The boy, Thu, had grown far quicker than I anticipated. At six years old, his presence in the pack was already undeniable. His golden eyes, so much like mine, gave the illusion of belonging, but his demeanor betrayed the blood that flowed in his veins. His aura was sharp, feral, and commanding—a dangerous mix of Fenrir’s cunning and Seraiah’s fire.

Yet, he took my eyes. Those were the only moments that gave me pause, those rare flickers of familiarity when he gazed at me, and I saw something akin to my own reflection staring back. It was maddening.

I took Thu with me as I traveled through the territories, introducing him to the borders he would one day oversee. Or so I allowed him to believe.

“This,” I said, gesturing to the dense forest ahead, “is the northern border. Beyond it lies the Bloodfang Pack. They’re allies, for now.”

Thu nodded, his sharp eyes scanning the area. He absorbed everything like a sponge, but I never gave him the full picture. He didn’t need to know the secret paths, the weaknesses in the defenses, or the true power dynamics at play.

“Why don’t we attack them?” he asked suddenly, his voice cold and emotionless.

I stiffened, hiding my reaction. “We don’t attack allies unless they give us a reason.”

“But if they’re weak, isn’t it smarter to take what’s ours before they realize it?”

My wolf stirred uneasily. He was too much like them—Fenrir and Seraiah. Ruthless, strategic, and unrelenting.

“We don’t rule through unnecessary bloodshed,” I said firmly, but the truth was I wasn’t entirely convinced of my own words.

Thu merely smirked, a small, knowing curve of his lips that made my stomach twist.

Back at the main camp, Thu’s presence became even more disruptive. The other pups avoided him, and those who didn’t were soon forced to. He was cruel in ways I didn’t expect, his punishments for perceived slights both physical and psychological.

“I am the heir,” he declared one day, standing atop the training grounds with a boy pinned beneath his clawed foot. “You will respect me or suffer.”

The boy whimpered, but Thu pressed harder, drawing blood. The other pups froze, their fear thick in the air.

“Enough!” My voice cut through the scene like a blade.

Thu looked up at me, his eyes gleaming with defiance. For a moment, I thought he would challenge me, but he stepped back, letting the boy scramble away.

“They need to learn, Mother,” he said, his tone eerily calm.

“They’ll learn under my rules,” I snapped, my voice low and dangerous. “You’re not Alpha yet, Thu. Remember that.”

He bowed his head, but the smirk never left his face.

My revenge against Fenrir was slow, deliberate. The years had done little to dull my anger. If anything, it burned brighter with each passing day. I wanted him to suffer, to feel the weight of his betrayal as heavily as I did.

It started small—an injury here, a lost title there.

During a sparring session, I “accidentally” caught him off guard, slashing his arm deeply enough to leave a permanent scar.

“Careless,” I said coldly as he clutched his bleeding limb.

Fenrir’s eyes flashed with a mix of anger and hurt, but he said nothing. He knew better than to challenge me openly.

Then came the titles. I began stripping him of his responsibilities under the guise of restructuring the pack’s leadership.

“The pack needs stronger figures in these roles,” I told the council. “Fenrir has done his best, but we must prepare for the future.”

The council, ever loyal, nodded in agreement. Fenrir’s jaw clenched, but again, he remained silent. He knew this was only the beginning.

Meanwhile, my hatred for Thu grew with every passing day. He wasn’t mine. He couldn’t be.

Still, there were moments that tested my belief.

One night, I found him sitting by the fire in my chambers, staring into the flames. His small figure was still, but his golden eyes burned with intensity.

“Why are you here?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he replied without looking at me. “The dreams were loud.”

“What dreams?”

“Voices,” he said simply. “Telling me things.”

My wolf bristled. “What things?”

Thu finally turned to face me, his expression unreadable. “That I’m meant for greatness. That no one can stop me.”

His words chilled me, but I refused to show it. “Dreams are just that, Thu. Dreams. They mean nothing.”

He tilted his head, studying me. “Do you dream, Mother?”

“Not anymore,” I said curtly, turning away.

The whispers about me began to spread. The pack noticed my coldness toward Thu, my calculated dismantling of Fenrir’s power. Some speculated that I was losing my mind, while others suggested that I was preparing for something greater.

It didn’t matter. Let them talk.

What did matter was finding my true child. I refused to believe that Seraiah had vanished without leaving a trace. She was too cunning for that.

I sent spies into the neutral territories, hunters tasked with tracking her movements. Months turned into years, and still, they brought back nothing.

Several weeks later, Fenrir confronted me in the Alpha Hall.

“This has to stop, Astra,” he said, his voice trembling with barely contained anger.

I raised an eyebrow. “What, exactly, are you referring to?”

“Everything!” he exploded. “The way you treat Thu, the way you undermine me at every turn. This pack is falling apart because of your obsession with something that isn’t real!”

I stood slowly, letting my power fill the room. “Choose your next words carefully, Fenrir.”

He hesitated, but his desperation won out. “He’s your son, Astra. Thu is your blood, your heir. You’re destroying everything for a lie!”

I stepped closer, my voice a deadly whisper. “The only lie here is the one you and Seraiah built. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

Fenrir’s shoulders sagged, his anger replaced by defeat. “You’re going to tear this pack apart.”

“Then so be it,” I said coldly.

Thu continued to grow, his power becoming more evident with each passing day. He shadowed me constantly, learning the dynamics of our territory, our allies, and our enemies. But I never gave him everything.

He noticed, of course. He was smarter than his age. The blood of Seraiah running through his veins.

“Why do you hold back?” he asked one day as we stood atop the eastern cliffs. The wind whipped through his dark hair, making him look older than his years.

“I don’t trust anyone completely,” I replied, my tone neutral.

“Not even me?”

“Especially not you.”

He smirked, as if my answer amused him.

“But every mother trusts their pup with their life. Isn’t that weird?” he asked, his eyes blinking.

“Not this mother. Trust has to be earned little one” I retorted.

For a moment, there was silence between us, the kind that felt like the calm before a storm.

Late one night, I received a report from one of my spies. They’d found a trail—faint, but promising. Despite banishing Seraiah just so I can plan well, I kept tabs on her. But Fenrir kept closing the trail.

Seraiah had been spotted in the outskirts of the neutral territories, living among rogues. My wolf surged with anticipation, the need for vengeance burning brighter than ever.

I summoned Rakan, the trusted beta, and handed him the report.

“Find her,” I ordered. “Bring her to me alive.”

Rakan hesitated. “My lady, is this wise? you banished her. The pack is already—”

“Do not question me, Rakan,” I snapped. “Just do as I say.”

He bowed and left without another word.

As I waited for news, my mind raced with possibilities. What would I do when I finally faced Seraiah again? Would I demand answers? Take back what was mine? I should have checked the child’s face that night.

The uncertainty gnawed at me, but I refused to let it show. The pack needed a strong leader aside Fenrir and I couldn’t afford to falter now.

The days stretched into weeks, and still, Rakan did not return. I began to wonder if Seraiah had outsmarted me once again, slipping through my grasp like smoke.

Meanwhile, Thu’s behavior grew darker. He began challenging the betas, testing his strength against theirs.

“He’s preparing for something,” Fenrir warned me one night.

“Good,” I said. “Let him prepare. He’ll need it.”

Fenrir frowned, his concern undeniable. “Astra, you’re playing with fire.”

I turned to him, my eyes blazing. “Fire is all I know.”

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?”