Those rogue hunters—every single one of them had been sent by Alaric himself.
They'd cornered me in dead-end forest paths.
Stripped the den of anything worth trading.
Most weeks I ate once every three days. When the hunger became unbearable, I'd drink from the stream just to fill my stomach.
I thought about last night—waking up in tears, asking Alaric:
"Where are my parents?"
When his pack lost its territories, I'd tried to reach them for help.
But they'd vanished. No answer through the bond, no trace of their scent.
Alaric told me they'd been caught in a mountain collapse on their way back to our ancestral grounds.
Both of them. Gone.
They told me the search parties never recovered their bodies. For three years, I hunted through every territory, followed every cold trail—only to discover two days ago that my parents never perished at all.
Alaric had manipulated them into fleeing beyond pack borders.
Three full cycles of seasons.
He'd been intercepting my scent-messages, sending false assurances in my place, letting them believe I thrived under his protection. They had no knowledge of the existence I truly endured.
"Alaric."