There is a common theme among wolves: those who live share a relentless desire to stay that way—to protect their pack. The 12th family, my home, taught me this truth with every act of defiance, every life lost, every second they stood beside me, knowing my father had betrayed both the crown and the goddess.
–Diary of Elsbeth Moonchild, Alpha of the cursed Southern Pack
The sun kissed my cheek, soft and warm, wrapped in the embrace of my lover—my mate. I'd never felt so safe. His large body coiled around me like a blanket. His scent—intoxicating. The pull of a fresh mate bond had its claws buried deep in my belly.
He slept soundly, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek soothing something primal in me. A soft smile played on his lips, peaceful and unguarded, and I couldn't help but admire him. His face was a masculine masterpiece—the kind of beauty sculpted by the Moon Goddess herself. His chiseled jaw was strong but inviting, shadowed by the faintest kiss of stubble that had seemingly appeared overnight. The sharpness of his features couldn't be dulled, not even by sleep. His lips, full and a shade deeper than his pale skin, parted slightly.
I had to suppress the sudden urge to kiss him.
I found myself wishing he'd open those eyes—smoldering and wild—reflecting the green of pine needles, the same scent I now breathed as mine. Last night, the intensity of that gaze had set my heart on fire.
Even now, his brow was lightly furrowed, as if lost in thought even while dreaming. For all his sharp edges, there was a softness to him—a gentleness that drew me closer. Or maybe it was just the lingering afterglow of the many orgasms he'd coaxed from me, like a poet crafting the perfect verse.
His body was magnificent. Taller than me, broad-shouldered, his strong arms wrapped around a chest that rose and fell with the rhythm of sleep. Muscles shifted beneath the thin sheet, his form carved like marble. His arms were the perfect contrast—hard muscle beneath soft skin, a promise of restrained power. His legs were long, lean, beautifully proportioned.
I could imagine the way he moved—graceful, silent, like a predator aware of every inch of his body and how it commanded the space around him. But it wasn't just how he looked that bewitched me—it was how he felt. How he moved through the world with a magnetic presence I couldn't tell apart from our bond. His mere existence stirred something deep in me, as though he held the power to make my very soul tremble with a single smile.
I didn't know how long I stared before his eyes finally opened, catching me in a gentle look. He nuzzled into the crook of my neck and breathed me in.
"Elsbeth, love. Good morning." His words rumbled in his chest, and I felt them against my skin like the purring of a great beast. I sighed and nestled in closer, repeating the question I'd whispered to him last night.
"What should I call you, love?"
He laughed, low and rough. "My name—Fenrir—would be a good place to start."
Fenrir. I tasted it like a rare truffle, rich and dark, letting it melt on my tongue.
I shook my head teasingly. "No, no. That won't do."
"Oh?" he murmured, kissing the side of my neck. "What'll you call me then?"
I gasped as his lips grazed the mating mark, fire shooting through me.
"I'll call you Fen. My Fen," I whispered, breathless, feeling his smile curve against my skin.
I was a heartbeat away from claiming him again when a knock at the door shattered our bubble. I growled instinctively. He chuckled and called out, "Come in!"
An elderly woman entered with slow, careful steps. Her maid's uniform was plain, but pristine—not a single wrinkle or crease. She moved with an easy grace, a quiet dignity that only age and experience could bestow. In her hands, she carried a tray laden with food, and her presence radiated calm, like a hush in a sacred place.
She smiled warmly at me and bowed. "My queen, your council is gathering. There's been another incident."
Fen rose at once, nodding in acknowledgment. I didn't expect him to show such deference to a servant—and yet he did. My father had always taught me to show equal respect to all, from the highest noble to the lowest hand. That Fen did the same warmed my heart in unexpected ways.
As she exited, so did the comfort of his warmth beside me.
---
The throne room was rougher than I remembered. In my time, it had been a symphony of polished marble and silk—now it was still young, unrefined. The stone raw and imperfect, softened only by the rich, mismatched silks cascading down like waterfalls of color, each bearing the emblem of one of the twelve houses. And yet, even now, it hummed with a quiet, unspoken majesty.
Bold crimsons, deep blues, regal purples—all fluttered in the torchlight, whispering history into the dreary afternoon. A reminder of the burden draped across my shoulders.
The floor beneath my bare feet was polished marble, veined with smoky greys, obsidian black, and flickers of gold. It looked like stars scattered across dark water. The coldness beneath me hummed with magic—an ever-present reminder of this room's sacred purpose.
At the far end, the throne caught the torchlight like something born of legend: a towering sculpture of filigreed gold and carved stone. Its high back vanished into the shadows of the ceiling. Purple silks draped the armrests, bearing the mark of the 12th house.
It caught my gaze like a challenge, a promise—to rule, to rise, to carry the legacy of the woman whose life I now inherited, and those who had come before. The throne was just a chair, yes—but it reminded me that true rulers must be born of both strength and grace.
I winced, suddenly self-conscious of my bare feet.
The throne room of my childhood had always been a place of contrasts. Sharp stone met soft silk. Cold marble beneath feet, and history hanging in the air like incense. A space where rulers were forged and legacy whispered from every wall. A place where destiny waited in the shadows, patient and unyielding.
The only ancient thing that remained was the round council table. Its surface was worn smooth by centuries of touch—by the hands that had shaped the twelve tribes, forged peace, and carved war. Around it sat the council—formidable, timeless. One from each house, the oldest of our kind. Wolves whose bodies had begun to fade, but whose bond with the Moon Goddess had only grown stronger, sometimes gifting them with powers that defied understanding.
Among them, only one bore such a blessing.
Her face was a map of time, each wrinkle an epic carved in flesh. Her eyes crinkled with warmth but shimmered with knowing—knowledge that could bend the world if she chose to use it. Elder MoonChild of the 12th House. I recognized her instantly, even now, from the portrait that still hung in the entryway of our packhouse.
Her once-vibrant red hair was now mostly silver. Her hands, though gnarled, rested steady on the table. She held herself with a quiet strength that spoke of an ancient power still coiled beneath her skin. I believed she could still shift into her true form and tear the world apart, if need be.
Beside her sat a man I didn't recognize. Younger than the others, he leaned forward as I entered. His face was all sharp lines and shadow, a battlefield etched in flesh. His eyes were wild, untamed, full of forest and fury. He looked like someone who belonged more to the wilds than these stone halls.
Only he and Elder MoonChild had removed their hoods, a mark of trust under our ancient customs. He had to be the head of the 1st House—the only house to never covet the throne. The impartial judge in our disputes and the healer when things go awry.
The others kept their hoods drawn, and a chill crawled down my spine. Their silence, their cloaked faces—it was a quiet declaration of mistrust. The wounds between our packs had not yet healed.
"What's happened, Elder MoonChild?" I asked, turning my gaze to her. I nodded once to the man beside her. "Elder Whiteclaw."
Ten other hoods remained drawn. The only thing differentiating them being numbers etched onto the back of each chair. Today they were not in order, like someone had shuffled them, to keep everyone off balance. I couldn't help sparing another glance at Elder MoonChild at that thought. Meeting my eyes she gives me knowing smile back.
"Well?" I prompt, taking my seat on the throne, with my mate, Fen, standing besides me. His reassuring smell of pine trees and cinnamon keeps me grounded. Though I can't see the other elders faces, there's a nervous energy in the room that I can't quite pin down.