The tension in the healer’s den was suffocating. My roar still echoed in the ears of everyone present, but I couldn’t push further. My legs gave out, my energy spent. Fenrir caught me before I hit the ground, his touch burning my skin like fire.
He looked into my eyes innocently like he wasn’t the one I overheard plotting to take over my empire.
“Let go of me,” I hissed, shoving him away.
He backed off, holding his hands up as if to pacify me, but his eyes betrayed fear. Good. He should be afraid. They all should. I was docile but I knew of my strength.
I glanced toward Seraiah. She clutched the pup in her arms like it was her lifeline, refusing to meet my gaze. Her defiance sent a fresh wave of rage through me, but I swallowed it down. For now. My pack didn’t need to know the truth, not yet. Weakness could not taint my leadership.
“Get her out of my sight,” I ordered the midwives, my voice cold and sharp.
The healers scrambled to obey, dragging Seraiah away, but the pup stayed with her, bundled tightly in her arms. I wanted to see the child, it sounds feminine.
I should’ve fought harder, demanded they pry the child from her hands. But my body betrayed me. The fight, the labor—it had drained me completely. I could only watch as she disappeared, leaving me alone with Fenrir and the wailing child they’d forced into my arms.
The next few days were a blur of anger and exhaustion. My mind raced with plans to uncover the truth, but no matter how much I interrogated Fenrir or shadowed the healers, they’d covered their tracks perfectly. There was no proof that the pup wasn’t mine.
I sat on my throne in the Alpha Hall, the false child crying in his cradle nearby. His cries were relentless, piercing, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch him. Every time I looked at him, my wolf snarled in disgust.
“He’s not mine,” I muttered to myself, over and over. “He’s not mine.”
Fenrir stormed in, his face a mask of frustration. “Astra, enough!”
I shot him a glare that could’ve turned him to ash. “Enough of what, Fenrir?”
“Of this madness!” He gestured toward the pup, his voice rising. “You’re letting him starve. He’s just a pup, Astra. Whatever you think happened—whatever you think I did—it’s not his fault!”
I stood, my claws extending. “Don’t you dare defend this… this thing!” I growled, stepping toward him. “I know what you and Seraiah did. You think you’ve won? That you’ve taken everything from me?”
“Astra—”
“Don’t say my name!” My voice cracked with fury. “You’re a traitor, Fenrir. Both of you. But I won’t let the pack see me crumble. No one will know how deep your betrayal runs. Do you understand me?”
His face paled, but he nodded. He knew better than to challenge me when I was like this.
That night, I called a private council meeting. Only our most trusted betas attended. I stood at the head of the table, every inch the Ultima they needed me to be.
“Seraiah is to be banished,” I announced, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.
A ripple of shock passed through the room. One of the betas, Rakan, frowned. “Banished? My lady, she just gave birth. What crime has she committed?”
I clenched my fists, forcing my voice to remain calm. “Her presence here weakens our territory. She’s been conspiring with outsiders, endangering us all. As your Ultima, I won’t tolerate treachery.”
The others exchanged uneasy glances. They didn’t question me outright—no one dared—but I could feel their doubts. It didn’t matter. They would obey.
“Rakan,” I continued, “you’ll escort her to the border at dawn. Make sure she understands the consequences of returning.”
“Yes, my lady.” He bowed his head, though his unease lingered.
At dawn, I stood on the hill overlooking the southern border. The rising sun bathed the forest in golden light, but it did nothing to warm the ice in my chest. Below, I watched as Rakan led Seraiah to the edge of my territory.
She walked with her head high, defiance in every step. The pup she’d stolen was strapped to her chest, the tiny cries echoing through the trees. She didn’t look back, not once, as she crossed into the neutral lands beyond.
A part of me wanted to charge after her, to rip that smug look off her face and take what was mine. But another part—one I hated—felt relief. With her gone, I could focus on the false child Fenrir had left me with.
The days that followed were a nightmare. The pup cried constantly, his tiny body shaking with need. The healers insisted he was healthy, that he just needed his mother’s touch. But I couldn’t bring myself to hold him.
Every time I looked at him, I saw Fenrir’s betrayal. Seraiah’s smug smile. The lies they’d built around me.
One night, as the pup wailed in his cradle, Fenrir burst into my chambers. His hair was disheveled, his face lined with exhaustion.
“This has to stop,” he said, his voice low and firm.
I ignored him, staring out the window at the moonlit forest.
“Astra.” He stepped closer, his voice softening. “I know you’re hurting. But this… this isn’t you.”
I turned to him slowly, my eyes burning with hatred. “You don’t know me at all, Fenrir.”
He flinched but didn’t back down. “You can hate me all you want. But that pup is innocent. He doesn’t deserve this.”
“Innocent?” I laughed bitterly. “He’s the product of your lies, Fenrir. Every time I look at him, I see your betrayal.”
“He’s still yours, Astra!” Fenrir snapped, his voice cracking. “You carried him, you gave birth to him. No matter what you think happened, that pup is a part of you.”
I froze, his words hitting me like a blow.
Was he right? Could he be?
No. He was lying. He had to be.
I turned back to the window, my voice hollow. “Leave me, Fenrir.”
“Astra—”
“Leave!”
He hesitated, but eventually, I heard the door close behind him.
Alone, I stared at the moon, its light casting long shadows across the room. The pup’s cries softened, fading into quiet whimpers. My wolf stirred uneasily, torn between instinct and fury.
I approached the cradle, my hands trembling. The pup’s tiny face was scrunched in distress, his little fists waving in the air. For a moment, I felt something—an ache deep in my chest, like a bond trying to form.
But then I remembered Fenrir’s words. Seraiah’s laughter. The lies.
“You’re not mine,” I whispered, stepping back.
The pup’s cries grew louder, piercing the silence. I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to reach for him.
In the weeks that followed, the pack began to whisper. They noticed my distance, my coldness toward the child. Fenrir tried to intervene, playing the doting father in my absence, but it only made things worse.
The healers started visiting more frequently, their concern evident with fear. One of them, a young wolf named Lyric, approached me one evening.
“My lady,” she began hesitantly, “the pup needs you.”
I glared at her. “He has everything he needs.”
“With respect,” she continued, “he doesn’t. A pup without his mother’s bond is vulnerable. He won’t thrive like this.”
Her words stung, but I refused to let it show. “Thank you for your concern, Lyric. You’re dismissed.”
She hesitated, her eyes filled with worry, but she bowed and left.
Late that night, I stood in the nursery, watching the pup sleep. His tiny chest rose and fell with each breath, his cries finally silenced.
For the first time, I allowed myself to wonder: what if Fenrir was telling the truth? What if this child was mine?
The thought terrified me. If he was mine, then I’d failed him.
But if he wasn’t…
I turned away, my heart heavy. The truth was out there, somewhere. And I would find it—no matter the cost.
