The rhythmic tap of keys filled the room as a man typed on his laptop, eyes scanning the screen through the thin frames of his rectangular glasses. His blonde hair was styled with deliberate precision, each strand in place, catching the light from the desk lamp. Even sitting, the long stretch of his frame hinted at an absurd height, the kind that would make most men look small beside him.
Around him, the study was orderly and deliberate, every detail chosen with purpose. A massive oak desk anchored the room, its surface neat — stacks of papers, an open ledger, and the sleek laptop he worked on all precisely arranged. Tall bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes, with a few artifacts breaking the rows of spines. In the corner a deep green armchair sat like an invitation for long conversations .
A knock rapped gently against the door.
He paused, fingers hovering above the keys, then lifted his head. "Come in." he called out.
The door creaked open, and a broad-shouldered man stepped inside. He had close-cropped dark hair, an honest face, and the kind of build that suggested he could break bones with ease if the situation called for it.
"Sorry to disturb you, Alpha," the man said.
"It's alright, Marcus," the blonde Alpha replied, a warm smile breaking through his focused expression. "I really needed the break."
Marcus's mouth curved into a small smile of his own.
"So," the Alpha leaned back slightly, folding his hands over his desk, "what can I do for you?"
"A letter came from the council," Marcus said, stepping forward and holding out the envelope.
"Ooh." The Alpha's eyes lit with curiosity as he took the envelope and tore it open. He began reading, his gaze scanning the contents quickly before a slow grin spread across his face. Leaning back, he rested one arm on the chair's armrest and let out a low chuckle. "Alphas meeting, huh? Guess I get to see that cold face again."
"What cold face?" Marcus asked. "Alpha Aiden's?"
"Of course it's his," the Alpha said, almost amused by the question. "Whose face would I be so excited to see otherwise?"
Marcus exhaled through his nose, not hiding the slight edge of exasperation. "You need to take it easy on him, Alpha. We don't need another war on our hands."
"War?" The Alpha scoffed. "He's too chicken to go against the council."
"Even at that, Alpha—" Marcus began, but the other man cut him off.
"Gunnar," the blonde Alpha said, pointing at him with a playful glint in his eye. "Enough with that Alpha-Alpha of a thing. Just call me Gunnar, or Gun." He wiggled his eyebrows in mock charm.
Marcus shook his head in amusement.
"I'm serious," Gunnar pressed. "You're not only my beta, Marcus, we've known each other since childhood to be addressing ourselves with titles."
"As you wish, Alp… uh… Gun?"
"That's what I'm talking about." Gunnar grinned, satisfied.
*******
Ceryth lay curled on her side, her face buried in a mountain of pillows, the sound of her muffled sobs filling the room. Each inhale came out shaky, each exhale caught in her throat as she clutched the silk bedding like it might anchor her in place.
Her room was a perfect picture of soft opulence, walls painted a delicate blush pink trimmed with ornate gold moldings. A crystal chandelier dangled overhead, scattering warm light across the polished vanity and floor-length mirror framed in carved gold. Plush rugs spread across the marble floor, and the bed itself was piled high with satin throws and pillows embroidered with golden thread. If someone didn't know better, they might mistake this room for belonging to the daughter of the highest-ranking wolf in the pack.
A sharp but polite knock broke through the rhythm of her sobs. She ignored it, turning her face deeper into the pillows, her shoulders trembling.
The door opened anyway, hinges creaking softly, and a man stepped inside. He was tall — easily six foot two — with broad shoulders that still held a natural, easy strength, despite the silver beginning to streak through his once golden hair. His features were weathered but steady, his jaw set with a kind of calm that made you believe he'd seen more than he ever said. He wore a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal tanned forearms, paired with neatly pressed dark trousers. He carried himself like a man who had spent his whole life making sure no one dared cross him.
"Ryth, sweetheart?" His voice softened as he took a step forward, closing the distance between them.
Her crying only grew louder, her shoulders shaking more violently.
Concern etched across his face, the man practically rushed to her side, lowering himself onto the bed. "What's wrong sweetheart? Why are you crying?"
She lifted her head just enough to see him before collapsing into his arms, pressing her face into his chest as a fresh wave of sobs broke free.
She lifted her head just enough to glimpse his face before collapsing into his arms, burying herself against his chest as a fresh wave of sobs tore through her.
His face darkened, shadows settling over his features. "Who did this to you?" The words came low, sharp, and laced with barely restrained fury. "Tell me, and I'll take care of them myself."
Ceryth hiccupped, sniffling hard, her tears soaking into the crisp fabric of his shirt. Slowly, she lifted her head from the safety of his embrace.
"Tell me, sweetheart," he urged, his voice rough with a dangerous kind of protectiveness. "Let Papa deal with it."
"It's… Aiden," she whispered at last, her voice cracking.