Thu’s cries reached me as I made my way to the hall, and I froze. The sound was sharp and very loud, rising above the distant chatter of pups at play. But it wasn’t the usual bratty tantrum. This was raw—a wail born of humiliation and pain. My wolf stirred restlessly, her claws scraping the edges of my mind.
“Don’t,” she warned, her growl low and bitter. “He’s not yours, Astra. Let him fend for himself.”
But my legs moved on their own.
I found him on the training grounds, surrounded by a group of pups. His small frame was hunched, his arms crossed defensively over his head as fists rained down on him. A feminine voice rose above the others, her words sharp enough to slice through the thick air.
“No wonder your mother doesn’t love you!” The girl’s sneer was cruel, her tone dripping with venom. “You’re a bully because she doesn’t care about you!”
The other pups laughed, their jeers growing louder as they pushed and prodded Thu. My heart twisted. The scene was too familiar.
The memory crashed into me, vivid and unwanted.
Seraiah’s sobs had been just as desperate the first time I saw her. She’d been brought into my territory by Fenrir, her clothes torn, her face pale with exhaustion.
“She was left to die at the border,” Fenrir had said coldly. “I brought her here out of pity.”
I’d looked at her, broken and trembling, and felt something shift inside me. Against my wolf’s growls of warning, I’d taken her to my own chambers, cleaned her wounds, and promised her safety.
“We’ll look after each other,” I’d said. “You’re not alone anymore.”
She’d thanked me with trembling lips, her hands clutching mine as though I were her lifeline.
How naïve I’d been.
“Mother” Thu whimpered, dragging me back to the present.
I blinked and found his tear-streaked face staring up at me. The other pups scattered the moment they saw me, their laughter turning to fear. Thu’s golden eyes locked onto mine, wide and desperate.
“They said you don’t love me,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Is it true?”
The words hit me like a punch. My wolf snarled, the bitter truth clawing at my chest. No, you don’t love him, she whispered. Because he isn’t yours.
Still, I couldn’t look away from him. His bloodied lip, the tremble in his hands—it all made my stomach twist.
“Go inside,” I said curtly, my voice cold and distant.
“But, Mother—”
“Now!” I snapped, and he flinched, his shoulders curling inward as though I’d struck him.
He turned and ran, his small frame disappearing into the shadows of the pack house.
That evening, I stood at the window of my chambers, staring out at the darkened forest. My mind was a storm of conflicting emotions. Thu’s cries echoed in my ears, but so did Fenrir’s voice, his lies, his betrayal.
“Why can’t I let it go?” I whispered, my voice hoarse.
Because you know the truth, my wolf growled. Your real child is out there. With her.
The knock at my door was sharp and impatient, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Come in,” I said, not bothering to mask the irritation in my tone.
Fenrir entered, his expression as grim as ever. His presence filled the room like a storm cloud, and my wolf immediately bristled.
“What do you want?” I demanded.
“You’re unraveling, Astra,” he said bluntly.
My lip curled in a snarl. “Watch your tongue.”
“It’s the truth,” he shot back. “The pack sees it. Thu sees it. You’re treating him like he’s the enemy when he’s just a child.”
“A child that isn’t mine!” I spat, my voice rising.
Fenrir’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know that,” he said quietly.
“Oh, I do,” I snarled. “I see her in him. I see you in him. And every time I look at him, I’m reminded of what you and Seraiah did to me.”
“You think this is about revenge?” His voice was sharp now, filled with anger. “You’re hurting an innocent boy because you can’t face your own pain. Do you even hear yourself?”
“Get out,” I hissed, my hands trembling.
“Astra—”
“I said, get out!”
Fenrir stared at me for a long moment, his eyes filled with something I couldn’t place. Then he turned and left, slamming the door behind him.
The next morning, I found Thu in the garden. He was sitting by the fountain, his small hands trailing through the water. He didn’t look up when I approached.
“Why aren’t you training?” I asked, my voice sharp.
He flinched but didn’t answer.
“Thu,” I said more firmly. “Look at me.”
When he did, his golden eyes were red and swollen from crying. My chest tightened despite myself.
“They don’t like me,” he said quietly. “The other pups. They say I’m mean. That you don’t love me.”
“Do you know why they say that?” I asked coldly.
He shook his head.
“Because you act like a tyrant,” I said. “Respect isn’t something you demand. It’s something you earn.”
His lower lip trembled, but he nodded. “I’ll try to be better,” he whispered.
For a moment, I softened. But then I saw it—the faint glimmer of Fenrir in his eyes, the shadow of Seraiah in the tilt of his chin—and my heart hardened again.
As the days passed, Thu’s behavior began to change. He became quieter, more withdrawn. But his aura—the unmistakable mix of Fenrir’s dominance and Seraiah’s cunning—grew stronger.
One day, I caught him sneaking into the war room, his small hands reaching for the maps spread across the table.
“What are you doing?” I demanded, my voice like a whip.
He jumped, his golden eyes wide with guilt. “I just wanted to see,” he said quickly.
“See what?”
“The territories,” he admitted. “I want to know them like you do.”
My wolf growled, suspicious. He’s planning something, she warned. Just like they did.
But I couldn’t prove it. Not yet.
The tension in the pack grew with every passing day. Fenrir and I barely spoke, our interactions laced with venom. And Thu—sweet, innocent Thu—was growing into something darker.
Another afternoon, I found him in the training grounds again, this time with Rakan, one of the older wolves. Thu was sparring, his small frame surprisingly quick and agile. But there was something unnerving about the way he moved—something too calculated, too ruthless for a pup his age.
“He’s strong,” Rakan said when he saw me watching.
“Too strong,” I muttered under my breath.
That night, as I sat alone in my chambers, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming. Something big.
And then the knock came.
“Ultima,” Rakan’s voice called from the other side of the door.
“What is it?”
“It’s Seraiah,” he said, his tone grim. “She’s been spotted near the eastern border.”
My blood ran cold.
“Is she alone?” I asked, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.
“No,” Rakan said. “She has a child with her.”
The world seemed to tilt.
“Bring them to me,” I ordered, my voice like steel.
“But—”
“Do it!”
As Rakan left, I sank into my chair, my hands trembling. My wolf growled low and eager, her claws raking at my mind.
It’s time, she said. Time to uncover the truth.
Fenrir’s anger was obvious as he stormed into the council chamber, his towering figure casted a long shadow across the room. I didn’t need to turn to feel his fury; it burned through the air like a wildfire, thick and suffocating.
“Astra,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “What have you done?”
I remained seated, my hands folded neatly on the table. My wolf stirred uneasily, but I forced her down. Not yet, I thought. Let him speak first.
“What have I done?” I repeated coolly, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve done what any mother would do—seek the truth.”
“The truth?” Fenrir spat, slamming his hands on the table. “You sent your men to drag Seraiah and her pup into this territory! Do you know what that could cost us?”
“You banished her…have you forgotten? Your carelessness will cost everyone.”
I tilted my head, studying him with an expression of feigned calm. “Cost us? Or cost you?”
