May the Best Wolf Win

A quiet laugh escapes me.

The Moon Goddess?

If only they knew I am their future king.

Still… being compared to her? I suppose I should feel honored. Or perhaps I should start demanding celestial worship and offerings of chocolate.

Keal stiffens beside me at the murmurs, his shoulders growing more rigid with every word of praise directed at me. I roll my eyes inwardly.

Men like him do not like forces they cannot control.

He guides me away from the burned outskirts and deeper into the pack’s territory, and the difference is immediate. Here, the fortifications are stronger.

The homes are intact, untouched by fire. Guards stand at attention—alert, armed, watchful. The walls are higher. The patrols more frequent. The air heavier with authority.

We take a narrow path tucked between storage houses and tall hedges—partially concealed and rarely used. Wolves step aside quickly, lowering their gazes as we pass.

This is not the main road.

This is a path meant to move unseen.

He is trying to avoid questions. Too many eyes would be on me otherwise.

Is he trying to hide me?

We stop in front of a massive house that practically radiates wealth.

Tall pillars frame the entrance. Polished stone gleams beneath the fading light. Intricate carvings lace the window frames—ancient symbols of power etched deep into the structure.

Kei’s.

It has to be.

The door swings open before we reach it.

Inside—chaos.

Maids rush back and forth with cloths, trays, and brooms. Dust swirls in the air like disturbed spirits. Furniture scrapes across the floor. Sheets are shaken out. Windows are thrown open.

Keal clears his throat loudly.

“This residence is rarely used by Alpha Kei,” he says stiffly. “It requires preparation.”

Translation: it has been sitting abandoned and filthy.

Which means this is not his main residence. Which means they truly are trying to hide me.

How interesting.

Keal snaps at the maids. “Hurry! We have an important guest!”

They scramble faster. I scan the room slowly. Every servant. Every single one is female.

“Are there only female maids?” I ask casually, as if genuinely curious.

Keal looks at me as though I have asked whether wolves breathe air.

“Of course,” he replies dismissively. “Who else would cook and clean? It is their duty. That is what women are good for.”

Ah.

There it is.

That familiar, rotting belief wrapped in tradition and passed down like heirloom poison.

“From what I witnessed today,” I say lightly, “women are also good at throwing themselves into fire to protect their children… while their husbands threaten to kill them.”

His jaw tightens.

“They should be trained to defend themselves,” I continue, my tone deceptively calm. “Not just trained to season soup and polish floors.”

“That is not—”

“And men,” I add sweetly, “should learn to clean up after themselves. It is basic survival.”

The maids glance at me nervously.

Keal forces a tight smile. “We can discuss societal structure another time.”

I meet his gaze steadily.

“When will be the right time for women to learn self-defense—especially if their men do not value or protect them?”

He scoffs, but the sound is strained. “That is not how our society functions.”

“I am hungry,” I interrupt, stretching my arms lazily as if bored.

He nods stiffly. “I will have food prepared immediately.”

I glance at the maids.

“No.”

He blinks. “No?”

“And if it is not a man who cooks my food,” I say pleasantly, “I will burn this place to ashes.”

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Keal laughs weakly. “Surely you—”

A small flame dances to life across my fingertips. Just a flicker. Enough to make his laughter die instantly.

The memory of the man’s burning legs must still be vivid in his mind.

“You wouldn’t,” he says carefully.

“Try me.”

The maids slowly begin backing away.

I wave a hand. “You are dismissed.”

They hesitate, glancing at Keal.

He nods sharply. “Go. All of you.”

They vanish like startled deer, leaving just the two of us.

Keal swallows. “There is no male cook,”

I tilt my head. “Then you will cook.”

He stares at me as if I have grown horns.

“I have never stepped foot in a kitchen.”

“That explains a great deal.”

His expression flickers between outrage and disbelief. “Beta males do not cook.”

“Congratulations,” I reply smoothly. “You are about to make history.”

He looks genuinely distressed now. “I’m serious. I don’t know how to hold a spoon or a pot—only swords.”

“Perfect. You can slice vegetables with excellent precision.”

“This is absurd.”

“So is threatening women’s lives for failing to produce heirs.”

His mouth snaps shut.

“Go to your pack’s library,” I continue calmly. “Find a recipe book. Something simple. Soup, perhaps.”

He just stares at me.

“You have thirty minutes,” I add. “If I am not fed by then, I will have your head for dinner instead.”

The color drains from his face. “You’re joking. Thirty—?”

The flame in my hand flares slightly.

He doesn’t wait for clarification. He turns and practically runs out of the house.

I burst into laughter the moment the doors slam behind him.

The great, fearsome Beta of Ashen Vale.

Second most powerful wolf in the pack.

Reduced to kitchen duty.

My wolf hums in approval.

Good.

Yes.

Very good.

Because if this is going to be my new cage—I might as well redecorate it.

Still smiling, I move toward one of the tall windows—until I catch sight of myself in the reflection.

My clothes are burned. Half-charred at the edges. Torn fabric clings to soot-streaked skin.

My smile fades as the memory of my mother’s letter strikes me, and panic tightens around my chest.

My hands move instantly, slipping beneath the inner lining of my ruined clothing where I hid it.

Carefully—gently—I pull it free.

The parchment is warm from my body heat, but it is not burned. Not even singed.

Relief floods through me so suddenly my knees nearly give out.

I trace the intact seal with trembling fingers before breaking it.

The parchment unfolds softly between my hands. The faint scent of lavender rises from it—her scent. My mother’s handwriting curves across the page in elegant, steady strokes.

And just like that, I am no longer standing in Ashen Vale or inside Kei’s house. I am not a threat, a weapon, or a political complication.

I am simply her daughter.

---

My dearest daughter,

This is the second time I am writing to you, and I promise I will keep this one short—though you know I am terrible at that. If I do not restrain myself, I will begin lecturing you, and you will pretend not to read it.

I huff a quiet laugh.

She knows me too well.

First, let me tell you something that still makes me smile like a foolish girl.

Your mate is infuriatingly handsome.

I blink.

Mother.

Ravelle, when I tell you that the man is handsome, I mean unfairly so—the kind of handsome that makes queens forget their speeches and servants trip over carpets.

He is tall, broad-shouldered, and carries himself as though the world belongs beneath his boots. When he stood in the throne room, even your father looked smaller—and you know how much that must have wounded his pride.

I press my lips together, fighting a smile.

Your mate is not just any Alpha but the most powerful one, whose name carries weight even in rooms where no one dares to speak it.

I still cannot believe it.

Fate does have a sense of drama, does it not?

But my clever girl… this will make your path harder and your ambitions more complicated.

If you still intend to become King—as I know you do—understand this: a man who commands the strongest pack will not surrender his throne easily. Power like that is never given away.

Not even for love.

Not even for a mate bond.

Men raised in power rarely loosen their grip.

If you wish to be King, you will not simply be marrying a man.

You will be challenging one.

I swallow.

However… he does not seem like the others.

There is something different about him. I cannot fully explain it in ink, but I saw it in his eyes. There is calculation, yes—but not cruelty. Authority—but not arrogance. Not a hunger for control.

Something restrained.

Something thoughtful.

Perhaps I am wrong.

Or perhaps the Moon has a strange sense of humor, pairing my stubborn daughter with a man equally unyielding.

But listen to me carefully, Ravelle.

The mate bond is not a weakness.

It is leverage.

If his heart can be reached—if it can be softened, if it can be tamed—then you will not need to fight him.

You will stand beside him.

And in that position, you may shape a kingdom more effectively than you ever could by standing against him.

But remember this:

Never surrender your crown in the process. And with the mate bond on your side, perhaps you will tame his heart before he even realizes it is happening.

And if you cannot overpower him with strength—

Outsmart him.

You are my daughter.

A faint smile pulls at my lips, even as my eyes sting.

My precious Ravelle… do not worry about me or your father. I have survived him for many years. I am safe. I am fine. Nothing will happen to me. And though it may be hard to believe, I am far stronger than I appear.

We did not say goodbye. But goodbye is for people who will never see each other again.

I will be waiting for the day you walk back into the palace with your head held high—to give all women back their freedom and rights, including mine.

And when you and your mate fight over the crown in your battle to become King—

May the best wolf win.

With all my love,

—Mother.