The black convoy rolled to a smooth halt before the Shadowfang pack house, engines humming low like a gathering storm. The tension in the air was palpable, as if even the wind held its breath in anticipation.
The massive oak doors of the pack house stood wide open, flanked by the highest officials of the pack. Warriors in gleaming uniforms stood at attention, their postures flawless; council members draped in ceremonial sashes stood silently, their faces marked with the weight of their positions; elders bearing the marks of long service bowed their heads in deep reverence. They all dropped to their knees in perfect unison, heads touching the earth — a show of respect and submission to the Alpha King.
The air crackled with an intensity that bordered on reverence and fear, a combination that stirred something primal inside Alaric. Yet, despite the display of respect before him, his attention was momentarily pulled away from the ceremony.
Inside the lead vehicle, Alaric Magnus sat motionless, his sharp gaze focused on the pack house, but his mind was momentarily elsewhere. He felt it — a presence in the air, a faint trace of something just beyond his reach. His gloved hands rested lightly on his knees, his posture perfect. The car was silent, save for the faint sounds of his guards' breathing, the soft whisper of the wind through the trees — and something else.
The wind shifted at that precise moment.
It carried to him a scent, so faint it could've been a fleeting hallucination. A soft, sweet curl of vanilla and citrus. Warm, bright, yet fleeting — brushing against his senses like the gentle touch of a ghost, before disappearing into the broader scent of pine and stone that dominated the area.
Alaric froze.
His wolf, dormant until that moment, jolted awake with a force that took him by surprise. A low growl rumbled deep within him, vibrating through his chest as it paced restlessly, clawing at the edges of his control. Mate? it snarled, voice full of confusion and desperate yearning. Find. Now.
Alaric's steps faltered.
He stood there for a moment longer than he should have, momentarily lost in the haze of the scent, his sharp, cold focus cracking at the edges. The desire to chase it, to trace it, to find what had caused this disruption inside him — it clawed at him, raw and undeniable. The scent was already gone, snatched away by the capricious wind, but its effect lingered. The hunger inside him coiled deeper, pressing against the walls of his self-control.
The officials around him remained kneeling, their foreheads brushing the gravel, awaiting his command.
Seconds stretched unbearably.
Alaric's chest tightened, his mind clouded with the primal instincts warring inside him. But just as quickly, Elias's voice cut through the haze — the mindlink coming through with quiet urgency.
"Alaric. Focus. You need to address them."
The reminder was a cold slap, and it jolted him back to reality. Alaric blinked, forcing his gaze to steady, pushing the hunger and the questions aside. The moment was slipping away, and he could not afford distractions.
His wolf protested, growling low, but he suppressed it with the force of his will. Alaric was Alpha King. He was in control.
"Rise," he commanded, his voice smooth, calm, and mercilessly composed.
The officials lifted their heads, their movements cautious and precise. Many of them stole glances at him, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and unease. Before them stood Alaric Magnus — Alpha King, the enforcer of ancient laws, a name spoken of in whispers, both feared and revered.
A tremor seemed to ripple through the gathered officials as Alpha Darion stepped forward. A towering figure, broad-shouldered with silvering hair and a scar running from his temple to his jaw, a mark of battles long fought and won. He was the leader of Shadowfang, and his eyes held respect, but there was also the unmistakable gleam of fear.
Darion dropped into a lower bow, a deeper show of submission than before, his hand pressed firmly to his chest.
"Your Majesty," Darion said, his voice carrying the weight of deep respect, "I am Darion Thorn, Alpha of the Shadowfang Pack. We are honored to host you and your esteemed entourage."
Behind him, the other officials introduced themselves quickly — the Beta, the lead warrior, the senior council members — each of them bowing in turn. The respect in their eyes was evident, but so too was the tension that hung thick in the air.
Alaric listened in silence, his expression impassive, his gaze flicking from face to face, registering the forms of submission, the echoes of deference. But his mind, his senses, were still occupied with the scent that lingered on the edge of his consciousness. It tugged at him, refusing to be ignored.
When the introductions were complete, Darion straightened and continued, his voice steady but deferential. "We have prepared the pack house for your comfort. A brief rest has been arranged after your journey, should you desire it. And tonight," he added, his voice full of careful respect, "a feast has been prepared in your honor — to celebrate your safe passage and to pay homage to your station."
The mention of the feast sent a ripple of nervous anticipation through the gathered officials. The weight of hosting the King was a heavy one — a chance to gain favor if done well, but disastrous if any slight was perceived. The balance was fragile, and Alaric could feel the tension in the air.
"Very well," he said, his voice low and even, but every word carried weight. "We will rest briefly. Then attend the feast."
Rowan exhaled quietly in relief and gestured toward the wide steps leading up into the pack house. The stone steps gleamed, scrubbed to perfection, and banners bearing the ancient insignia of the werewolf Court hung from the rafters, their crimson and black colors snapping lightly in the breeze.
The King's party moved as one, following Alaric up the steps. Shadowfang's officials parted to either side, bowing their heads as the group passed. The air was thick with expectation, yet Alaric's mind remained preoccupied.
As he crossed the threshold of the pack house, the ghost of that scent lingered, pulling at the edges of his awareness. His wolf stirred restlessly beneath his skin, prowling just beneath the surface, desperate for more. He could feel the faint traces of the scent like a thread leading him somewhere — but where? And why was it so... intoxicating?
Mate? His wolf growled once again, its voice a soft echo in his mind. Must find. Must trace. Why does it call?
Alaric's thoughts spiraled for a moment, the weight of his wolf's hunger clawing at him. He forced himself to focus, pushing the thoughts aside. Not now, he reminded himself sternly. I am Alpha King. I will not be distracted.
The pack house loomed around him, its grand hall filled with light and warmth. Torches lined the walls, and the sound of distant voices mingled with the crackling of fire. Long tables stretched across the room, laden with rich food and drink. The air smelled of roasted meats and fresh bread, and yet beneath it all, the faintest trace of vanilla and citrus lingered.
He could not escape it. His wolf would not let him.
Curiosity bubbled inside him, a primal drive he had not felt in years. What was it about that scent? Why did it pull at him like this? Why did his wolf crave it so desperately?
Alaric mindlinked Elias, his Beta, the only one who could read him like no other. "Elias," he began, his voice soft but filled with concern, "There is something... something strange in the air here. A scent. It's faint but... it pulls at me. Have you noticed it?"
The response came almost instantly. "Scent?" Elias's voice was laced with curiosity, though he hid his concern behind a calm demeanor. "I have not. What do you mean?"
Alaric inhaled deeply, tasting the air again. The scent was still there, lingering in the background. "Vanilla and citrus. A warmth, something... inviting."
Elias paused, the silence on the other end growing. "A scent, Your Majesty?" His tone was filled with thought. "I'll keep an eye on it."
Alaric let out a breath, pushing the unsettling feeling aside as best as he could. But his wolf was relentless. It kept pulling at him, demanding to find the source of the scent. The king knew better than to act on impulse, but there was a gnawing sensation deep inside, a feeling that something — or someone — was waiting to be found.
But for now, the rest was the priority. No hazards had occurred so far. No immediate threat loomed on the horizon.
Alaric's steps echoed in the grand hall as they led him toward the chambers prepared for him. As his party moved to settle in, the feast beckoned — a celebration, but also a reminder of the delicate balance he now had to maintain.
And yet, his wolf, still hungry for answers, remained restless.