The gilded clock on the mantelpiece ticked, each second a hammer blow against Abel Tiber's resolve. Outside the leaded windows of the Tiber mansion's smallest east-wing bedroom, the manicured grounds of the Tiber family 'estate' – a sprawling monument to lupine wealth and influence – lay bathed in the deceptive calm of twilight. Inside, the air tasted stale, thick with the weight of centuries of expectation and the cloying scent of old money and older power. That was the last straw. The words echoed in his skull, a silent roar drowning out the clock's metronome. He stared at his reflection in the darkening window pane – 21 years old, eyes holding a storm his carefully neutral face couldn't conceal.
I have decided. The finality of it settled into his bones, colder and more certain than the marble floor beneath his feet. Leave everything. The choking city skyline, the suffocating hierarchy of the pack, the sprawling, gilded cage of the empire we built. The 'Tiber Holdings' empire, a labyrinthine network of legitimate businesses and carefully obscured, predatory ventures, woven through generations. It wasn't just a company; it was a dynasty, a legacy written in blood and gold, demanding absolute fealty. And Abel was its unwilling heir apparent.
He loved them. A jagged shard of guilt pierced his determination. His parents, Alpha Kenneth and Luna Ava, fierce protectors, proud leaders. His boisterous cousins, like Roman, whose loyalty was as thick as his neck. The intricate web of pack bonds, a constant hum of connection he'd known since birth. Yet, the love felt like chains, beautifully wrought but impossible to bear. This is not the life for me. The truth was a raw thing, scraped from the core of his being. The endless board meetings disguised as pack councils, the predatory glee in exploiting human weakness his father called 'strategy', the constant vigilance, the hidden violence simmering beneath the veneer of civility – it curdled his soul.
A memory flashed, sharp and painful: last week's 'family dinner'. Roast venison, crystal goblets, the low murmur of conversation turning predatory as Kenneth recounted a hostile takeover. "Pathetic creatures, humans," Kenneth had rumbled, swirling his blood-red wine. "Driven by greed and fear. Easy to manipulate, like sheep before the wolf. We offer them baubles, they offer us their livelihoods. A fair exchange, wouldn't you say, Abel?" His father's gaze, sharp as flint, had pinned him. Abel had forced himself to nod, the taste of ash in his mouth. He'd seen the aftermath of their 'manipulations' – shattered lives, hollowed-out communities, the subtle fear in the eyes of their human employees who sensed something other lurking behind the polished smiles.
He knew clearly of how they were hunted. The pack histories weren't bedtime stories; they were grim chronicles of survival. Centuries ago, during the Great Purges ignited by human fear and superstition, their ancestors had been driven to the brink of extinction. Whole bloodlines erased under torchlight and silver. They were lucky, the elders always said, their voices heavy with the memory. A lot of native peoples took them in. Sheltered them in deep forests and remote mountains, sharing ancient wisdom about coexistence, about living with the land and its people, not dominating them. That fragile trust, that hard-won sanctuary, felt desecrated by the Tiber family's modern 'empire', built on exploitation and a contempt his father wore like a crown.
Abel pushed away from the window, the luxurious Persian rug swallowing the sound of his steps. His sanctuary – a small, book-lined room tucked away from the mansion's opulent heart – felt like the only honest space. Here, the air smelled of paper, dust, and the faint, lingering scent of dried herbs, not power and pretense. Here, amidst maps of remote wildernesses and dog-eared philosophy texts challenging concepts of dominance, his escape plan had taken root.
He knew that if there was any mention of escape, he would be hunted to the ends of the world. Not just by rivals, but by his own pack. Desertion was the ultimate betrayal. The Alpha's command was law; the pack's unity was survival. To spurn that was to become prey. The thought sent a primal tremor through him, the wolf within recoiling at the idea of being cast out, pursued. But the human part of him, the part that recoiled at his father's cynicism and yearned for silence instead of scheming, was stronger. He was prepared for the wilderness, both literal and metaphorical. Prepared to be alone.
He had been communing with one of the local witches. Ava, not his mother, but a different kind of power altogether. She dwelled not in a mansion, but in a ramshackle cottage clinging to the forgotten edge of the city, where the concrete bled into scrubland. Finding her had been an act of quiet rebellion itself. Her knowledge was old, rooted in the earth and the moon's deeper tides, far removed from the pack's politicized magic. She hadn't asked many questions, her eyes, the colour of tarnished silver, seeming to see the conflict tearing him apart.
She knew of a process to hide her scent, or change it. That was the linchpin. That was his plan. Without it, he was a beacon in the night to any pack tracker. His unique scent signature, as identifiable as a fingerprint to his kind, would lead them straight to him, no matter how far he ran or how deep into the wilderness he burrowed. Ava spoke of a ritual – complex, painful, rooted in transformation not unlike the Change itself, but focused inward, rewriting the olfactory signature imprinted on his spirit. It involved rare moon-blooming herbs, a sliver of obsidian charged under an eclipse, and a willing sacrifice: a lock of hair, a vial of blood, and the utter, unwavering intent to become someone – something – else.
Tonight was the culmination. Beneath his carefully tailored shirt, a small leather pouch held the ingredients Ava had provided, pulsing with a subtle, earthy energy. His modest trust fund, meticulously drained over months into untraceable cryptocurrency and physical gold coins, was secured in a hidden compartment within his worn hiking backpack. The pack itself leaned against the desk, stuffed with practical gear – a high-grade tent, thermal layers, water purification tablets, a compact hunting rifle he hoped never to use for its intended purpose, and books. Always books. Maps of the vast, uninhabited northern boreal forests were spread open, potential routes traced in faint pencil.
A soft knock shattered the silence. Abel's heart lurched against his ribs. He swiftly rolled up the maps, his movements smooth, practiced.
"Abel?" His mother's voice, melodic yet carrying the unconscious weight of command, filtered through the heavy oak door. "Dinner is served. Your father wishes to discuss the Vancouver acquisition."
He closed his eyes, drawing a slow, steadying breath. This was the mask, the performance that had kept him safe while he plotted his vanishing act. "Coming, Mother," he called back, his voice carefully neutral, devoid of the tremor in his hands. He smoothed his expression into the expected attentive blankness, the dutiful son.
As he opened the door, the rich aroma of seared steak and expensive wine washed over him, mingling with the familiar, comforting scents of his family. For a heart-stopping moment, the love, the ingrained loyalty, threatened to swamp his resolve. He saw the genuine warmth in his mother's eyes, the fierce pride his father took in him, however misplaced. The laughter of his cousins echoed from the grand dining room down the hall.
This is the last supper, he thought, the words a cold anchor in the sudden tide of emotion. The last performance.
He followed his mother down the opulent corridor, past portraits of stern-faced ancestors who had built the empire he was about to abandon. His footsteps were silent on the plush runner. Every sense was heightened, hyper-aware. He catalogued the exits, the placement of security cameras (discreet, but present), the watchful gaze of the pack Beta lingering near the dining room entrance. He forced himself to engage in the dinner conversation, nodding at Kenneth's pronouncements on market volatility, offering a bland comment on the Vancouver property's potential. He ate the rare meat without tasting it, the rich flavor turning to ash on his tongue. Each minute stretched into an eternity, each casual touch from his mother a branding iron of guilt.
Later, back in his room, the mansion settling into the deep silence of the wealthy and powerful asleep, Abel moved with the precision of a ghost. He changed into dark, durable clothing – synthetic fabrics chosen for minimal scent retention. He shouldered the backpack, its weight a comforting promise of freedom. The leather pouch containing Ava's gifts felt warm against his chest.
He didn't look back. Slipping through a servants' passage known only to him from childhood explorations, he emerged into the cool, damp embrace of the night. The manicured lawns gave way to a high stone wall. He scaled it with preternatural grace, the wolf lending strength to his human form, landing silently on the other side in a narrow, garbage-strewn alley. The stink of the city – exhaust, decay, humanity – hit him, harsh and real. It was the scent of the life he was leaving behind.
He melted into the shadows, moving with instinctive caution towards the city's grimy outskirts, towards Ava's cottage and the ritual that would erase Abel Tiber, heir to the Tiber empire, and birth someone new. Someone with no scent, no past, no pack. Someone who belonged only to the whispering pines and the vast, indifferent sky. The hunt would come, he knew it with chilling certainty. But out there, in the true wilderness, under the ancient gaze of the moon, he would finally face it on his own terms. He took a final, deep breath of the polluted city air, tasting the bitter tang of farewell, and then turned his face towards the dark horizon, where the wild waited. The first step was the hardest. The next steps would be his own.