The village of Drelwen was a quiet place by most standards, nestled on the edge of dense forests that stretched into the lands of the Blood Rivers Pack. Unlike the wolves' howling nights, where the air seemed alive with power and dominance, Drelwen lived and breathed in steady rhythms. The clang of the blacksmith's hammers during the day, the laughter of children chasing each other through the dust, and the crackling warmth of fires at night—all wove a simple tapestry of human life.

Peace had not always been the nature of that place. Long before Valta's rise, even before Gerald had firmly established himself as Alpha, wolves and humans clashed frequently. Borders were disputed, hunts were disrupted, blood was spilled under the moonlight. It had been Gerald himself, still powerful in those days, who had stepped into the human king's chamber and shaken his hand, forging a peace neither side expected to last. But the treaty held.

Part of the treaty's strength lay in the Meeting Hut, a small wooden structure erected precisely where the pack boundary met the human farmlands. It was simple in appearance—wooden beams, a thatched roof, and a small garden growing freely around it—but it carried a greater weight than stone walls. If a wolf found its mate among the humans, they had to meet there, spend time together, and grant the human a choice. Two weeks of conversation, silence, and observation. Only if the human accepted could the wolf claim its mate and bring it back to the pack's lands.

It was, by the standards of the wolves, an act of mercy.

By human standards, terrifying.

And it was in this world, shaped by the shadow of wolves, that Allen lived.

Allen was not like most of his people. While the men of Drelwen were broad-shouldered from years of hunting or working the land, their voices raspy with exertion, and their laughter laced with beer, Allen seemed woven from softer threads. His build was slender, almost delicate, and his hands were better suited to coaxing green shoots from the earth than wielding a bow. His face had fine lines, features many described as feminine: high cheekbones, soft lips, and long eyelashes that framed eyes as pale blue as winter skies.

The other young men in the village called him soft. Sometimes they said it laughing, sometimes mockingly. Allen was used to both. He rarely joined them when they went into the woods, spears in hand, to hunt deer or wild boar. The noise, the aggression, the competition—none of it appealed to him. Instead, he found solace in the small plot of land behind his parents' house, where he tended rows of herbs and flowers with patient hands. Mint, rosemary, lavender, wild daisies—his garden bloomed in defiance of the seasons, as if it, too, preferred its company to the harsh world beyond.

When he knelt on the earth, his fingers brushing against tender leaves, Allen felt at peace. The world could call him timid, weak, or strange; none of that mattered when the earth responded to his touch.

His parents, though worried, loved him just as he was. His mother often told him his hands held a warmth no forge could replicate, and his father, though quieter in his acceptance, never forced him to go hunting. Even so, Allen knew they expected him to one day “toughen up,” to fit the mold of the men in the village. He didn’t blame them. They only wanted to protect him, and softness was rarely a shield.

The town tolerated Allen, but he lived on its fringes. He didn't linger long in the tavern. He didn't train with the lads in the fields. His voice, when he spoke, was low, almost hesitant, and though he was friendly to everyone, he often slipped away before conversations could get deep. Many saw him as fragile. Few truly saw him.

But Allen didn't ignore the wolves. No villager could. Their shadows touched every story whispered at night. Some spoke with fear, others with respect, but all knew the power that lived beyond the trees. Allen had heard tales of Alphas, of their dominion, their cruelty, their ruthless authority. The story of Valta had already begun to spread even in Drelwen, carried by the winds of rumor: the youngest daughter who had taken her throne in blood, the cold-eyed queen who had silenced her rivals.

He had never seen a wolf, not a real one, although some nights he thought he heard distant howls carried on the breeze. It was enough to remind him that the peace between his people was fragile, held together by little more than paper, willpower, and fear.

And yet, somewhere deep inside, curiosity stirred. What kind of beings could inspire such terror and awe? What sort of creature could bind another's soul with nothing more than the decree of Fate, as the legends foretold? Allen would never admit it aloud, but sometimes, as he lay awake staring at the wooden beams above his bed, he wondered what it would feel like to be chosen, to be seen, to belong so completely to someone that the universe itself declared it so.

He didn't believe himself worthy of such a fate. No wolf would want him. He was too fragile, too different from the men of the village, too timid for a world of fangs and blood. The thought was fanciful, a dream not meant for him.

And yet, Destiny rarely asked for permission.

The Meeting Cabin stood empty that autumn afternoon, waiting silently as always, standing tall like a bridge between two worlds. Allen had passed by it once while carrying herbs to the healer's hut, and his gaze had lingered on the structure. The wood looked old, weathered by time, but he could almost feel the weight it held, as if the walls remembered every whispered word, every nervous glance, every first touch between wolf and human that had taken place there.

She shuddered and looked away, clutching the bunch of lavender to her chest.

Without him knowing it, the threads were already being woven.