Kapitel 3 — A Broken Alpha

Leon

Moonlight barely pierced the suffocating canopy of Skugghjärtats Skog, casting jagged silver slivers across the small, desolate glade where I sat. The faltering glow of a dying fire flickered before me, its warmth long since stolen by the biting night air. My chest ached with every shallow breath, the skottskada—a jagged scar of betrayal from Kalle’s hunters—throbbing like a living thing beneath my torn shirt. Each pulse was a reminder of my weakness, a wound that refused to heal, mocking my claim as alpha. My gråblå eyes stared into the embers, searching for answers in their fading glow, but all I found was the weight of my failures.

Around me, the heavy scent of ruttnande bark and damp moss clung to the air, a stench of decay that mirrored the rot spreading through the forest. The ground beneath me trembled faintly, a low vibration that hummed through my bones, as if the urkraft Mira had awakened growled in restless hunger. My flock lingered in the shadows beyond the firelight, their yellow eyes gleaming like predators assessing wounded prey. Their silence was louder than any snarl, a condemnation that pressed against my skin, colder than the frostbitten wind whispering through the twisted branches above.

I shifted, my muskulös frame stiff and protesting, the pain in my chest flaring as I tried to straighten my shoulders. I was their alfa, their shield against the darkness of this cursed wood, yet here I sat, broken and bleeding, my authority crumbling like ash in my hands. The memory of Mira’s face—her djupgröna eyes haunted by sorrow and fire—burned brighter than the embers before me. I’d chosen her over them, a human over my own kin, and now I paid the price in their scorn.

A low growl rumbled from the darkness, pulling my gaze to an older varulv, his grizzled fur streaked with silver, his eyes narrowed with disdain. “Your weakness endangers us all, Leon,” he rasped, his voice a blade of accusation. “We’ve lost too much already, and you sit here, pining for that mänsklig witch while the forest rots beneath our paws.”

My jaw clenched, the pain in my chest spiking as I forced myself to meet his stare. “I protect what matters,” I said, my deep voice strained, rough with the effort it took to speak without faltering. “Mira is the key to binding the urkraft. Without her, we’re all doomed. You know this.”

A younger flockmedlem stepped forward, his lean frame tense with defiance, lips curled in a sneer. “And what of Viktor?” he spat, the name a poisoned dart aimed at my pride. “He’s out there, building his own strength in Klyftan, while you bleed for a woman who doesn’t belong. Maybe he should lead us instead.”

The words struck deeper than any claw, a raw wound to my already battered spirit. Viktor—reckless, rebellious Viktor—who’d turned his back on us to forge his own path with a vild stam. The thought of him taking my place, of standing over my flock with that calculating smirk, ignited a feral heat in my veins. But my body betrayed me, a shudder of pain ripping through me as I tried to rise, my movements slow and stilted. The firelight caught the bloodstains on my slitna läderkläder, a testament to battles fought and wounds endured for Mira’s sake.

I opened my mouth to retort, to assert the dominance I’d clawed my way to earn, but the words died in my throat as the flock turned away, their silence a wall of rejection. One by one, they melted into the shadows of the glade, leaving me alone with the falnande eld and the bitter taste of defeat. My shoulders slumped, the weight of their distrust heavier than the skottskada gnawing at my flesh. I leaned against the rough bark of a weathered trädstam, the cold seeping into my bones as I closed my eyes, Mira’s face swimming behind my lids.

Her scent still lingered in my memory—wildflowers and earth, tinged with the metallic tang of her magi. I’d seen the fear in her eyes after the ritual at Månstensgläntan, the way her ärr had pulsed with that eerie silverglöd, a sign of the power she barely contained. I’d taken blows for her, bled for her, and yet the guilt of not shielding her enough clawed at me. What if I lost her, as I’d lost… I pushed the thought away, the ache of an old wound—a love stolen by jägare—too raw to touch even now. My fingers dug into the dirt, the trembling ground beneath me a cruel reminder of the hunger that threatened to swallow us all.

The forest around me was unnaturally still, the usual chorus of nocturnal creatures silenced by the creeping decay. Knotiga granar loomed like sentinels, their branches clawing at the sky as if mourning the skog’s slow death. The air tasted of ash and despair, and I wondered if my flock was right—if my obsession with Mira had blinded me to their needs. But how could I turn away from her, when every fiber of my varulv being roared to protect her, to claim her as mine against the world’s wrath? Duty and passion warred within me, a battle as fierce as any I’d fought in fur and fang, and I had no answer for which would win.

I shifted again, wincing as the skottskada burned with fresh agony, my breath fogging in the frigid night. My flock’s rejection stung, but it was the emptiness of their absence that cut deepest. I was alfa, yet I sat here, forsaken, my strength sapped by wounds and doubt. My gråblå eyes drifted to the darkness beyond the glade, where Skugghjärtats Skog stretched endless and foreboding. Mira was out there somewhere—I could feel it, a pull in my chest stronger than pain, stronger than fear. I’d promised to keep her safe, and I’d be damned if I let this cursed wood or my own broken body stop me.

A sudden, piercing skrik tore through the silence, a raw, desperate sound that echoed from the skog’s blackened heart. My ears pricked, my varulvsinstinkter snapping awake despite the exhaustion weighing me down. My heart slammed against my ribs, the scent of danger sharp in the air. Mira. It had to be her. The thought of her in peril, alone against whatever horrors lurked in the night, was a knife to my gut.

I pushed myself to my feet, gritting my teeth against the searing pain in my chest, my movements sluggish but fueled by a ferocity I couldn’t suppress. The falnande eld cast long shadows across the glade as I staggered forward, my senses sharpening, reaching for any trace of her. Her doft—faint but unmistakable—lingered on the wind, a thread of hope in the suffocating darkness. My gråblå eyes narrowed, scanning the ruttnande skog ahead, every muscle tensed for the hunt.

I wouldn’t let her face this alone. Not while I still drew breath. With a low growl, I stepped into the mörker, the ground trembling beneath my boots, the skog’s hunger a living thing at my back. Whatever waited out there—whether urkraft, jägare, or something worse—I’d find Mira before it did. My pain, my flock’s scorn, none of it mattered. She was my heart, my fight, and I’d tear through this cursed wood to bring her back.