1. DOMINATION VICTORY

Alpha Demetrius

Volkov wolves crawling deeper, encroaching into the familiar territory of the north but the path was unexplored, too risky. Teetering on the edge of the narrow rocky passes, sprawled with boulders and snow.

Strong, gusty wind lashing at us, caging in its raging tempest. It was difficult to march ahead, piercing the misty cloak.

Heads bowed down to the force of mother nature. Paws digging hard into the snow to find a firm footing. Each step was a constant struggle. Propelling two steps ahead, forcing a step backwards. The wolves fought back with all their strengths, staggering to their feet and advancing deeper into the menace.

The storm was furious. Ruthless. An ongoing battle with the roaring nature.

Old man winter was famous for its notorious reputations and wicked deeds. It showed no mercy to those who underestimated its destructive force. It could defeat armies. Wiped off the entire civilization. Still, those who challenged their fates by venturing out into the blizzard, either they were damned fool or remarkably brave.

Volkov wolves trudged past the Whitfire border, stealthily dispersing into the rival’s territory like menacing vines and ivy.

Leaves shuddering. Branches swaying along with the wild wind, howling destruction in its path.

The overnight snowfall made it difficult to push ourselves ahead towards our mission. We were neck-deep in the snow and with passing time, the blanket of white was trying to swallow us whole.

Shadows of cottages in the distance came into view and my beast changed his course, separating himself from the pack, trod towards his glorious conquest. Another addition to his long list of triumphs.

My wolf rocked his head in disbelief that the ignorant souls breathing in this land had never foreseen the arrival of the unexpected visitors in the blood-curdling night when the storm would be at its highest peak.

How foolish they were, thinking that they were safe and snug under their roofs. Enjoying warm soup, cuddling around the fire with their families. Unaware of the ominous hostility brewing outside and soon their miserable fates befalling on them.

Windows shut. Doors closed.

The place looked abandoned without a living trace. But the tang of spices and smoked meats cooking inside, giving away their existence.

A pitched howl broke off into the distance, a signal that they had taken their position and ready to enforce attacks from every in and out map of the Whitefire pack.

My beast responded back and emerged out of the shadow, making his way towards his target.

His ashen white fur camouflaging against the backdrop. Upon reaching his intent, he waited patiently for his game. Outside the ancient-looking door. At the front yard.

The place had a sense of familiarity. Nothing had changed over the years. A few repairs here and there and a deck with a railing as an addition.

Visiting this place brought back a string of memories. I had visited this house before on several occasions when I came along with my grandfather for pack businesses. I used to sit and listen to their discussions, arguments and threatening remarks. Negotiations had been made. Pacts had been signed and sealed.

My beast became impatient, waiting for the right moment to strike at his target. When he least expected it. When he would be at his vulnerable states. Shocked. Clueless.

It was not only a game of survival. A game of dominance and power.

A whiff of lemon and cinnamon invaded his nostrils. A sliver of light peeking out under the wooden door. His game might be comforting himself on this wintry night, unaware of the dangers lurking outside his door.

Finally, the prolonged wait ended.

Mayhem broke out. Screaming and shouting erupted. A chorus of howls echoed off, overpowering the furious wind, reverberating all over the place.

An omen of destruction.

My beast didn’t have to wait too long. Deadbolt snapped. The latch came undone. And the door flung open.

A male in his late forties, snug in a woollen coat reached his knees, a high work boot and a hand-knitted hat with ear flaps, stepped outside in a haste. The moment his eyes dropped on my beast, fear and shock overtook his alerted expression.

The heavy rushing of his boots came to an abrupt pause on the wooden stairs. He uttered in a shaky, low-pitched tone, “Demetrius Volkov...”

His voice was barely audible with the prevailing air current. But before the male got to finish his sentence, my wolf pounced at him, sinking his teeth into his throat. His eyes were widened in surprise. The male was unprepared for the swift attack and a fool to not have envisioned it earlier.

The war was brewing for a while and being the alpha king of the north, I would never condone such resistance and let it be a lesson for every breathing soul in the north to remember who ruled them.

The male slumped against the ground. My wolf didn’t release his grasp, fangs seized his flesh and hauled him out of his house. Leaving behind a red trail on the snow.

My beast reached the packhouse, dragging the male along with him. Burning torches pierced the darkness and shadows shifting around the dais, positioned at the centre.

Leaving behind the male, my wolf swept his sharp gaze.

Pups were whimpering, nestled against their mothers. Males sizing up the Volkov warriors and stood up front, shielding their families.

Seeing their Alpha defeated, breathing at my mercy, sprawled on the ground, whining in pain, Whitfire people grew despondent and uncertain.

The wolves who tried to fight back, their acts of valour graced the ground in blood and death. Their mates weeping over the carcasses and lifeless bodies of their bloodmates.

Hopes had left their eyes, now they would embark their journey alone in this life.

“You are a coward, Demetrius. A coward.” My beast shifted his focus, swung his head back to their alpha, pressing his fingers on his wounded throat. He took a few gulps of air before he spoke out, “You...you attacked us when we had taken refugees in our shelters, shielding ourselves from the harsh weather. We were unprepared. You know...you know it very well, Demetrius, you could have never defeated me so instead of challenging me you chose this sly move. You have no honour. You are no true Alpha."

My beast bared his teeth. He never took insults lightly. He let out a snarl at the accused male. He didn’t give the male any time to take back his statement before he pierced his fang into his flesh and tore off a chunk of meat. My beast didn't stop attacking, he thrashed the male on the ground until his screams of agony toned down to a painful whimper.

My wolf shredded his ashen fur and transformed into his human self.

A robe draped over my exposed skin, I pulled it tight against my body and rose from my crouched state.

The aftertaste of blood still lingering in my mouth. I flicked my tongue over the bottom lip, to relish in its metallic taste.

My gaze dropped to their alpha, lying beside me almost in his unconscious state. I nudged him with my feet to bring his unfocused eyes on me “Untamed. Valorous. Brutal. Define Volkov wolves. None of those you are, Phaedron, but you claim yourself an Alpha. An Alpha of your defeated pack, breathing at my will.” I spat out the words at him. Addressing his pack.

“You are weak. Pathetic. You have failed your Alpha duties. Instead of defending your pack by stationing guards at the border, you took shelter in the comfort of your home. A true Alpha never leaves his territory unprotected.”

The dark crimson liquid oozing out of his deep puncture wounds in thick streams and dripping onto the ground. His laborious breathing holding him back to speak, to yell. Scream. To throw curses at me but all he could manage was a muffled whisper. His voice broke down into a gurgling pitch as if it was exhausting, taking away all his strengths to formulate words into his mouth.

He was coughing up blood. His shoulders heaved as he panted, having trouble inhaling air into his lungs. Like he was choking in his own blood.

“I...I will...not surrender...” His voice quivered.

“I didn't ask you to submit to me. You have brought the curse upon your own fate, Phaedron Whitfire, the moment you broke ties with the Volkov's, your father swore with my grandfather, you sealed your fate with your own hands. And once again, Whitfire falls under the Volkov law.”

I turned towards the pack members and stated “But I am offering a fair chance to you all. If anyone wants to save their alpha, come forward and fight with me. Show me your strengths. Win against me and I will spare your Alpha” My words fell on deaf ears as if no one heard me.

“Anyone,” I asked again. No responses. I smirked. They were familiar with the tales of Volkov wolves without a shadow of doubt and about their ruthless Alpha. Me. The legend of Demetrius Volkov.

Heads hanging low in shame. Guilt. Fear. No one dared to challenge me. Go against my wrath. That the answer was all I needed to prove whom their loyalties extended.

I averted my gaze to their alpha “See. Not a single member of your pack came forward to defend their alpha. You, Whitfire, birthed and bred a bunch of tamed wolves.”

I didn’t give their alpha a chance to say his last word. I planted my bare feet over his head and thrust against his skull with all my strength until his eyes popped out and grey matter splattered out of his cracked skull.

I climbed over to the dais and addressed the Whitfires, "Brothers, let unite and rule as one, as the northern wolves."

All the witnessing eyes dropped on their knees. Pressing down their foreheads against the ground. Submit to me. A clear sign of unanimous acceptance of their new alpha.

Alpha king of the north.

Demetrius Volkov.