The morning light bathed Drelwen like honey, covering its timber-framed houses and thatched roofs in a golden glow. Smoke rose lazily from the chimneys, and the scent of freshly baked bread and crackling wood mingled in the crisp air. Men were already gathering near the fields, bows slung over their shoulders, their voices loud and boisterous as they prepared for the hunt.

Allen moved silently among them, a basket of herbs in his hands, his steps calm. He wasn't part of the hunt, he never was, and for some in the village that was enough to make fun of him.

"Look at him," one of the boys murmured, loud enough for others to hear. "Carrying flowers again, while real men bring home meat."

Allen kept his gaze lowered; his jaw tightened, but his lips remained sealed. He had learned long ago that responding only fueled the fire. His good looks, his delicate features, the soft fall of his golden-brown hair, the almost unreal pallor of his blue eyes made him stand out among the rough men of the town. The women often whispered about him, some with admiration, others with envy. He heard words like pretty boy, soft face, and worse, all used as weapons. His appearance drew stares he had never asked for.

It didn't matter that her hands were strong in the soil, that her herbs soothed burns and fevers. To the hunters, she would never belong in their world.

A group of teenagers broke away from the hunters, three of them with voices sharpened by youthful arrogance. They surrounded him near the well, their eyes gleaming with mockery and contempt.

"Allen," called one of them, a boy with a crooked smile. "Why don't you come with us? I'm sure those soft hands of yours can handle a bow. Or are you afraid the forest will scratch that pretty face of yours?"

The others laughed.

Allen adjusted the basket against his chest and said nothing. His silence only encouraged them more.

"So what are you actually doing out here?" another one mocked, stepping forward. "Planting daisies while the rest of us fight for our families? Do you think the wolves will be scared of your flowers?"

"Maybe she'll charm them with her eyelashes," the third one mocked, making an exaggerated gesture with his fingers.

Laughter echoed through the square, drawing curious glances from passing villagers. Allen's chest tightened, but he remained composed, refusing to show them his pain. He had heard worse. Words couldn't break him. Not completely.

Even so, the sting was there. Always.

Then a voice rose up, firm and unwavering.

—Leave him alone.

Jack.

The young man walked toward the plaza, and his mere presence was enough to silence the jeers. At twenty-one, Jack already had the physique of a seasoned hunter: broad shoulders, a strong jaw, and dark hair that curled slightly at the ends. He had been Allen's closest friend since childhood, the one who never mocked him, the one who never treated him as fragile. While the others tested their strength in competitions, Jack had always chosen to walk beside him, protective but never condescending.

Jack's brown eyes fixed on the boys.

"Go hunting, if you're so eager to prove yourselves. You're wasting your time mocking someone who's better than you'll ever be."

The teenagers muttered, their bravado deflating. They spat curses under their breath, but turned and walked back to the group of hunters with forced laughter.

Allen exhaled slowly, loosening his grip on the basket.

"You didn't have to do that," he murmured.

Jack's gaze softened.

"Yes, I did." He patted her gently on the shoulder. "You let them talk and they think it means something. I'm not going to allow it."

Allen managed a slight smile, though his heart still burned from the words.

—I'm used to it.

—That doesn't mean you have to be.

They walked together toward Allen's small garden, where the air was calmer, filled only with the rustling of leaves and the gentle scent of earth. Jack bent down beside the herbs, plucked a sprig of mint, and rolled it between his fingers. His expression darkened, a shadow crossing his usually warm features.

"You heard the news, right?" he asked.

Allen tilted his head.

—What news?

Jack looked up, his eyes tense.

—About the wolves. About their new Alpha.

Allen shook his head slowly, intrigued.

—I've heard something, just rumors. What's going on?

Jack leaned back on his heels, lowering his voice as if the trees themselves could hear.

"They say the new Alpha is... different. Not like her father. Ruthless. Unstoppable." He clenched his jaw. "Her name is Valta."

Allen's fingers stopped at the edge of the basket.

-Power…

“They say she killed her own brother to take the position,” Jack continued, horror in his voice. “Not only did she kill him, she humiliated him. She challenged the second-in-command and nearly beat him to death. And when her parents tried to stop her…” He shook his head. “Even they couldn’t.”

Allen's chest tightened; a shiver ran through his body.

—Did he kill his own brother? For power?

Jack's mouth curved bitterly.

—For the right to rule. That's how wolves are. Strength above all else. But this was more than strength. They say he looked at his brother's body and called him weak.

Allen's breath caught in his throat. He tried to imagine it: family turned enemies, a sister standing over her brother's corpse without remorse. It was unimaginable, and yet, from the way Jack spoke, it wasn't just a rumor.

"Now he's their Alpha," Jack said, his gaze hard. "And the pack fears him. Even the elders. They don't dare oppose him."

Silence fell between them, broken only by the wind rustling through the grass. Allen sat on a small wooden stool, staring at the ground without really seeing it.

"What kind of person does something like that?" he whispered. "What kind of heart does it take to kill your own flesh and blood?"

Jack watched him for a long moment.

—The kind of heart that leads the wolves, Allen. They don't live by our rules. They don't feel like we do. For them, power is life.

Allen swallowed, unease coiling in his chest. He thought of his father's stories about wolves, the treaty, the Meeting Cabin. He thought of the possibility—distant, absurd—that Fate might bind a human life to a creature like her.

The idea unsettled him. It terrified him.

And yet, against her will, she felt something else stirring as well. A strange, inexplicable attraction, as if the mere sound of his name had reached some hidden corner of her being and whispered that her quiet life would not remain untouched.

Jack patted him on the shoulder again, pulling him out of his thoughts.

—Don't let it worry you too much. We're safe here. The treaty remains in place.

Allen nodded with effort, though his heart did not calm down. He gazed beyond the garden, beyond the trees that stretched toward the wolves' lands. The peace under which they had lived for years suddenly felt fragile.