Chapter Three: The Alpha's Rule

His name was Ligon Tiv.

Among wolves, the name carried weight like metal striking against thunder claps. To friend and foe alike, it meant power, wealth, and a lineage no rival had ever broken. He was the Alpha of Tungsten Pack, the only son of his parents.

In his wolf form, he was a massive beast weighing over one hundred and fifty pounds. His fur was silver-streaked, and his eyes, green as emerald gem, stood out across the forest. His claws and fangs were a concoction of tungsten and dragon bones smelted into his bloodline. Weapons no ordinary wolf could claim. With them, he could tear through armor, stone, and even dragon hides.

Ligon had been orphaned young. He had lost his parents to banshees while they protected the pack from assassination. That day still haunted him—the screams, the smell of burned flesh, the silence that followed. With no time to mourn, he spent his entire youth rebuilding the pack through cunning, ferocity, and an unyielding will.

Along the way, he had gathered companions who became his family: Gromelia Sin, the sharp-eyed strategist and brutal negotiator; Avail Bruce, his battle-brother, fierce and loyal; River Drew, calm but rogue when angered; Mangolia Paul, brute strength incarnate; Roloveria Hace, a fearless huntress with eyes like knives, her ability to make swift judgments in battle making her feared across the realm.

Dessy Trail, a seer touched by gods—her insight had helped him time and again; Deuce Grace, a quiet assassin who had once killed five hundred men without making a sound; Glacy Vitro, the most extroverted of them, her access to information unrivaled; and Wyverge Spence, the smith he had found in exile—now the keeper of Obsidian, Tungsten’s priceless treasure.

Together, they had carved out an empire in the forested mountains where other packs still scrabbled for scraps.

He bore the extraordinary brute strength of his father and had inherited the power of darkness. The gift had revealed itself in boyhood when an enemy Alpha lunged at him and darkness erupted from his hands like a living beast. It had never left him since. He could mold it whichever way he wished.

When the wars came, he became the silver wolf—a titan of light and slaughter. But when rage consumed him, his half-beast form—grey and merciless—rose in its place. He became notorious as the Hybrid of Doom, and none who saw it ever forgot.

Ligon’s pack thrived as though blessed by the gods of prosperity. His forest lands were rich. The trees bore fruit sweeter than any other, the soil fat with promise, the rivers alive with silver-scaled fish as sumptuous as deer. The Tungsten Pack’s true wealth, though, came from their mountains: Obsidian .

A black, glassy stone, sharp enough to cut tree branches. In Ligon’s lands, it was mined and forged into armor or jewelry; it pulsed faintly with magic while absorbing moonlight. Shielded its bearer from harm and struck back at enemies. When gathered in fives, it was capable of mending wounds and healing minor sicknesses. When embedded in walls, it sliced any attacker who dared to climb, shattering their weapons—a secret known only to Tungsten Pack.

Ligon kept the trade of obsidian on a tight leash, each buyer paying heavily in coineries. This limited the stone’s reach, kept rivals weak, and left Tungsten untouchable. Outsiders came from every corner—sirens, phoenixes, healers, assassins—seeking to trade. And by Ligon’s decree, his land remained neutral ground. Any hand that drew a blade within his market would never trade there again.

But even wealth and might could not ease the weight on his shoulders.

He stood on the balcony, the night wind cool against his jaw, moonlight catching the silver in his hair as he gazed down. His pack trained below, running drills, their bodies blurs of speed and ferocity as they struck and shifted, disciplined and precise.

And still, Ligon felt the familiar ache in his chest.

He had everything an Alpha could want—strength, loyalty, riches, legacy—and yet, in the solitude between breaths, he felt the hollow echo of something missing.

The darkness he commanded whispered of an unknown future, and he knew he could not carry it alone forever. Yes, he had assistance, but he needed someone who would rule with him—someone to lighten his responsibilities.

Gromelia’s voice drifted from below. Her head angled up to see his face.

 “You look restless again, my Alpha.”

Ligon didn’t answer. He just stared at her and walked back into his room. He had learned long ago that kings who confessed their weariness didn’t stay kings for long.

For an Alpha, weakness was unthinkable. But for a man, loneliness was a weight even the strongest could not shed.

Somewhere in his marrow, he knew destiny moved toward him. Dessy had recently spoken a prophecy:

“Destiny tapers with wild hair and danger,

Screaming for comfort.

The fur will embrace and dampen.”

And she had said it was soon to pass. Not to mention the erotic dreams he had been having of late—though he couldn’t see her face, he knew he had never felt happier.

He turned his gaze skyward, where moonlight spilled over the mountains. His green eyes glinted with hunger.

She is coming.