Saxon

The elders and leaders of the Northern Clan pack gathered in the hall. They had won the territorial war. In the center, chained and kneeling, stood the leader and alpha of the Full Moon pack, having suffered a brutal defeat. His omegas had been led away to join the victorious pack. He looked at the floor, awaiting execution. And then a fragile omega appeared and demanded him as a trophy. He looked up curiously at this woman's impudence. But then she turned into the White Wolf. And the captive realized she was the pack's most fearsome weapon. But he didn't understand what she wanted from him.

The snow crunched like broken bones beneath hunters' boots, and the sound set Ivar's teeth on edge. His breath misted in the dawn air, and with each inhalation he growled silently. The collar around his neck—cold iron etched with the cursed symbols of Vavesta—itched where it touched his skin, its usual magical hum trembling like a dying heartbeat. "Faulty," he thought, twitching his ears beneath his fur hood. His wolfish patience allowed him to pace Len's horse, though his claws clenched in his gloves. They rode deep into the birch forest, where the trees stood skeletal against the gray sky. Ivar counted the intervals between the pulses of the collar: twelve seconds of numbness, then three as the grip loosened. His blood roared, primal and hot, as he listed the party's weaknesses—the knight's saddle strap, the way Len's hand lay lazily on her pommel. That morning, she'd called him "her dog" and laughed, tossing him the scraps of her breakfast. The memory burned like bile. As the hunting horn sounded and the troop scattered in pursuit of their prey, Ivar felt the collar's magic flicker again—this time longer, for three whole heartbeats of blessed freedom. He carefully tested his limits, allowing his muscles to twist with barely contained force, watching the back of his captor, now alone. Vulnerable. The trees pressed close together on either side of the narrow deer trail, their branches heavy with shadow and hope. Now his instincts whispered: Strike now, before they realize the hunting dog has become the hunter. A snap of his cloak's tie, a shift of muscles—and the world blurred, his bones morphing into wolfish shapes. The mare reared, and Len's cry was cut off as he lunged forward. His jaws clamped down on the horse's leg; tendons tore, blood splattered in black spatter across the snow. The beast collapsed to the ground, clutching her to him. Again the man, he grabbed her by the hair, and her crown fell into