The Alpha Queen: Reign of Ice

First Blood

The cave's warmth could not quiet the hunger gnawing at her bones.

Reign pressed her hand against her stomach as it cramped violently, twisting like claws raking her from within. The frost-mark on her wrist pulsed with silver light, but it offered no relief from the hollow ache that had grown worse with each passing hour. She had not eaten since before the Moon Ceremony—how long ago now? A day? Two? Time blurred together in this frozen wasteland.

The direwolf had been watching her with those ancient silver eyes, noting every wince, every shudder of weakness. Now it rose from its position by the cave's mouth, massive frame moving with fluid grace as it padded toward the entrance. At the threshold, it paused and looked back at her expectantly.

"I can't," she rasped, her voice hoarse from thirst and cold. "I'm too weak."

The beast tilted its great head, studying her with an intelligence that seemed to peer straight through her excuses to the truth beneath. Then it stepped out into the snow without waiting for her to follow.

Reign struggled to her feet, legs shaking with exhaustion and malnutrition. Every instinct told her to stay in the cave's warmth, to conserve what little energy she had left. But something deeper—the strange connection forged by the Moon Goddess herself—compelled her forward.

The storm had finally broken, leaving behind a crystalline silence that hurt to breathe. Her bare feet had long since gone numb, but the frost-mark seemed to insulate her against the worst of the cold. She trudged through snow that came up to her knees, following the direwolf's massive paw prints toward a copse of skeletal trees.

The air here was different—thick with the musk of living things, the sharp scent of prey animals that had survived the storm. Her enhanced senses, still adjusting to the bond with her supernatural guardian, picked up traces of rabbit, deer, and something larger moving through the underbrush.

Through the twisted branches, a young deer pawed at the frozen ground, searching desperately for any vegetation buried beneath the snow. It was thin from the harsh winter, ribs visible beneath its dull coat, but still alive. Still warm.

Reign's mouth watered involuntarily. The hunger clawed at her with renewed intensity, making her hands shake and her vision blur at the edges.

The direwolf's gaze fixed on her, not the deer. Those silver eyes held a message as clear as spoken words: You must learn.

"No," she whispered, understanding flooding through her with sick certainty. "I can't. I won't."

The beast's lips pulled back in a silent snarl, revealing fangs longer than her fingers. The meaning was unmistakable—this was not a request. In the wild, squeamishness meant death.

Reign's hands trembled as she stared at the deer. In the pack, hunting had always been done in wolf form, swift and clean, with the prey already dead by the time her human consciousness returned. This was different. This was deliberate. Intimate.

Her body screamed for sustenance. The rational part of her mind knew she would not survive another day without food. But the civilized part—the part that remembered silk gowns and formal dinners—recoiled from what she was being asked to do.

The deer lifted its head, large brown eyes scanning the tree line. It sensed danger but couldn't pinpoint the source. In another moment, it would bolt.

Now or never.

Reign dropped into a crouch, her body moving on instincts she barely understood. The frost-mark flared with cold fire, and suddenly her senses sharpened to painful clarity. She could hear the deer's heartbeat, smell the fear-sweat on its hide, see the exact angle of its head that would make it vulnerable.

She lunged.

The world exploded into chaos. Snow flew in all directions as she crashed into the deer's flank, her civilized technique forgotten in favor of pure desperation. The animal screamed—a sound she had never heard a deer make, high and almost human in its terror.

The struggle was brutal and graceless. Claws she didn't know she possessed—another gift of the frost-mark—raked across hide and muscle. Teeth that had sharpened without her notice found purchase in warm flesh. The deer thrashed beneath her, hooves striking her ribs, antlers scraping across her arms.

But hunger made her strong. Desperation made her vicious. And the bond with the direwolf filled her with a predator's patience she had never possessed before.

When it was over, blood stained her hands and face, steaming in the cold air. The deer lay still beneath her, its life fled to whatever realm awaited the spirits of prey animals.

Reign's chest heaved as she stared down at what she had done. Her stomach churned between nausea and ravenous hunger, civilized disgust warring with biological need.

The direwolf prowled closer, its massive presence both comforting and intimidating. It sniffed once at the kill, then fixed those ancient eyes on her face. The message was clear: Eat.

She fell to her knees beside the warm corpse, hands shaking as she tore into the flesh. The first bite nearly made her gag—raw meat, still warm, tasting of copper and salt. But as the nutrients hit her system, her body overrode her mind's objections.

She ate like the animal she was becoming. Tearing, gulping, barely chewing in her desperation to fill the gnawing void in her belly. Blood ran down her chin and stained her tunic, but she didn't care. For the first time since her exile, warmth spread through her limbs.

The direwolf watched without judgment, occasionally shifting position to keep watch on their surroundings. This was survival in its purest form—no ceremony, no dignity, just the ancient contract between predator and prey.

When her immediate hunger was satisfied, Reign sat back on her heels, wiping blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. Shame and relief warred in her chest, but beneath both emotions was something harder and colder.

Acceptance.

She was no longer the refined daughter of a noble bloodline. She was an exile in the frozen wastes, and she would do whatever it took to survive.

The direwolf's ears suddenly pricked forward, swiveling toward the forest beyond the corpse. A low growl rumbled in its chest—not directed at her, but at something approaching through the trees.

Voices carried on the wind, sharp and distinct in the crystalline air. Laughter mixed with snarls, the casual conversation of wolves who had never known defeat.

Reign's blood turned to ice water in her veins. She knew those voices, had heard them in the pack halls and training grounds her entire life.

Hunters. Kieran's wolves, still tracking her scent across the wasteland.

They had found her.