The courtyard reeked of iron. The stench of blood clung to the cold stones like a curse, refusing to fade. Dozens of wolves knelt in rows, their foreheads pressed to the ground, their bodies trembling. None dared to raise their eyes to the figure standing before them.
At the center, Kaelan towered above them all. His cloak rippled in the night wind, his presence more suffocating than the silence that bound the crowd. The torches around him hissed and sputtered, their flames bending as if to bow before their king.
At his feet lay the remnants of a punishment. Blood pooled where a pup had fallen earlier that day—guilty of nothing more than stealing a scrap of bread to ease his hunger. The child's cries had long since faded, but the memory of it lingered sharp in the air, a cruel reminder to all who witnessed.
Kaelan's voice shattered the silence.
"Loyalty," he declared, his tone cutting through the night, "is not measured by hunger."
He turned slowly, his gaze sweeping over the cowering wolves.
"Any soul who is not bound to me is not worthy of breath."
The words hung heavy, sinking like chains into the hearts of his people. When the pup's mother dared to lift her tear-streaked face, her eyes met Kaelan's. In that instant, the world collapsed around her. His stare was merciless, hollow, unyielding. She froze, her lips trembling, her voice breaking into a cry.
Kaelan did not raise his hand. He did not need to. The guards seized her by the arms and dragged her away. Her scream—raw, piercing, desperate—echoed through the courtyard, etching itself into every ear. None would forget it.
Not a soul moved. Not a soul breathed. For in the presence of the Shadow Alpha, even grief was a crime.
That night, long after the courtyard emptied and silence reclaimed the stones, another voice rose within the castle. It came not from the throne room, nor the barracks, but from deep below—in the dungeons where light dared not wander.
Chains rattled. An ancient voice hissed through the darkness.
"The time of prophecy draws near…"
It was the seer, the blind she-wolf who had lived in chains for years. Her fur had turned gray, her body frail, but her spirit—her spirit burned with unholy fire. Kaelan had tried once to silence her, to end her whispers, but the fates themselves seemed to guard her tongue. And so she remained, rotting in the dark, her words slithering like poison into every corner of the kingdom.
"The master of the black throne," she crooned, her lips curling into a twisted smile, "will fall to a wolf not of his blood."
Kaelan's boots echoed against the stone as he stepped closer to her cell. The iron bars groaned under the weight of his grip as he leaned forward, his shadow swallowing the frail figure within.
"Prophecies are toys for cowards," he growled, his voice reverberating through the chamber. "I carve my own fate."
The seer laughed, a dry, rasping sound that clung to the walls.
"You may carve your throne with blood, Shadow King," she whispered, "but you cannot carve away destiny."
For a heartbeat, Kaelan's eyes burned with fury—but beneath that fire lurked something else. Something he refused to acknowledge. Fear.
It was why he spilled blood so easily. Why he conquered and crushed, why he demanded not just loyalty but terror. Fear was the only weapon sharp enough to silence the gnawing dread in his chest.
But no matter how much blood he shed, fate remained. And that very night, far beyond the northern mountains, a foreign clan stirred. Their footsteps echoed across the dark earth, carrying with them the first whisper of change.
And among them walked a wolf with silver eyes.
The wolf that would shatter the Shadow Alpha's reign.