Rejected By The Alpha, Desired By The King

KAEL – POV

I watched her from the fire ring.

Not as a mate.

As a witness.

She had become the voice they tried to erase. And still, she chose not to rule. She chose to build.

The crown she wore now was not bone.

It was legacy.

And I would walk beside it until my last breath.

Because when the fires came again, and they would, she wouldn't burn alone. She'd ignite everything.

Some men were born to rule.

I wasn't.

I was born to guard.

And not the crown.

The wolf who wore it.

Ayla had changed. Not just risen. Not just been chosen. She had redefined what it meant to lead—not by dominance, not by the bond, but by truth.

And it terrified every Alpha who'd ever used fear as a leash.

I spent the morning inspecting the ridge.

The eastern rise looked clear, but the scent markers were too fresh.

Not ours.

Not rogues.

Hunters.

I found Rylan crouched near the lower embankment, ward lines drawn in salt and obsidian, his cloak thrown off in the heat.

"I feel it too," he muttered.

"They're testing the new order," I said.

"No. They're baiting it."

My hands clenched. My wolf paced beneath my skin.

"I'll draw them out."

Rylan shook his head. "Not yet. Let them show their full hand."

He looked at me then.

"You trust her fire. Trust her restraint too."

He meant Ayla.

But I didn't trust it.

I worshipped it.

The meeting hall buzzed with nervous energy.

The Council had just passed their third amendment—one that disbanded the final Seer-only outpost in the southern wastes. It had gone smoothly.

Too smoothly.

Ayla sat at the center of the stone circle, no crown, no symbols. Just her.

It was enough.

I stood behind her, one hand always close to the hilt.

She turned to me during the recess.

"You're pacing," she said.

"You're being watched."

Her lips curled. "I'm always watched."

I leaned down.

"Not like this."

That night, we moved her chambers closer to the grove. Not for ceremony.

For safety.

Even Ayla didn't argue.

She simply nodded.

And whispered, "The storm is circling again."

At midnight, it came.

A single arrow. Carved from Seer bone. It landed at the base of the ash tree.

No scent.

No sound.

But a message carved into the shaft:

"Truth has teeth. Let's see if yours bite."

I didn't wake Ayla. I carried the arrow to my forge.

And burned it. Because I knew what this was.

Not a threat.

A summons.

I hunted before dawn.

Not to kill.

To see.

And what I found chilled me more than bone magic ever had.

Three figures. Hooded. Masked. Standing just past the wards. Watching.

They didn't flinch when I growled.

They didn't run when I stepped into view.

One raised a hand. Tossed something toward me.

I caught it mid-air.

A sigil.

One I hadn't seen since the old bloodlines still ruled.

The Mark of the Fell Pack.

Dead for a century.

Or so we thought.

I snarled.

They vanished.

I returned by sunrise.

Ayla met me on the ridge. She looked at my face. She didn't ask.

Just said, "Then we're not done building yet. We start with the ghosts."

And in her eyes I saw it.

Not fire.

Not light.

War.

The Fell Pack was supposed to be myth.

A bloodline erased for consuming its own. Wolves that fed on bondlines. Broke them. Used the magic for their own rise. They were hunted to extinction before I was born.

But myths don't throw sigils at kings.

And these wolves were real.

I called a war table.

No guards. No council.

Just Ayla, Rylan, Daya, and me.

The fire snapped in the center of the grove, throwing shadows against the bark. Ayla didn't sit. She never did when she needed to think.

She paced, barefoot, the ash tree's runes casting soft light across her skin.

Rylan unfolded the old map we'd hidden in the sacred texts.

"The Fell Pack vanished here," he said, tapping the western border. "But the sigil Kael brought back traces to this."

He turned the page.

A mountain. Dead center in neutral land.

"Wyrmrest," I said. "No pack owns it. But it watches everyone."

Daya's voice was low. "And it's where wolves go when they don't want to be followed."

Ayla spoke at last.

"Then we follow."

We didn't march as an army.

We traveled as ghosts.

Six wolves. No banners. No sound.

Ayla wore no crown. Only a blade. And I did not question her.

We reached the base of Wyrmrest by the second night.

The forest changed as we moved. Trees too close. Birds too quiet.

Magic hung in the air like fog.

Rylan murmured, "They've woven the old rites here. Blood rites."

Ayla stepped ahead.

And the grove opened.

Stone stairs. Hidden for gods know how long. Descending beneath the mountain.

We followed.

The first chamber was empty.

Then came the scent.

Rot.

Old magic.

And wolf blood.

Etched on the walls: the names of packs long erased.

Each name marked with a single claw.

Each one a memory consumed.

Then came the voices.

They weren't spoken.

They howled inside our minds.

Rylan fell to his knees.

Daya covered her ears.

Only Ayla stood firm.

And she roared back.

The magic shattered.

And the Fell wolves stepped into the light.

Three of them. Not masked.

Marked. Ash brands along their necks. Eyes like hollow moons.

The lead male smiled.

"You brought her here. Good. We've waited long enough."

Ayla didn't blink.

"I'm not here to kneel."

"You don't have to," he said.

He drew his blade.

"You just have to bleed."

The fight was fast.

The magic, faster.

The lead Fell's blade struck mine, and the metal screamed. Not from force—from the blood woven into it.

He fought like someone who had trained with the dead.

Ayla faced his twin.

Their bond pulsed like heat.

But hers—was stronger.

The grove lit again.

Runes burst from her arms.

Rylan chanted.

Daya struck from the side.

We didn't win by dominance.

We won by unity.

When the last Fell wolf dropped, Ayla stood above him.

He laughed.

"You think you're free? You carry the same fire. One day you'll use it the way we did."

Ayla leaned in.

"No," she whispered. "Because I burn to protect. Not to consume."

And she let him bleed.

We left Wyrmrest with no bodies.

Only proof.

That the past isn't buried.

It just waits to be faced.

The wind changed after Wyrmrest.

The trees felt thinner. The light wrong.

Something had been stirred—something not entirely dead.

We returned to the grove by moonrise.

The ash tree stood taller than before. Blossoms bloomed out of season. Magic clung to the bark like breath in winter.

Ay¡la didn't speak.

She stood beneath it, eyes locked on the stars.

But her wolf was awake.

And it was watching.

The Council met the next morning.

Tension thickened like blood was still water.