The council chamber of the Blood Rivers Pack was heavy with silence, its walls illuminated by the dim glow of oil lamps. The long, carved black oak table stood around which the elders had gathered, their faces marked by age, wisdom, and, at that moment, unease.

Janet sat at one end, her hands tightly clasped, her knuckles white. Beside her sat Gerald, the father of the future Alpha, his broad shoulders slumped under the weight of worry. Both parents shared the same tormented look, the look of wolves who had raised a monster and now feared what they had unleashed.

“He’s cruel,” Janet said, her voice cracking in the tense stillness. “Cold beyond reason. He killed his brother without hesitation. And now the other lies broken, perhaps never to heal. Is this the kind of Alpha who will lead us? He doesn’t care about the pack. He doesn’t even care about his own blood.”

Gerald exhaled slowly, clenching his jaw.

“I tried talking to her too. There’s no reasoning with Valta. She only listens to herself. She feels nothing like the little pup I knew.” She looked up at the elders, searching their faces. “We asked you: Is this really what’s best for Rivers of Blood? To give the crown to a daughter who wears death like a cloak?”

A murmur rippled around the table. Some of the elderly nodded, their expressions somber; others remained seated with an unreadable calm.

It was Elder Harkan who finally leaned forward, resting his gnarled hands on the edge of the table. His eyes, pale and sharp as moonlight, studied them with silent authority.

“They speak like fathers,” Harkan said, his firm voice carrying weight in the chamber. “But we must speak like wolves.” He paused, letting the silence settle. “The Alpha is not chosen for kindness. The Alpha is not measured by mercy. The Alpha is forged in strength.”

Janet's breath caught in her throat.

—Strength without heart is tyranny.

Harkan's gaze fell upon her without hesitation.

—Perhaps. But weakness invites an even quicker death.

Another elderly woman, Maren, raised her chin.

Valta confronted her brothers and defeated them. She killed one, she broke the other. According to our laws, that makes her the rightful heir. Cruel or not, she has earned her place.

“She is feared,” Gerald replied, his voice rising, a growl beneath the words. “But will fear alone sustain loyalty? Will they follow her because they respect her, or because they are too terrified to resist?”

"Both," Harkan replied simply. "And fear, Gerald, has guided packs longer than love ever has."

The room fell silent again, an awkward silence. The elderly couple exchanged glances, some worried, others resolute. Finally, the elderly Maren spoke again.

“It is not for us to deny her the Alpha ceremony. She has claimed victory with her claws and her will. Our traditions do not bend to the grief or pain of parents.” Her eyes shifted to Janet, softening slightly. “You see a daughter. We see an Alpha. And the pack must survive, no matter the cost.”

Janet lowered her head, tears glistening, but she didn't fall. She had come hoping for a pardon, that someone would take this burden from her. But she found only walls, laws set in stone, and elders too bound to break them.

Gerald's hand closed over hers under the table, firm but heavy with defeat. He whispered, just to her:

—He will be Alpha. Nothing will stop him now.

As the elders' voices echoed in the chamber, heavy with tradition and fear, Valta already knew about that small gathering. She knew her parents would scurry about like frightened mice, begging the old wolves to take back what she had already claimed.

He wasn't worried.

With or without his blessing, he would be Alpha. No voice, no law, no plea could take it away from him.

So, instead of wasting thoughts on his parents' petty worries, Valta turned his mind to more… interesting matters.

Her chambers were lit by the golden glow of lamps, the air heavy with the scent of pine and smoke. She sat casually on the edge of the bed, her long legs crossed, watching the servant's movements as he tidied the room. He was clumsy, very clumsy. The clinking of silverware struck the stone floor again, ringing loudly. His hands trembled as he bent to pick up the silver, and when he stood up, his eyes avoided hers.

Valta smiled.

How delightful it was to see him tremble. As if he already knew what she intended to do to him.

He rose slowly, his presence filling the room, and the boy stood motionless, like a deer caught in the predator's shadow. His chest rose and fell too quickly, his throat moving as he swallowed.

"Do you always make such a mess?" she murmured, her voice low and silky, "or does it only happen in my room?"

He stuttered, the words breaking down.

—And… I… I’m sorry, my Alpha, I…

Valta closed the distance between them with a languid grace, her eyes never leaving his face. She reached out and placed a finger under his chin, lifting his head until he was forced to look at her. His eyes, wide and wavering, reflected the storm raging within her.

"Don't apologize," she whispered, curving her lips. "You've already given me something far more valuable than order."

Her breathing became shallow.

"I don't care if you belong to someone else," she continued, her tone darker and hungrier. "Tonight, you belong to me."

Her hand slid from his chin to his chest, her fingers spread over the frantic beating of his heart. She could smell his fear mingled with something sweeter, something he was trying to hide. Desire.

The boy trembled beneath her touch, defenseless against the force that was Valta. She reveled in it: the taste of control, the thrill of taking what she wanted without questions or consequences. To her, he was nothing more than a vessel into which to pour her hunger, nothing more than a fleeting warmth to satiate a Queen who bowed to no one.