The King's Little Wolf

Azrael, they whispered.

Azrael, the Angel of Death. How fitting. There are rumors that everything he touches dies, that’s why he wears the gloves. Everywhere he goes, death follows in his footsteps.

The Elders had told us stories, about how the Angel of Death has no heart. That’s how he can wipe out werewolf packs without a hint of emotion on his face.

They speak of how he was cursed with immortality. He had greatly angered a witch in his youth and she had cursed him to live a thousand years, to watch his family and friends die, to outlive everyone he had ever known.

Azrael, the king with no name. His name has been forgotten in all the history books. Any who might have known his name now all laid dead for the past three hundred years.

He is our King. He enforces his laws and intervenes when necessary in pack disputes. Pray to the Moon above that he never has to intervene. The last time was twenty years ago. He annihilated the two packs who had began the quarrel.

Every Unclaimed she-wolf prays to the Moon that she is not his mate. Every female quiver as he comes and sighs in relief as he leaves, it was not her. For who knows what the Angel of Death would do to her. Perhaps use her until he had an heir, torture her, or perhaps just kill her to get her out of the way.

But perhaps they don’t know their King’s story as well as they thought they did.