He hunted for me every single day—bringing fresh kills, proper nutrition, determined to put healthy weight on my too-thin frame. Whenever the master craftswolves released their seasonal collections of ceremonial garments and enchanted accessories, he had everything sent to my quarters before I could even browse the offerings.
Once, after a run through the enchanted forests, I mentioned offhandedly how magical it would be to have a sanctuary like the ones in the old legends—a hidden place where no darkness could reach.
He claimed land in the most protected corner of his territory. Built me an estate. A secret sanctuary, warded and safe, just for me.
Every wolf in Capital Territory's elite circles knew how Alpha Alaric Nightfall treated me. It wasn't a secret—it was legend.
He made me bright again. Confident. Even a little spoiled, in ways I'd never imagined possible after everything I'd lost.
On the nights when the grief crept back—when I woke gasping from nightmares of my mother's fall, terrified that Alaric would reject our bond and leave me packless again—he would hold me through every sob, every irrational accusation, and repeat the same words with unwavering patience: