The Red Wolf of the North
1620 Words
The dungeon was colder than death.
Moisture dripped from the ceiling in steady beats, each drop echoing like a cruel reminder of time slipping away. The air was thick with the scent of rust and damp stone. Elara sat on the cold ground, her wrists bruised where the guards had tied them earlier. Every inch of her body ached.
Footsteps echoed down the narrow corridor—measured, steady, familiar in authority.
She stiffened, her heart slamming against her ribs as the torchlight revealed Gamma Murphy. His face was carved in stone, his expression cold and unreadable.
“Leave us,” he ordered the guards, his tone clipped.
The two guards bowed, saluted, and stepped out. The heavy door creaked shut behind them. The moment their footsteps faded, Murphy’s mask cracked. His shoulders loosened, and the ice in his eyes melted into worry. He hurried to the iron gate, gripping its bars.
“Elara,” he breathed softly, his voice trembling just enough to betray him.
Elara flinched at the sudden change in his tone, retreating a step back. Her voice trembled. “Wh-why are you looking at me like that?”
He blinked, hurt flickering in his eyes. “It’s me. Murphy,” he said gently. “Gamma Murphy. Don’t you remember?”
She stared at him blankly for a moment—then realization struck her like lightning. Gamma Murphy.
In her novel, he was one of the few good men in Celdric’s pack. Loyal to Elara, kind to her when no one else was. And… he had loved her, secretly, painfully, until the day she died.
Ysabel—now Elara—felt her throat tighten. Seeing him in flesh, hearing his voice, it felt strange and surreal. The same character she had written with empathy was now right in front of her—alive, breathing, real.
Murphy’s brows furrowed as he studied her. “Elara… are you all right? You look pale. The guards said you refused your food.”
Her lips parted. “You… you really are Murphy.”
He looked even more confused now, worry deepening the lines on his forehead. “Of course I am. Who else would I be?” Then, quieter, “What have they done to you?”
She shook her head quickly, forcing herself to stay calm. “It’s nothing,” she whispered. “Just… I didn’t expect anyone to come.”
Murphy’s hand tightened on the bars. He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I had to. I couldn’t leave you here like this.”
Tears burned behind her eyes. The warmth in his gaze—so gentle and real—hit her harder than she expected. In this cruel story, he was the only light she could trust.
“Murphy,” she said softly, “what will happen to me?”
He hesitated. His lips parted, then closed again. For a moment, he looked like he might tell her the truth—but then he swallowed hard. “You’ll be released tomorrow morning,” he said instead, his voice steady but too careful. “Alpha Celdric… decided to spare your life.”
Elara looked at him suspiciously, but the earnest pain in his face made her want to believe it. “Really?”
He nodded. “You have my word.”
In truth, his heart ached with every lie. The council had voted for banishment, not mercy. He couldn’t bear to see her executed—or left to rot in this dungeon. He’d already planned everything. At dawn, before the guards changed shifts, he would open the gate and send her away.
Far from Celdric. Far from danger.
Murphy took out a small wooden tray. “Eat this,” he said gently, pushing it through the bars. “You’ll need your strength.”
The scent of warm stew filled the damp air. Her stomach clenched with hunger, and she hesitated before whispering, “Thank you.”
“Get some rest,” he murmured, his hand brushing the cold metal between them. “No matter what happens… don’t lose hope.”
She met his eyes, and something inside her softened.
It was the first time since she’d fallen into this world that someone had spoken to her with kindness.
Murphy turned to leave, his expression hardening again as he called for the guards. The moment they entered, he slipped his mask back on—stern, cold, unreadable.
To anyone watching, he was just the dutiful Gamma carrying out his Alpha’s orders.
But as he walked away, his heart pounded with one desperate thought.
Before dawn, I will get her out.
Inside the cell, Elara pressed her hand to her chest, a flicker of fragile hope stirring within her. For the first time since waking in this nightmare, she let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—she could survive this story she once wrote.
----
Meanwhile...
Far beyond the snowy ridges and frozen pines of the Northern borders, where the sky burned crimson at dusk, the stronghold of the Northern Pack loomed like a fortress carved from ice and iron. The air here was sharp enough to sting the lungs, and the silence was broken only by the howl of the wind—and the whisper of power.
Inside the grand study, the scent of smoke and leather filled the air. A fire crackled low in the hearth, throwing flickering shadows across the heavy oak table where several men sat. Maps of nearby territories were spread across its surface, marked with inked lines and wolf symbols denoting allied and rival packs.
At the head of the table sat Alpha Betmoth—the man feared across the realms as the Red Wolf. His crimson eyes gleamed beneath the low light, cold and unreadable. His reputation was that of a conqueror—a beast who showed no mercy, whose howl had once silenced three packs in a single night.
His Beta, Levan, stood beside him—a tall, lean man with a calculating gaze—and next to him was Gamma Drake, his scarred second strategist, broad-shouldered and quiet as a mountain. Around them were a few high-ranking officials, each too careful to speak without invitation.
A sharp knock interrupted the tension.
“Enter,” Betmoth said, his deep voice rolling like distant thunder.
A young warrior stepped inside and immediately bowed low, his cloak still damp with melting snow. “Alpha, Beta, Gamma,” he greeted respectfully.
Levan nodded for him to rise. “Boram,” he said, recognizing him. “You bring news?”
“Yes, Beta,” Boram replied quickly, his voice steady despite the heavy silence in the room. “Scouts have returned from the southern border. According to their reports, CrestMoon Pack is unstable. Their Alpha, Celdric, faces internal conflict. There are whispers of betrayal in his council—and chaos in his Luna’s quarters. This might be the perfect time to strike.”
A murmur swept through the room. Even Drake, who rarely reacted to anything, lifted an eyebrow.
Betmoth said nothing. He leaned back in his chair, his long fingers tapping once on the table. The firelight danced against his sharp jaw and the faint scar crossing his cheek.
After a long pause, he waved his hand slightly. “You may go,” he said, his tone calm but heavy.
Boram bowed once more and left. The moment the door shut, the room erupted with low conversation.
Levan was the first to speak, his tone edged with curiosity. “I’ve heard those rumors too,” he said, glancing toward Betmoth. “Alpha Celdric is said to be weak—blinded by his mistress’s influence. They say she rules him, not the other way around.”
Drake snorted softly. “A wolf who lets his heart lead him is no Alpha. He’s prey wearing a crown.”
A few of the other officials murmured agreement, but when Betmoth didn’t respond, their voices trailed off. The Red Wolf’s silence carried weight—dangerous, thoughtful, unpredictable.
Levan looked at his Alpha carefully. “If the reports are true, my lord,” he continued, “then CrestMoon will crumble from within. You would be doing the land a favor by removing a weak Alpha. A pack like that is better off under your command.”
The fire snapped loudly, sending sparks across the hearth.
Betmoth’s crimson eyes flicked toward him, and Levan immediately lowered his gaze. Everyone in the room knew that expression—it meant Betmoth was thinking. When the Red Wolf thought, blood often followed.
Drake folded his arms. “They’d never see it coming. If we strike fast, the southern packs will scatter before they can unite.”
But Betmoth still said nothing. He stared down at the map, his gaze tracing the inked lines until it stopped at the name written boldly in black: CrestMoon Pack.
A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips.
“Internal conflict…” he murmured, almost to himself. “How convenient.”
Levan and Drake exchanged a quick glance.
Betmoth leaned forward, resting both hands on the table. “Keep watching them. If their Alpha bleeds, I want to smell it before anyone else does.” His voice dropped to a dark whisper. “And when the time is right—CrestMoon will fall.”
He looked up, the red gleam in his eyes sharp enough to cut through the firelight.
“Prepare the warriors,” he finished softly. “The hunt begins soon.”
The room fell into silence again—tense, cold, and charged with the promise of war.
And outside, through the icy wind, a lone wolf’s howl rose over the northern peaks—low, wild, and hungry.
- Writer
