THE WOLF WHO SHOULDN'T EXIST

THE WOLF WHO SHOULDN'T EXIST

Three nights later, the Moonstone territory was silent under a heavy mist. The pack house slept, its walls warded with ancient sigils, its sentries posted, but danger didn’t come through the gates, it rose from within.

The heir was in the eastern wing, asleep in his room—curled on his side, his breathing calm, unaware of the shadow slipping through the wall like vapor.

It wasn’t a wolf, not in the traditional sense. This thing had no scent, no heartbeat, only hunger.

A creature of ancient blood magic, summoned by a ritual long forbidden—drawn to the Wildblood’s awakening like a predator to its prey.

It slid silently across the floor, its form barely visible, like smoke and bone. Then— The boy's eyes snapped open, Silver and violet flared in the dark, He felt it—before it struck.

The walls shook with a sudden burst of raw energy as the creature lunged, aiming for his throat, Claws of shadow, Teeth of ice.

But the heir’s power answered, instinctively, Viscerally, a shield of golden light erupted from his chest, forcing the thing back with a hiss like burning flesh.

Michael was already running down the hall. So was Fiona, but before they could reach the door, a second shockwave sent it flying off its hinges.

They found their son standing barefoot in the middle of the destroyed room, chest rising and falling fast, his eyes glowing like the eclipse itself, and at his feet— a pile of ash.

“What… what was that?” Michael asked, stepping forward.

“I don’t know,” the boy said softly. “But it wanted to kill me.”

Fiona stared at the broken walls, at the lingering marks of black fire scorched into the floorboards. She turned to Michael. “That wasn’t a rogue, that was summoned.”

His jaw clenched. “You think someone inside—?”

“I think,” Fiona said grimly, “that someone is afraid enough to call on forbidden magic to stop what our son is becoming.”

By morning, the pack was in an uproar, and the scent of burnt flesh still lingered. The guards were restless, and every entrance was triple-secured. Whispers were no longer whispers—they were open questions.

“Who breached the wards?”

“Why didn’t the outer alarms go off?”

“Was it an attack… or a warning?”

Jerome stood before the inner council, his face ashen. “This wasn’t an accident, someone inside this pack knew blood-channeling ritual-class, this was planned.”

Fiona paced like a caged wolf. “Then we find them.”

But Gareth, standing with arms crossed in the far corner, only raised a brow. “Or maybe this is proof that the Wildblood calls destruction down upon himself.”

Michael’s growl echoed through the room.

Fiona stepped forward, her voice deathly calm. “Watch your words, Gareth, this was attempted murder on an Alpha heir.”

“And I’m saying,” Gareth replied, “that maybe that boy’s presence makes us vulnerable to things far older and darker than any of us understand.”

Silence fell and that was when the heir himself entered.

He wore ceremonial black—unusual for training hours—but there was nothing ceremonial in the way he moved.

He walked straight into the center of the room and looked Gareth in the eye.

“If anyone is afraid of me,” he said, “say it now, say it to my face.”

No one spoke, and even Gareth remained still but the tension was electric.

“I won’t hide,” the boy continued. “Not from what I am and not from anyone who fears it. I’ll protect this pack with everything I am but I won’t kneel to fear.”

Fiona watched her son in awe, her wolf howling with quiet pride.

Michael stepped beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We stand as one,” he said. “And if anyone wants to challenge that…” He let the silence speak for him.

(A Few Hours Later)

Later, behind closed doors, Fiona met privately with Lysandra.

“It’s begun, hasn’t it?” Fiona whispered. “The purging, the prophecy said he would be tested by betrayal born from within.”

Lysandra nodded solemnly. “The attack was only the beginning, there will be more.”

“More assassins?” Fiona asked in a little shock.

“No,” she said.

“More decisions and not all of them will be his to make, some… will fall on you.”

Fiona turned toward the window, where her son stood below, laughing with two young warriors despite everything that had happened.

She tightened her fists, “If they want a war within,” she said, voice hardening, “they’ll learn what it means to cross a mother who’s already survived hell.”

That night, in the oldest wing of the Fenrir archives—beneath layers of forgotten stone and sealed doors—a group of wolves met under the flickering light of blueflame torches. The chamber wasn’t on any map, and it had no scent trails not even the patrols knew it existed anymore but Gareth did.

He stood at the head of a long obsidian table, hands clasped behind his back as others filed in—wolves of respected bloodlines, some former council members, others quiet elders, all bound by one thing: Fear and ambition.

Marla entered last, closing the hidden entrance behind her with a wave of her hand. Her healer’s robes were replaced by dark traveling leathers.

Gareth nodded once. “Everyone’s here.”

“We shouldn’t be,” muttered Elder Rurik, scratching his grizzled chin. “This crosses the line.”

“The line was crossed the moment a child summoned celestial fire in the middle of our ancestral grounds,” Gareth replied sharply. “The boy is no longer just a boy, he’s an unknown, a weapon—one we can’t control.”

Another voice chimed in—Calder, the scarred former scout captain. “The people are starting to whisper again. About omens, Curses, did you see the sky after the attack? It wasn’t normal. Clouds shaped like wolves, Lightning that left runes on the trees.”

Gareth leaned forward. “Exactly… He’s a beacon, not just to the rogues—but to every supernatural predator who wants to test the old prophecies.”

Marla frowned. “He’s still a child.”

“A child that melted a shadowbeast into ash without casting a single spell,” Calder snapped. “You want to wait until he can level the whole valley?”

Rurik grumbled. “So what do we do? Take him out? That's suicide, Michael will tear out our throats.”

“No,” Gareth said calmly. “We don’t kill him unless he becomes uncontrollable, but we do contain him politically and strategically.”

“How?” Marla asked warily.

“We fracture his support,” Gareth said. “Turn allies into skeptics, place our voices close to the throne, and if the time comes that he can no longer be guided…” His eyes gleamed cold. “…we make sure we’re the ones the pack turns to.”

The plan had begun.

Subtle, careful, ruthless Whispers spread among the young warriors—suggestions that the heir was too favored, too untouchable.

Training assignments shifted, Loyal wolves were sent on distant missions, and Doubters were quietly promoted to advisory roles.

Even the elders’ table began to waver, Questions were raised in the public council: Why wasn’t the boy being educated outside the pack?

Who was truly in charge—Michael, Fiona, or the eclipse-born?

All orchestrated, all poisoned drops in a very large, very old well.

Fiona noticed the shift first. A faint hesitation in the way warriors saluted her son, a silence followed when he entered the training hall, small things—but dangerous ones.

“Something’s happening,” she told Michael. “They’re softening the ground beneath his feet.”

Michael narrowed his eyes. “Then we stand harder and we give them nothing to grip.”

But Fiona’s wolf was already pacing, she knew this game.

She’d lived it once, broken and voiceless and she wouldn’t let it swallow her son. Not now, not ever.

Meanwhile, in the hidden council room, a final piece was being prepared.

A name, a rival. “Who will they rally behind?” Marla asked. “If you want to split the loyalty, someone has to stand as an alternative. Who?”

Gareth’s expression darkened with grim satisfaction.

“They’ll rally behind someone old-blooded. Respected. Unmarked by eclipse or prophecy.”

He turned to the far end of the chamber, where a cloaked figure stepped into the light, tall, proud, Eyes glowing faintly blue.

“Meet Lucan,” Gareth announced. “Alpha Michael’s nephew. Born in exile, Raised in shadow, Forgotten by the pack.”

Lucan pulled back his hood. “I’m done being forgotten.”

The festival fires were already lit when Lucan arrived, it was the Moonfire Vigil—an old celebration of strength and survival, a night when the pack honored fallen ancestors and pledged their loyalty to the Alpha line.

Wolves gathered in the central clearing, dressed in ceremonial sashes, marking their lineage and rank, Music pulsed, Drums beat with ancient rhythm and in the center, under a sky thick with stars, the young heir stood at the altar with Fiona and Michael.

He looked powerful, Steady, Unbreakable, until the wind shifted.

A scent—faint, unfamiliar—swept through the crowd.

Then a howl split the night, not from the hill, but from the gate, all heads turned as the Warriors drew back and through the firelit haze, a cloaked figure strode into the heart of the celebration, flanked by two guards bearing no pack crest.

His steps were measured, confident as if he belonged.

Gasps broke out as the guards parted the crowd.

Fiona’s eyes narrowed.

Michael’s hand twitched toward his belt.

The boy stiffened beside them, the cloaked figure stepped onto the ritual stones—unauthorized, Uninvited.

He slowly drew back his hood, and the crowd recoiled, not from rage, but shock, the face beneath the hood was unmistakable, a sharp jaw, regal bearing, eyes the color of frostlit rivers. The resemblance to Michael was chilling.

“Who is that?” someone whispered.

Fiona already knew.

Lucan's voice rang out, smooth and thunder-edged,

“I am Lucan, son of Adrien—the brother Michael left to die during the purge.”

Gasps rippled outward, murmurs swelled like a storm.

Michael’s jaw clenched. “Your father betrayed the council. He sided with the shadow packs—”

“He chose survival,” Lucan interrupted calmly.

“Something you chose to deny him.”

The pack bristled, tension tightened like a wire around the gathering.

Lucan stepped forward, arms open, “I come not as a usurper, not as an enemy, but as a son of Moonstone Pack…, a rightful descendant of the bloodline, I’ve come home.”

The heir took a step down from the altar, brows furrowed. “Then why now?”

Lucan turned to him—his expression unreadable.

“Because I heard the stories. A boy born under the eclipse, a child wielding a forgotten power, and I asked myself: Why now? Why you?”

He looked out over the crowd. “Why trust the future of the pack to an anomaly—when you could trust it to blood, To legacy, To me.”

The silence was suffocating, until someone in the crowd clapped, then another, then a low chorus of approval, not many, not yet, but enough.

Lucan bowed his head slightly. “I’m not here to divide, I’m here to offer choice. If the council wishes, I will stand trial by legacy.”

Michael’s voice was ice. “There is no such trial anymore.”

Lucan smiled faintly. “Then maybe it’s time we remembered who we are.”

He stepped down from the stones, his eyes never leaving the boy’s.

Fiona's wolf coiled tight beneath her skin. This wasn’t a challenge of strength, it was worse, a challenge of identity of belonging, and now the pack had two heirs.

TBC..