They say every Alpha is born with a mate bond waiting somewhere in the world, a connection that will complete them, make them whole, give them the strength to lead their pack. They say it is the foundation of what we are, the sacred thread that separates us from common beasts. They say without it, you are nothing.
I was born with emptiness where that bond should be.
My mother knew it the moment I came into this world. She told me years later, when I was old enough to understand, that she felt no pull toward me, no instinctual surge of protection that should have flooded her the second she held me. The midwives whispered. The pack elders gathered in dark corners, debating whether a child born without even a parent bond deserved to live.
My father made the decision to keep me. Not out of love, I learned later, but out of curiosity. He wanted to see what would become of something so fundamentally broken.
I grew up watching other children discover their connections, the way their eyes would light up when they found their siblings in a crowd, how they moved in perfect synchronization during hunts, and understanding each other without words. I observed from the outside, studying the mechanics of something I would never possess.
The pack treated me like a disease they couldn't cure. Children were warned not to play with me. Adults spoke around me rather than to me, as if acknowledging my existence might somehow spread my curse. I learned early that survival meant becoming useful in ways that transcended instinct.
So I studied everything. I watched how disputes were settled, how hierarchies formed, how fear could be more effective than affection. I memorized the weaknesses of every Alpha in our territory, cataloged their habits, and understood their predictable patterns. Where they relied on bond intuition, I developed cold calculations.
My first kill came when I was fifteen. An Alpha's son, two years older than me, built like a warrior and bonded to half the young fighters in training. He cornered me behind the training grounds, tired of the cursed one existing in his space. He thought it would be easy.
I broke his neck before he finished his first threat.
The pack erupted in outrage. An unbonded killing was considered impossible, unnatural, an offense against the order of things. They demanded my execution. My father, still curious about his experiment, instead declared it a legitimate challenge. The boy had attacked first. I had simply won.
That victory taught me something crucial. Bonds made you strong, yes, but they also made you predictable. They created patterns, assumptions, weaknesses that could be exploited by someone willing to see them clearly.
I killed my second challenger six months later. Then a third. Then a fourth. Each time, the pack's horror grew, but so did something else. Fear. Uncertainty. The uncomfortable realization that maybe bonds weren't the only path to strength.
By the time I was twenty, I had killed twelve bonded Alphas. Not in rage, not in passion, but with careful planning and ruthless execution. I studied each one, learned their bond connections, and understood how those connections made them vulnerable. I struck when they were separated from their bonded partners, when instinct left them reaching for support that couldn't arrive in time.
The pack elders called for my banishment. Too dangerous, they said. Too unnatural. My father finally agreed, perhaps disappointed that his experiment had grown beyond his control.
I left at dawn with nothing but the clothes I wore and the knowledge I had accumulated.
I spent the next five years moving between territories, observing how different packs functioned, how their political structures operated, where their true power resided. I learned that most Alphas ruled through tradition rather than intelligence, relying on ancient hierarchies that no one questioned because no one thought to question them.
I also learned that the world was fracturing. The pack fought over resources and territory. Human kingdoms grew bolder, encroaching on Lycan lands. The old systems were failing, but everyone was too bound by tradition to see it.
When I was twenty five, I returned to my father's territory. Not as the cursed child, but as something else entirely. I had information, strategies, connections to rogue elements that operated outside pack structures. I offered my services as a strategist, nothing more.
My father was dying by then, his bond mate already gone, leaving him hollow and weak. He accepted my help because he had no other options.
Within six months, I had consolidated power around myself rather than him. Within a year, I had eliminated every rival Alpha who might challenge the transition. Within two years, I held three territories through a network of fear, obligation, and calculated brutality that had nothing to do with bonds.
My father died quietly in his sleep. Some said I poisoned him. They were right.
I took his throne not because I was destined for it, not because any bond declared me worthy, but because I had made it impossible for anyone else to hold it.
That was fifteen years ago.
Now I am king of an empire held together by blood law and absolute force. They call me the Ruthless Lycan King. They call me cursed. They call me a monster.
They are not wrong.