Brielle
The call comes at sundown. A single, deep note from a horn, echoing through the trees. It’s a summons. Not the frantic alarm bell from before, but a command. An order to assemble.
My first instinct is to hide. To bolt the door, retreat to the safe room, and wait for it all to be over. The thought of facing him again, of feeling that invisible tether pull taut between us in front of the entire pack, makes my stomach clench.
But I cannot. Hiding is an admission of guilt, though I do not know the crime. Defiance from an outcast on an Alpha’s first night is a sure way to draw the very attention I am desperate to avoid. I have survived this long by being a ghost, a shadow at the edge of their vision. A ghost does not disobey an Alpha’s summons.
So I pull my cloak tighter, the rough wool a familiar comfort against my skin. I check the small pouch at my hip. The herbs are still there. My tools of resistance. They feel flimsy now, like a child’s talismans against a coming storm.
I step out into the twilight. The air is cold, heavy with anticipation. Others are moving in the same direction, their faces grim, their steps hurried. No one speaks. The boisterous, chaotic energy of my pack has been replaced by a tense, watchful silence. He has been here only a few hours, and he has already changed the very air we breathe.
I join the stream of bodies flowing toward the central clearing, keeping to the edge, my head bowed. I find my usual place at the back, partially obscured by the thick trunk of an old maple. From here, I can see without being seen. Or so I hope.
Alpha Grant stands on the great rock, flanked by his two Betas. The setting sun casts him in silhouette, a figure of dark, imposing power. The pack is a sea of upturned faces, all eyes fixed on him. The fear from this afternoon has cooled into a hard, brittle apprehension. We are waiting for the axe to fall.
He does not speak for a long moment. He simply watches us, his winter grey eyes sweeping across the crowd with an unnerving intensity. I feel the path of his gaze like a physical touch, a cold draft that traces its way through the pack. I shrink behind the tree, praying to a goddess I am not sure I believe in.
His gaze passes my position, and I allow myself a small, shaky breath.
“You are the Silvermoon pack,” he finally says. His voice is not a shout. It is a low, resonant timber that carries effortlessly to every corner of the clearing. It is a voice that does not need to yell to be obeyed. “You have a proud history. A strong lineage. But you have forgotten what it means to be strong.”
A murmur of discontent ripples through the warriors at the front. His words are a direct insult.
“Strength is not laziness,” he continues, his voice cutting through the noise. “It is not indiscipline. It is not waiting for a three day fever to determine your worth.”
The pack flinches as one. He speaks of the Haze with contempt. Our most sacred tradition.
“Under my leadership, you will remember what true strength is. It is the warrior who patrols the borders when he would rather be sleeping. It is the hunter who provides for the elders before himself. It is the pack that stands as one, a shield against our enemies, not a chaotic mob of selfish impulses. I am not here to be your friend. I am here to be your Alpha. And you will learn to be wolves of stone and claw, or you will be broken against my rule.”
Silence. A deep, profound silence filled with shock and a dawning, grudging respect. He has not offered comfort. He has offered a challenge. An identity. For the first time, I see a flicker of something other than fear in the eyes of our warriors. I see purpose.
My wolf, a creature I have spent my life silencing, stirs in agreement. She recognizes the truth in his words. The strength. It calls to her.
It is into this charged silence that Sasha moves.
She glides from the front of the crowd, her movements fluid and confident. She has changed into a deep crimson dress that clings to her curves, her blonde hair intricately braided with silver clasps. She is a vision of she wolf beauty and status. She stops at the foot of the rock and dips into a graceful curtsy, a gesture of respect that is also a performance.
“Alpha Grant,” she says, her voice smooth and sweet as honey. It carries almost as well as his. “On behalf of the Silvermoon pack, we thank you for your words. We have been without a firm hand for too long.”
She rises, her amber eyes fixed on his face. “My father was Beta under Marcus. The Volkov line has served this pack for generations. We understand its needs. Its traditions.”
It is a clear political move. She is not just welcoming him. She is presenting her resume.
“An Alpha is strongest with a Luna at his side,” she continues, taking a bold step closer to the rock. “One who knows the heart of her people. One who can bridge the old ways with your new strength. I would be honored to serve you, and to serve this pack, in that role.”
The audacity of it takes my breath away. She is publicly offering herself to him, not just as a mate for the Haze, but as his Luna. The permanent Alpha female.
Grant watches her, his expression unreadable stone. For a moment, I think he will accept. It is a logical choice. Her family holds influence. It would smooth his transition of power. It is what any strategic Alpha would do.
“I thank you for your welcome, Lady Sasha,” he says, his tone polite, almost gentle. But there is an edge of ice beneath the words.
His gaze lifts from her perfect face. It travels over the heads of the pack, searching.
My blood runs cold. I know where it will land.
His eyes find mine. Across the entire clearing, through the dimming light, he locks onto me. The tether snaps taut, a jolt of pure energy that makes my knees weak. The world fades to a dull hum, and there is only his gaze, a physical weight pinning me to my spot.
“A Luna’s strength,” he says, still looking directly at me, “does not come from her family’s name. It comes from her own will. Her own spirit.”
His focus finally returns to the stunned girl at the base of his rock. “Your offer is… noted. But I will be the one to choose my Luna. And I will choose her for qualities that have nothing to do with politics or tradition.”
It is a dismissal. A polite, clinical, and utterly devastating public rejection.
Sasha’s face, which had been a mask of seductive confidence, shatters. A wave of red climbs her neck. The color of pure humiliation. The pack is silent, but the shift in energy is palpable. The whispers will be merciless.
Her head whips around, her amber eyes blazing with a furious, wounded pride. She searches for the cause of her rejection. She searches for the person he was looking at.
Her eyes find me.
They narrow into slits of pure venom. It is no longer the casual scorn of a popular girl for an outcast. This is the birth of true hatred. She sees me. Not as the broken Ice Maiden, but as a rival. The one who, without saying a word, has cost her everything.
The weight of his attention was unnerving. The weight of her hatred is terrifying.
I cannot breathe. The clearing feels like a cage, the silent stares of the pack its bars. The bond pulls at me, a constant, undeniable hum. Sasha’s glare burns into me. It is too much.
My body moves before my mind can think. I turn, pushing past a startled hunter, and break into a run. I do not look back. I flee the clearing, the pack, the Alpha on his rock, and the new, dangerous enemy I have made.
I run until my lungs burn, until the sounds of the pack are swallowed by the rustle of leaves and the frantic pounding of my own heart. I have spent my life trying to be invisible.
And in a single night, the new Alpha has put a spotlight on me, making me a target for the one person in this pack I should never have crossed.
