Tucked deep within a vast stretch of ancient forest, where mist crept between gnarled trees and the earth pulsed with hidden power, Blood Moon thrived. In this land of twilight woods and endless rivers, the pack lived not in fear, but in strength and warmth. Their homes, built of stone and dark wood, were strong but welcoming, with flowering vines weaving across sturdy beams and laughter echoing through the open courtyards.
The sun spilled golden warmth over Blood Moon Pack, casting long dappled shadows across the cobbled paths and wide-open courtyards. Children's laughter echoed from the training fields where younger wolves sparred under the patient eyes of their mentors. The scent of fresh bread and wildflowers carried on the breeze, blending with the familiar, comforting smells of home.
It was not a kingdom of fear.
It was a kingdom of fierce love.
At the heart of it all stood the pack house — a massive structure of dark stone and silverwood, its spires reaching toward the sky like watchful sentinels. It was not a cold or oppressive place, but rather a sanctuary, the beating heart of a pack deeply tied to its people and its land.
And at the center of this world stood their Alpha — King Alaric.
He was a man who needed no grand declarations to command loyalty. His presence alone, quiet and unyielding, was enough.
Alaric stood atop a stone balcony overlooking the training fields, the late afternoon sun casting gold across his raven-black hair. His broad shoulders were clothed in a simple dark tunic, the fabric brushing against the lean, powerful lines of his body. His skin was pale, kissed only lightly by the sun, a striking contrast to golden colour of his eyes — eyes that missed nothing.
He was beautiful in the way a wolf was beautiful — fierce, untamed, regal. His tall, broad-shouldered stance, with an effortless strength came not just from his Lycan blood but from the heavy mantle he bore with quiet pride.
Rumors about him ran wild beyond these woods — whispered tales of bloodshed, of merciless punishments, of a heart frozen beyond redemption.
Yet here, among his own, the truth was clear.
Alaric was not cruel.
He was fiercely protective.
His anger was not turned inward against his people but outward — against threats, against betrayal, against anything that dared to harm what was his.
The pack loved him for it. Loved him deeply.
A thin scar cut across his right eyebrow, a faded memory of wars fought long ago.
He was handsome — devastatingly so — but there was an air about him that made even the boldest pause. It wasn't cruelty. It wasn't arrogance. It was something more ancient. A wildness held in check by an iron will.
He had not earned his throne by lineage alone. He had fought for it. Bled for it. Killed for it.
And yet, here, within his own lands, there was no fear in the way his people looked at him. There was only devotion — deep and unwavering.
"You're brooding again."
The voice came light and teasing from behind him.
Without turning from where he stood on the balcony overlooking the village, Alaric spoke, "And you're still loud."
Elias, his Beta and childhood friend, ambled forward with an easy grin, coming to a stop beside him, a bundle of travel documents and scrolls tucked under one arm and an aplle in the other.
Elias being only a few inches shorter than Alaric, with messy brown hair and mischief in his grey blue eyes, was the only man alive who dared poke the King without risking his head.
Elias tossed an apple between his hands. "You're thinking too much again. Always a bad idea before a long journey."
Alaric finally turned, golden eyes sharp with amusement. "Worried I'll embarrass myself?"
"Terribly," Elias said, mock grim. "You might smile. Gods forbid."
Below, omegas bustled between the kitchens and the courtyard, preparing supplies for the journey: loaves of bread, dried meats, and cheeses wrapped carefully in cloth. Warriors polished weapons and strapped on armor, though their expressions were more relaxed than grim. Blood Moon was not a pack ruled by fear but by fierce loyalty — a family bound by more than blood.
It showed in the way they moved: easy, familiar, trusted.
"What are you thinking about?" Elias asked, biting into the apple.
"The gathering," Alaric said simply.
Elias rolled his eyes. "Another feast. More posturing. More little girls fluttering their lashes hoping you'll crown them Queen."
The King's expression hardened slightly.
"You sure you don't want to send an envoy in your place?" Elias asked in concern, flipping through the scrolls. "Let's be honest, it's not like you enjoy standing around listening to old alphas drone about border treaties and land disputes."
Alaric snorted. "If I don't show, it'll be seen as an insult. Blood Moon can't afford unnecessary enemies."
Elias clicked his tongue. "Diplomacy. Boring but necessary. Like fiber."
"You're an idiot," Alaric said dryly.
Elias only grinned wider. "And yet, somehow, still your Beta."
Alaric looked up at the sky, sighed softly.
"They will expect it soon," He murmured. "An heir. A mate."
Elias shrugged, grinning. "You'll find her when you least expect it. Maybe at Shadowfang."
At the mention of Shadowfang, a muscle feathered in Alaric's jaw.
Shadowfang was one of the stronger packs in the northern region — proud, fierce, and... complicated. Their Alpha was loyal enough, but there were always whispers of ambition stirring beneath the surface. And the upcoming gathering — hosted by the neighboring pack but requiring Alaric's presence at Shadowfang for a night — would no doubt set tongues wagging.
"The King's mate," Elias mused, winking. "Imagine the scandal if you chose a nobody."
Alaric smiled — cold and thin. "Let them imagine. It changes nothing."
Elias finished his apple and tossed the core off the balcony. "You're going to scare them half to death."
"Good."
They lapsed into a comfortable silence again, watching as a group of young warriors sparred in the open square. Their movements were swift and sharp, each clash of wooden training swords ringing out like music across the pack grounds.
Off to the side, a little boy tumbled while trying to mimic the older warriors, his mother laughing as she scooped him up and dusted off his knees. The sight softened Alaric's usually impassive expression for a heartbeat.
This — this was why he ruled the way he did.
Not out of thirst for power.
But to protect them. To make sure their laughter, their warmth, their futures were never taken.
"Looks like preparations are almost done," Elias said, glancing toward the courtyard where boxes filled with supplies were being loaded into the trunks of various vehicles. "We'll need to set off early tomorrow if we want to reach Shadowfang by sunset."
Alaric gave a short nod. "Double-check the supplies. No delays."
Elias offered a mock bow. "As you command, oh brooding one."
Before Alaric could retort, a young warrior approached them — a girl with sun-streaked hair and wide brown eyes.
"My King, Beta Elias," she said with a respectful bow. "The council chambers are prepared for the final briefing."
Alaric nodded. "Thank you, Lira. Tell them we'll be there shortly."
She darted away, moving with the lithe grace of someone who had grown up running these fields.
Elias sighed theatrically. "Final briefing. Sounds so formal. I was hoping for one last feast."
"There'll be time for feasts after," Alaric said, starting down the steps, his Beta falling into step beside him.
As they walked, the warmth of the afternoon wrapped around them — the scent of pine trees, the hum of bees darting between flowering bushes, the low murmur of a pack preparing for a rare journey together.
Blood Moon was beautiful in its way.
Not in the ostentatious, towering manner of larger packs, but in the way a hearthfire was beautiful on a cold night — warm, steady, alive.
They passed artisans repairing saddles and armorers sharpening blades. Children paused in their games to wave at their King, who, despite his stoic exterior, dipped his head in acknowledgment every time.
In the gardens, healers harvested medicinal herbs for the journey ahead, filling baskets with sprigs of lavender, mint, and golden calendula. Their soft laughter drifted through the air like music.
"Do you think they'll fall over themselves when they meet you?" Elias mused aloud, breaking the comfortable stillness. "The lovely ladies of Shadowfang, desperate to catch the eye of the 'mysterious King Alaric.'"
Alaric gave him a withering look. "I'm not there for mating games."
"Pity. You could use the entertainment. Maybe even find yourself a mate. I'm tired of being the only one with a personal life."
"You're one accident away from being exiled."
Elias laughed again, utterly unthreatened. "Worth it."
They reached the council chambers — a wide, sunlit hall with high beams and windows thrown open to let the breeze dance through. The elders and senior warriors were already gathered, murmuring among themselves.
Alaric's presence immediately quieted the room.
He spoke little — he didn't need to. His directives were clear, his expectations understood. The route, the contingencies, the security measures for his visit to Shadowfang: all reviewed, confirmed, double-checked.
He ended the meeting with a firm, simple command: "Protect each other. Represent Blood Moon with pride.
A chorus of affirmations answered him.
Afterward, Elias leaned in with a smirk. "See? You're getting better at the rousing speech thing. Almost shed a tear, personally."
Alaric ignored him, but the slight, almost invisible lift of his brow betrayed his amusement.
They left the chambers as the sun dipped lower, casting the pack in shades of gold and crimson. Fires were being lit; the scent of roasting meat filled the air. Packs preparing to send off their warriors sang songs of protection and fortune, voices rising to the sky.
That night, as Alaric stood on the balcony of his quarters overlooking the lively heart of Blood Moon, he allowed himself a single breath of peace.
Tomorrow, they would ride.
Tomorrow, the world beyond their safe haven would demand his attention again.
But tonight — tonight he was simply Alaric, guardian of his people, standing watch over all he held dear.