Chapter One
The Lycans had lived in order for centuries, or at least that was what the elders had always claimed.
Seven tribes. Seven gifts. Speed, strength, sight, endurance, precision, cunning, and ferocity. Each tribe was born to guard their gift like fire, to keep the balance that the Moon herself had laid in their bones.
And above them all, one throne, one king.
The Alpha Omega.
Royal blood. The Blessed blood. A king not because he claimed the right, but because he carried all seven traits in his body, stitched together by the Moon's breath. He was more than ruler; he was balanced itself, the center stone that kept the others from collapsing into war.
But envy grows quietly. Like weeds through stone, it works unseen—until suddenly everything cracks.
The Lightning Tribe had once bowed to that throne. No one doubted their loyalty. Their speed was unmatched, their discipline the envy of the clans. Yet behind their vows lived hunger. And hunger, left unspoken, turns to rot.
It began with whispers. Whispers that royal blood could sharpen what was already sharp, could take the gift of speed and twist it into something new—something greater. If one tribe could seize all traits, why should the Alpha Omega remain alone at the top?
And so, when the Festival of Moons came, with its bonfires and chants and music pounding like war drums, betrayal wore the mask of celebration.
The royal den smelled of roasted meat and pine smoke. Children ran with sparklers, elders poured wine into silver cups. The Alpha Omega stood proud in his mantle, his queen at his side, his people gathered in harmony. No one knew that death was already walking among them.
The first scream came with the first strike of lightning.
It was not from the sky. It was from claws crackling with speed and fury, tearing through flesh as though it were cloth. The Lightning Tribe moved as one storm—too fast to count, too merciless to plead with. Torches fell, fire leapt to the banners, smoke clawed its way into every lung.
The Alpha Omega roared, his voice shaking the stones, and met the betrayal head-on. For every strike he landed, three more came. His gifts lit the air—sight flashing, strength shattering bone, cunning weaving through chaos—but the storm was endless. His blood darkened the stones. His mantle fell. And the bond that held the tribes together broke in that single heartbeat.
The queen did not wait to mourn. She ran.
Her arms clutched her child to her chest, the baby's cries drowned by the clash of steel and thunder. Her feet slipped on wet stone, arrows whistled past her ears. Somewhere behind her, someone shouted her name, but she didn't turn. She couldn't.
The cliffs were ahead. The ocean below.
Her breath came ragged, her body streaked with wounds she no longer felt. She pressed her lips to her daughter's brow, tasting ash and salt. The baby blinked up at her, unaware of the weight of kingdoms pressing on her tiny chest.
"Live," the queen whispered, voice breaking. "Even if I cannot—live."
She stepped to the edge. The sea thundered below, waves white with fury. With her last strength, she threw her child into the water's arms. A small bundle of cloth and life swallowed by the tide.
Then she turned. And she faced the storm.
The Lightning warriors closed in. Claws gleamed, eyes alight with betrayal's fire. She bared her teeth and went down fighting, her last cry tearing through the smoke.
By dawn, the kingdom was ash. The Alpha Omega's line was declared finished.
But the sea had other plans.
The child drifted through the night, waves rocking her as though the Moon herself cradled her. When morning broke, a figure stood on the shore. Not a stranger—someone whose hands were already red with guilt.
The mate of the Lightning Alpha.
She should have walked away. Worse, she should have finished what her tribe had started. But her eyes fell upon the baby, wrapped in kelp and silence, and her heart betrayed her. She bent, lifted the child, and pressed her against her chest, this weakness was because she didn't have a child of her own.
"This is madness," she whispered, though no one else was there to hear. "This will destroy me."
But she carried the child home all the same.
The girl grew up with no name, or at least none that mattered. In the Lightning tribe she was an "Omega," a weak wolf in the corner, a servant meant to scrub floors and fetch water. She learned quickly that invisibility was survival. Speak too loudly, and the warriors mocked. Work too slowly, and their fists reminded her of her place.
She bore it all in silence.
Only one pair of eyes ever softened when they landed on her: the Alpha's mate. The woman who had plucked her from the sea, who carried her secret like a blade pressed to her throat. Yet even she never spoke the truth aloud. To reveal it would mean both their deaths.
So the girl lived in the shadows, scrubbing away the blood of hunts, carrying the scraps of meals she would never taste. Her hands blistered, her back bent, her spirit pressed down until it should have broken.
But it did not.
Because though she was called nothing, she was not nothing.
Though they buried her in shame, her bloodline ran deeper than they could ever know.
She was the last child of the Alpha Omega.
And fate does not stay buried forever.