The Alpha's Dilemma

The tension in the great hall was suffocating. The air pulsed with barely restrained fury, a collective storm of grief and rage from the gathered Lycans. The long wooden table at the center of the chamber was filled with Draven’s most trusted warriors, elders, and advisors, their expressions dark.

The recent vampire ambush had left many dead. Families were grieving. Warriors were demanding justice.

"This cannot go unanswered!" One of the warriors slammed his fist onto the table, the force rattling the heavy wooden surface. "They came into our lands, slaughtered our people, and left as if we were nothing," one warrior growled, his fists clenching on the table. His voice was thick with anger, his eyes burning. "And we are expected to just sit here and discuss?”

A chorus of agreement followed, deep growls rumbling through the gathering.

"They struck first," another spat. "That means the truce is already broken!"

"Alpha, we must retaliate before they think we are weak!”

Draven sat at the head of the table with an unreadable expression on his face. His jaw locked, elbows resting on the armrests of his massive chair, fingers drumming against the wood. He heard their words, felt their anger, but his mind was elsewhere—caught in the memory of golden eyes that haunted his every waking moment.

The voices in the hall blurred. He should have been entirely focused, entirely in control, yet a part of him was slipping.

"Alpha?"

The voice of his Gamma, Eryx, cut through his thoughts.

Eryx was built like a boulder—broad, thick with muscle, and standing nearly as tall as Draven. His dark brown skin bore the scars of countless battles, and his shoulder-length black hair was often tied back in thick braids. His amber eyes were sharp, always watching, always calculating. He was not just the third-in-command—he was the steady force that balanced the pack’s emotions, the one who kept logic at the table when fury threatened to overtake it.

His gaze was unwavering as he spoke. "Why would the vampires break the truce after so many centuries? The Great War took its toll on both sides. They lost just as much as we did. What could they hope to gain from this?"

The question momentarily silenced the room.

For all their rage, none had asked why.

It was a good question. A logical one. But the rest of the pack was beyond logic.

One of the elders leaned forward, his gray hair falling over his shoulder. "You forget, Gamma, that vampires do not think as we do. They are snakes, every one of them. Perhaps this was always their plan—to wait until we were comfortable, then strike when we least expected."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the table.

Draven exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. The council was spiraling, their grief transforming into vengeance before his eyes.

"Let me take a warband," one of his warriors, Rorik, spoke up, his silver eyes flashing in the dim firelight. "We will burn their outposts, remind them what it means to cross into our lands."

"Yes!" A few others joined in. "A warning strike. Let them feel the pain from our claws before they grow bold enough to strike again!"

Draven finally stood.

His mere movement was enough to silence the room, his towering presence radiating authority. His gaze swept across the warriors, his expression dark and unreadable.

"We will not act in blind rage," he said, his voice deep and edged with steel. "Not until I have a plan."

"But Alpha—"

"This is not up for discussion," Draven growled.

His dominance washed over the room like a crushing weight, forcing every wolf present into silence. Even the most enraged warriors bared their throats in submission, their instincts overriding their anger.

Still, he could see it in their eyes. They were not satisfied.

Tension lingered, thick as the scent of blood after a hunt.

One by one, the pack members slowly began to disperse, their rage far from cooled but their Alpha’s command absolute.

Draven waited until the last of them had gone before sinking back into his chair, running a hand down his face. His thoughts were a tangled mess. The mate bond was clawing at him, tightening its grip, the ache becoming unbearable. He could barely keep his mind focused.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this hidden.

A familiar scent filled the air before he even heard the approaching footsteps.

Cyrus.

Draven turned to face his Beta, some of the tension in his chest loosening.

"You look like hell," Cyrus said, stepping into the room with his usual nonchalance, though there was an edge of concern in his green eyes.

Draven huffed a dry laugh. "You bring news?"

Cyrus nodded. "I do. But there's good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"

Draven exhaled, rubbing his temple before deciding. "The bad news."

Cyrus hesitated before delivering the blow.

"The vampire you fought…" He met Draven’s gaze. "She’s not just any vampire. She's the Princess of the Blood Throne—Azrael."

Draven froze

The words struck like a physical force, rendering him momentarily breathless. Azrael.

The name settled heavily between them. Of course. It made sense now—her strength, her ruthlessness, her command. He had not just fought any vampire. He had fought the daughter of Valerion himself.

"The good news?" he asked, his voice quieter now.

Cyrus smirked. "There’s going to be a grand celebration. A royal affair." He paused. "Her 1000th birthday."

Draven slowly sank into his chair, absorbing this. Fate was relentless. This… this was an opportunity.

A plan began forming in his mind.

"Get me parchment and ink," he ordered.

Cyrus hesitated, his curiosity evident in the raised brow he shot Draven. "You planning to write her a love letter?"

Draven shot him a glare. "Just do it."

Cyrus chuckled but obeyed, retrieving the requested items. As he placed them before Draven, he leaned against the table, arms crossed.

"And who, exactly, are we writing to?"

Draven dipped the quill into the ink, his jaw tight as he spoke the name.

"Valerion.”