Kael. That single, harsh syllable was less a name and more a scar etched upon the memory of the Bloodmoon Pack. He was a specter of raw, untamed Lycan blood—a lineage rarer and fiercer than their moon-bound kind.
The first memory Kael had was the smell of pine needles and damp earth. Not the warmth of a mother's lair, nor the boisterous scent of a Pack, but the cold, indifferent silence of the woods. He was three years old, a size disproportionate to his age, and entirely alone.
His parents were gone—stolen by the deep wood or maybe by the Pack that had abandoned them. All he possessed was a dull, worn hunting knife left leaning against a tree root, and a simmering, unnatural heat beneath his skin. He was a Lycan, a creature born with the ancient ability to shift without the moon's cruel command, yet born without a Pack to teach him how to use it.
He survived by instinct. By seven, he was a ghost, tracking deer and skirting the edges of the powerful Bloodmoon Pack territory. He learned their scents: the heavy, dominant musk of the Alpha, the sharp fear of the Omegas, and the collective, confident strength of the whole. He was never close enough to see their faces, but he knew them—they were the we that he was not.
One frigid afternoon, when Kael was ten, the solitude ended. He was cornered near a frozen stream by two Betas of the Bloodmoon Pack. They were large, full-grown shifters with coats the color of granite, and they sneered at the dirty, quiet pup.
"Look what the crows dropped," growled the first. "No mark. No scent. Just an orphan stray."
That day sealed his fate. He was too strong to ignore, and too unconnected to control.
Two weeks later, the silence of the forest was broken by a collective, horrified wail. The air was thick with scents of iron, grief, and terror. Kael watched, hidden high in an oak, as the Pack gathered, not in a ritual of dominance, but one of mourning.
The body of the Head Alpha, Valerius, lay on a stone altar, his throat savagely torn out.
The Pack's new leader, Elias (Valerius's eldest son, the Beta), rose over his father's body. Elias was a massive, scarred figure, his face contorted by grief and blinding fury. He pointed, not with an actual finger, but with a visceral, hate-filled intention toward the deep, shadowed woods.
"The scent is fresh. The kill is too clean for a common brute," Elias snarled, his voice a broken rumble of thunder. "This was no rival Pack. This was a creature with the true blood of the Ancients, the power of a Lycan, but the soul of a viper. This savage has been sighted near our borders since he was a pup. He has no mark, no loyalty, and now, he has shed the blood of our heart!"
Elias held up the dagger that had been used to stab the Alpha's body post-mortem—a crude hunting blade Kael recognized as his own, stolen from his makeshift campsite.
"The evidence is clear. The orphaned abomination has dared to strike at the throne! We brand him Rogue," Elias declared, plunging the stolen knife into the earth beside the altar. "His life is forfeit. Bring me his head."
Kael felt the word Rogue burn into his very soul, a stain marking him for death. He was not guilty of the Alpha's murder, but he was guilty of being unclaimed and powerful. He ran that night, leaving the only territory he had ever known, carrying the phantom brand of the Rogue and the weight of a crime that did not belong to him. He vowed to survive, and one day, to purge the Pack's terrible lie.
The second Beta lunged. Kael didn't fight
He ran that night, leaving the only territory he had ever known, carrying the phantom brand of the Rogue. He vowed to survive, but more than that, he vowed one day to wipe that stain clean. He would never belong to a Pack, but he would not let the Pack decide who he was.