Chapter Four: A Harbinger of Fate

Rykor's POV

The oak trees outside my office window bowed under the force of a relentless night wind. I leaned back in my chair, steepling my fingers over the desk cluttered with reports and strategies. My pack had grown strong from its previous state of despair, but nights like this always reminded me of the storms we had yet to weather.

The rhythmic ticking of the old grandfather clock gave a reliable accompaniment to my thoughts. It was my solace, a repetitive measure of time that kept me tethered when the weight of my responsibilities felt too immense.

A sudden but soft knock at the door pulled me sharply from my thoughts. “Enter,” I called in a measured tone.

My Beta, Thorne, stepped into the room, his usually unflappable demeanour uncharacteristically tense. The flickering firelight cast shadows over his rugged, battle-worn face, emphasising lines and anxieties that few ever saw. He cleared his throat, hesitating for a brief second, words seemingly stuck in his chest.

“What is it, Thorne? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” I said, attempting to lighten the atmosphere, but my instincts told me this was no trivial matter.

Thorne exhaled heavily, defeated by the weight of whatever news he bore. “Alpha Vladimir has passed,” he said, voice low and laden with gravity.

For a moment, time itself seemed to halt. The room grew deathly still, save for the mournful howl of the wind outside. I felt a cold, creeping chill spread through my veins, curling around my heart like a vice. Vladimir—the man who had tormented my childhood, driven my father to an early grave, and whose cruelty seemed eternal—was gone.

I took a measured breath, trying to piece together my thoughts. “How? When did this happen?”

Thorne moved closer, pulling up a chair across from me. His eyes were stern, but a flicker of hesitation lingered there. “It was recent. Natural causes, they say. The curse never touched him.”

Natural causes—ironic for a man so unnaturally cruel. My thoughts quickly turned to his daughter, Nikita, the Luna of Death. Rumours of her curse, the fear that trailed her like a spectral shadow. I’d heard she could kill with a touch, her skin marked with the tally of all she had taken. She was a living legend carved in the black ink of death. Many did not believe the tales, but I did because my father was the one who placed the curse upon her because of her father.

“Who assumes control now?” I asked, though the answer seemed obvious.

“Nikita.” Thorne’s voice softened. “They’re calling her the Luna of Death as if she’s already taken her place.”

I shifted in my chair, my heart pounding harder. The image of Nikita, a cold, unreachable figure, contrasted sharply with my own experiences of the world. I’d rebuilt my father’s pack with compassion as the foundation stone. Yet now, our neighbour—the one my father had slain—was another story entirely.

A wry smile tugged at the corner of my lips, the irony not lost on me. "A cursed lineage taking over from a cursed man. It fits perfectly, doesn’t it?"

Thorne’s eyes met mine, and sympathy and caution meshed into his stare. “What do we do, Alpha? There’s bound to be unrest and power struggles. And with her...”

“The Luna of Death,” I murmured. The title hung heavy in the air, chilling the room with its implications. “We need to tread carefully, Thorne. She’s a living weapon, destructive and unpredictable.”

Thorne nodded, understanding the unspoken complexities. “Do you want to reach out? Offer some kind of truce or—”

“No truce.” My voice came out more sharply than intended, but Thorne nodded in silent agreement. “Not yet. We’ll watch first. Observe how she handles her new position. If she’s as cold as they say, she might struggle to hold the pack together.”

Thorne stood, placing a steadying hand on my shoulder. “And if she doesn’t struggle?”

I met his eyes with an unwavering gaze. “Then we’ll adjust our strategies accordingly. But for now, we let her rule from her cursed shadow. It's the safest course. And we will attend his funeral.”

As Thorne left the room, his footsteps growing faint, I turned back to the window. The wind had not abated; it roared as fiercely as ever, rattling the panes with wild fury. I stared into the night, pondering an uncertain future.