The last Alpha.

For as long as the supernatural has existed, two species have been locked in an endless war.

The night crawlers and the moon shifters.

Or, as humans name us in their brittle lores—vampires and werewolves.

At first, the wolves held dominion. They were stronger, faster, bound to the raw pulse of the earth itself. A force of nature that could not be reasoned with or ruled.

Then they began to mate with humans.

Their blood thinned. Their offspring grew smaller. Weaker. Less divine.

Hybrids were born, and with them came fractures—hairline cracks in what had once been an impenetrable fortress.

And it was through those cracks that we crept.

Patient. Silent. Eternal.

Vampires claimed the realm of the supernatural not through brute force, but through endurance. Through memory. Through time itself.

The pureblood wolves are almost gone now. Hunted down to their last scattered remnants.

All except one.

Thanks to my grandfather—Silvius the Eternal. He was the first vampire king of Tymandore. He carved order out of chaos and crowned himself ruler when the wolves first began to fall.

And when old age claimed him, his son, Sorn, my father, inherited the crown.

And then comes me.

Princess Elora, First of my name and first in line to throne of Tymandore.

And if things go the way they are, the first vampire queen of Tymandore.

The thought pleases me immensely.

I glance at the tall mirror in front of me.

My reflection stares back—composed, elegant, every inch the princess Tymandore expects me to be. My long silver hair, a sign of pure vampire lineage, hangs down to my waist in a half-braid, the strands smooth and precise, not a single curl out of place.

Perfect.

My gaze drifts lower. The bodice of the gown is cut a little too close, a style meant to accentuate my figure. It does the trick well. My curves fill the velvet like I was poured into it, the fabric hugging my ribs, my waist, my hips.

The only downside is that I can’t breathe.

At all.

Not that it matters. Vampires don’t need much oxygen to begin with. And beauty, as father has always said, demands a certain amount of discomfort.

I smooth my hands down the front of the gown, the velvet cool beneath my fingers, and straighten my shoulders.

Like a real princess.

The thought comes unbidden, followed by the echo of his voice—measured, approving, distant. I’ve worn that posture for so long it feels less like a choice and more like a second spine.

I glance at my reflection one last time—and that feeling strikes again.

A sharp prickle at the base of my skull.

The kind that makes my pulse jump, that leaves my skin faintly tight, as if the air itself has shifted. It’s subtle, easy to miss, but it coils low and insistent, whispering that something is about to happen.

Something big.

I hold still, listening—not with my ears, but with something deeper. The wards hum faintly in the walls. The castle breathes around me, old stone and older magic steady and unbroken.

The feeling lingers a beat longer than I’d like.

Then I let out a soft laugh, more reflex than amusement.

This is Tymandore.

I live inside the strongest structure magic can create—a thousand-year-old stone castle wrapped in wards and spells layered by generations of careful hands. Nothing gets in without permission. Nothing happens without warning.

The worst that can happen is that I accidentally stab my finger with a quill while reviewing tax reports.

I shake my head, dismissing the unease, and reach for the wolf-skin gown draped across the back of the chair. The pale fur is heavy as I lift it, familiar in a way silk and velvet never are. I drape it over my left shoulder and fasten it in place, the weight settling against me like an old habit.

Princess first. Always.

I turn, about to head out when the door to my chambers slam open.

“Princess!”

My handmaid stands breathless in the doorway, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with something dangerously close to glee.

“The king requests your presence in the ring at once,” she blurts. “They’ve captured him. The last alpha.”

A quiet gasp slips past my lips.

The last alpha.

It can’t be!

***

Moments later, I stride through the palace grounds, my skirts gathered in my hands to keep them from dragging across the stone. My guard flanks me in silent formation, their armor glinting beneath the eternal dusk that hangs over Tymandore’s skies.

The air is charged. Alive.

Ahead, the ancient colosseum rises from the earth like the ribs of some colossal beast, its weathered stone bearing the scars of a thousand years of bloodsport. It has stood since before my grandfather’s reign—since before vampires ruled openly—its purpose unchanged.

A place of spectacle.

Of judgment.

Of death.

Crowds flood toward its gates, the excited buzz swelling with every step I take closer. Sirens glide past in shimmering veils, their laughter sharp and eager. Minotaurs shoulder through the throng, hooves striking stone. Faes dart overhead like living sparks.

Everyone is here.

Everyone wants to witness the end.

Inside, the ring opens wide—circular, vast—bleachers rising in steep tiers all around, packed with bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. At one end stands the raised pavilion, elevated and secluded, where royalty and council will sit apart from the masses.

Apart from the blood.

Opposite it, set into the stone, looms a heavy metal gate.

Behind it, a small enclosed chamber.

A waiting room.

Gladiators once stood there before battle, hearts pounding as they listened to the roar beyond the walls. I’ve read the records. I’ve seen the drawings.

I wonder if the last alpha hears it now.

The crowd surges, excitement crackling through the air as the gates begin to open wider. The night hums with anticipation, thick and electric.

This is the event of the millennium.

The night when the last of the pure wolves is finally brought to heel.

I lift my chin, schooling my expression into something befitting a princess of Tymandore, even as something deep in my chest tightens.

History is about to step into the ring.

That prickly feeling from before is back, stronger than ever,

And I have a feeling it won’t go away so quietly this time.

***

The roar of the arena hits me the moment I step out onto the pavilion.

Stone vibrates beneath my feet as the crowd churns below, voices bleeding together into something feral. I move to Father’s side, his councilors standing behind in a neat row.

The sound dulling as my focus narrows to him.

He turns, already smiling.

His silver hair is slicked neatly back, violet eyes—flecked faintly with gold—burning with something close to reverence. His profile is sharp, immaculate, every inch the ruler Tymandore has feared and followed for centuries.

“The day we dreamed of is here, Elora,” he says.

I step forward, resting my hand against the cool stone railing, and peer into the ring. “I’m glad, Father,” I reply evenly. “But I’m curious. How did you manage to find him after all these years?”

His eyes glint with triumph.

“25 years. That’s how long I’ve been searching. Every inch, every rock of Tymandore. Turns out he was never here to begin with.”

I turn to him, confused, “Then?

“He was hiding,” Sorn snaps. “Cowering in the human world. Living among mortals like an animal afraid of its own shadow.” His lip curls. “An Alpha reduced to obscurity.”

A coward.

The word hangs unspoken but heavy.

Suddenly, a loud grating cuts through.

Metal shrieks against stone.

The massive doors at the far end of the arena begin to slide open.

The crowd surges to its feet as chains scrape along the floor, heavy and deliberate. The sound echoes through the ring, drowning out every thought, every question forming on my tongue.

Whatever Father was about to say—or whatever I was about to ask—dies there.

Because someone is being brought in.

The prickling at the base of my skull spreads down my arms and back.

And I know, as sure as I know my name, that whatever this things is, this simmering underneath my skin, it has something to do with the person who stands on the other side of the door.

The last Alpha.

***

The doors open slowly.

Not all at once—just enough for darkness to spill into the ring. The cogs on the side turn slowly, their dull creak clangs echoing like a war cry.

The crowd settles into quiet murmurs.

A bare foot steps through first.

It sinks into the dirt, toes curling slightly as if testing the ground. Another follows. Ankles bound in silver shackles that gleam cruelly in the arena light. The metal looks heavy, punitive.

Useless.

The crowd leans forward as he takes one more step and a body emerges from shadow.

Bare torso. Broad chest and wide, deliberate shoulders.

There’s something carnal about the way he’s built. Something primal. Every etched line, every coil of muscle serving a purpose.

Muscle layered over muscle, carved and brutal and real.

His abdomen tightens as he moves, and he takes one more deliberate step.

The light hits his face.

His hair is dark and slightly longer at the front. It falls in his dark, angular eyes giving him a silent, predatory look.

The rest of him is... surprisingly handsome.

I expected elongated canines,

Foam dripping form his mouth,

A face twisted by power and greed,

Instead I'm met with a straight, clean nose. Cheekbones carved under blood and sun, a firm jaw and thick, even eyebrows and full, natural set lips. He looks equal parts refined and wolfish- An impossible combination until I saw him.

The heavily armored guards who rush to flank him inch their bodies away, their silver tipped spears pointed at him.

“Move.” One of the guards instructs him.

He blows out a slow breath, and takes a step.

His walk is quiet, marked with an unhurried authority. Silver cuffs bind his wrists, shackles link his ankles, each step accompanied by the faint clink of metal that sounds almost insulting against the power in his stride.

The crowd goes completely silent as he heads our way, the guards a few steps behind, ready and alert.

That feeling in my skull thickens as he draws closer, slowly seeping down my spine.

I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until my chest aches—not from the gown this time, but from something else entirely.

He stops at the base of the pavilion.

Slowly lifts his head.

His gaze locks onto Father.

Sorn steps forward, the crowd’s attention snapping back to him as he spreads his hands in mock welcome.

“So,” Father says, voice ringing through the arena. “The last Alpha finally shows his face.”

The man below doesn’t respond.

Doesn’t bow. Doesn’t snarl.

Instead his intelligent eyes scan the pavilion in a way that feels deliberate. Dangerous.

“You ran,” Sorn continues, irritation bleeding through his tone. “Hid amongst the humans like a house dog liking their master’s shoes and rolling over on command.” his mouth pulls up in an ugly sneer, ” Tell me, is this what the great wolves have been reduced to?”

Sorn is desperate and his insults border childish.

The Alpha tilts his head slightly, pinning Sorn with an unreadable look, as if he is nothing more than an interesting critter he spotted on his morning walk.

And when I think he will finally say something, he merely blinks.

An uneasy feeling settles over me.

Either this man really has no fear, or he’s really mastered it.

Sorn notices too. His fingers curl into fists by his sides, irritation visible.

“You think not bowing makes this easier?” he snaps. “You stand in my ring, in my city, days—minutes—from death and-”

A sudden gust of wind drowns him out.

It isn’t unusual. The castle borders the ancient river to the south, and its presence often brings with it calm, wandering currents of air carrying salt and other, deeper scents of the forest beyond. They air coils around me, tugging loose a few silver strands from my braid, before flowing into the open arena.

I see the exact moment it hits the alpha.

My scent.

He drags in a slow breath, tasting the air.

And his spine snaps.

His pupils flash bring amber and his breath catches.

He swallows once. Slow. deliberate.

His eyes open.

And I freeze.

Because staring at me with an intensity that could slice open a mountain is him.

The alpha.

His eyes glow amber, brighter now, his body coiled so tightly it looks ready to snap.

His gaze lingers, heavy, intent, and something tightens low in my abdomen without permission. My breath catches—.

I don’t know why.

But I can’t look away.

His eyes soften for a fraction of a second—

So fast, I question if it even happened.

Then his jaw tightens.. Every muscle coils. His shoulders roll back, spine straightening as if he’s suddenly aligned with some invisible force.

Then he lunges straight at me.

Alarmed, the guards surge forward instantly, spears raised, steel flashing as they close in around him. For a heartbeat, his massive frame disappears beneath their numbers—

And it almost looks like they’ve contained him.

Almost.

A scream cuts through the air. Then another. A wet, efficient sound follows—metal slicing through flesh without resistance.

The guards drop.

Not one by one.

All at once.

Some clutch at their throats, blood pouring through their fingers in dark, panicked spurts. Others crumple silently, hands grasping at empty space where their heads had been only moments before.

And there he is.

Crouched low at the center of it all.

Breathing steady.

A single spear clenched in his hand, slick with blood that is very much not his.

The chains that once bound his shackles lie shattered at his feet.

His gaze snaps back to mine.

Holds.

His jaw tightens once—just once—before he flings the spear aside mid-motion and launches himself forward again. No climbing. No hesitation. He clears the bleachers in a single, terrifying arc.

The crowd breaks.

Screams tear through the arena as bodies collide, people trampling over one another in blind panic. Men shove women aside. Mothers clutch infants as they run. Children cry, lost in the chaos as everyone surges toward the exits.

His gaze locks onto me again—steady, unwavering—and this time, when he moves, it’s not in a leap or a charge.

It’s a straight line.

Toward me.

Each step is deliberate. Unhurried. As if the path has already been chosen.

As if everything else has already been decided