent fortress, as the moon reached its zenith, Alara drifted into troubled sleep. The night’s hush was tinged with promise, every shadow a testament to the dark romance and conflict that would soon unfold, binding their paths together in ways neither could yet foresee. The echo of Asena’s distant call lingered, a harbinger of the powerful awakening that was coming—one that would test them all.