Silvercrest City – Midnight
The night smelled of blood and betrayal.
Ronan Blackwood stood on the sacred grounds of the Silverfang Estate, his silver eyes reflecting the full moon's glow. Tonight was his Awakening—the night he would inherit his full Alpha power. Every major pack in Silvercrest had gathered, their wolves standing in tense silence, waiting for the moment when he would claim his place as the rightful heir to the throne.
But something felt wrong.
His wolf, usually restless under a full moon, was too calm. His instincts, honed from years of battle and training, screamed at him to be wary.
And then there was Darius Graves, his Beta, childhood friend, and second-in-command. The man stood at his side, golden eyes unreadable, a hint of something too smug, too expectant.
Why does he look like he already knows what's going to happen?
Ronan brushed the thought away. This was his night. His chance to become Alpha King of Silvercrest. Nothing could go wrong.
Or so he thought.
The stone altar in the courtyard pulsed with ancient magic.
For generations, this was where Silverfang Alphas had shed their blood and ascended. The ritual was simple: cut the palm, let the blood mix with the moon's blessing, and awaken the full power within.
For Ronan, this was supposed to be a formality.
He was already the strongest in his generation. He had defeated pack warriors twice his age, bested every rival at Silvercrest Academy, and carried the bloodline of the most feared Alpha in the last century.
But the ceremony was tradition.
His father—Alpha Victor Blackwood—stood nearby, his expression impassive, unreadable. A warrior, a ruler, a man who never showed weakness. Ronan had spent his entire life trying to earn his approval. Tonight was supposed to be that moment.
The elders gathered, chanting in the ancient tongue. The tension in the air thickened as Ronan stepped forward.
A ceremonial Lunar Dagger, crafted from the bones of an ancient beast, was placed in his hands. Its edges gleamed under the moonlight.
Ronan lifted it and slashed his palm.
The moment his blood touched the altar, the earth trembled.
A sharp wind tore through the courtyard. The full moon overhead darkened, then flared—turning crimson.
A Blood Moon.
The gathered wolves stirred in unease. Blood Moons were omens of great change, of destiny rewritten by fate.
Then the pain hit.
It slammed into Ronan's chest like a warhammer. His knees buckled. His vision swam.
He gasped, gripping the altar as a searing heat surged through his veins, not the Awakening he expected, but something darker.
His blood—still dripping onto the stone—began to turn black.
Ronan's breath hitched. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
The Awakening was supposed to empower him, not cripple him.
He looked up—his gaze locking onto Darius.
And then he saw it.
The smirk.
A slow, knowing smirk curling at the edge of his Beta's lips.
Ronan's stomach dropped.
Realization crashed into him like a blade to the heart.
This was a setup.
His body convulsed. His muscles locked up. He tried to summon his wolf, to push back against whatever was happening—but his connection to his beast was distant, fading.
Poison.
Something in the dagger. Something in the altar. They had planned this.
His father did nothing. His packmates watched in silence.
No one moved to stop it.
Betrayal.
Ronan's breathing turned ragged. His vision blurred. His limbs felt like they weighed a thousand pounds.
And then Darius stepped forward.
"Apologies, brother," Darius murmured, kneeling beside him. "But there's only room for one Alpha."
And with that, he plunged a silver dagger into Ronan's heart.
Ronan gasped. Pain exploded through him.
The world spun. The voices of his packmates became distant echoes.
The moon's light dimmed.
And then, everything went black.
Darkness.
Cold, endless darkness.
Ronan wasn't dead. Not yet.
But he was falling—sinking into something ancient and unnatural.
A voice, older than time, whispered in the void.
"You are not meant to die, Ronan Blackwood."
His wolf howled—but it was distant, muffled, as if something was severing his connection to it.
"They have stolen your birthright. They have erased your name. But the moon is not finished with you."
A force ripped through him, like fire crawling through his veins.
It was not his wolf. It was something else.
Something older. Something cursed.
And just before he was consumed by the darkness, the voice whispered:
"Awaken."
Silvercrest Academy – Three Days Later
The first thing Ronan felt was cold air.
His eyes snapped open.
He was alive.
Pain still throbbed in his chest, but the wound was gone.
His senses, sharper than before, immediately took in his surroundings. Not the Silverfang Estate. Not his home.
Instead, he was in a dark dormitory room, the scent of old books and burning incense lingering in the air.
He was at Silvercrest Academy.
The school where supernatural elites trained. The same place where the strongest packs ruled like kings.
And he… was no longer an Alpha.
A knock echoed at the door.
He turned his head just as it opened, revealing a figure bathed in moonlight.
A woman.
Silver hair, glowing violet eyes—an aura both powerful and dangerous.
She stepped inside, her gaze assessing him like a predator sizing up prey.
"You should be dead," she said coolly.
Ronan's jaw tightened. "Guess I'm not very good at staying dead."
A flicker of amusement crossed her face. "No. You're not."
She tossed something onto the bed beside him. A letter, sealed with an academy crest.
"Welcome to Silvercrest Academy, Forsaken One."
And with that, she turned and disappeared into the night.
Ronan exhaled slowly, his mind racing.
He had lost his pack, his throne, and his wolf.
But one thing was certain.
He would not stay forsaken for long.
Because Ronan Blackwood was back.
And he was out for blood.