She woke to the sound of low, synchronized growling.
Cold stone beneath her.
She opened her eyes to see six massive wolves circling her.
Their golden eyes fixated on her snow-white hair.
She was a lowly albino omega.
She had no idea the alpha king had just claimed her.
The heavy scent of cedar, iron, and ancient magic hung thick in the cavernous room.
Isolde Blanchet gasped, her lungs expanding painfully as if she had not drawn breath in a century.
Her fingers twitched against soft velvet sheets, a stark contrast to the damp, rotting straw she had slept on her entire life in the lowland slums of the Huxley pack.
She blinked against the dim, flickering light of iron sconces mounted on towering stone walls.
As her vision cleared, the terror set in.
She was not alone.
Circling the massive four-poster bed were six immense dire wolves.
Their coats ranging from midnight black to a mottled blood rust red.
They did not snarl, nor did they bare their teeth, but their amber eyes tracked her every micro movement.
Isolde’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She pulled the thick fur blanket up to her chin, her trembling hands starkly visible.
Her skin was as pale as fresh snow.
Her hair, a cascade of pure, unblemished white, the mark of an albino, the ultimate curse in werewolf society.
Among the wolves, a lack of pigmentation was universally viewed as a weakness, a genetic failure.
For 20 years, Alpha Cedric Huxley had treated her as less than dirt, a servant to be kicked and starved, a bad omen kept only because killing an omega outright invited the wrath of the moon goddess.
But this was not the Huxley territory.
The opulent tapestries bearing a silver crown wrapped in thorny vines belong to one bloodline alone.
The Rothwell dynasty.
Stay still.
A voice commanded from the shadows.
It was not a yell, but the sheer vibrating baritone of it made the floorboards tremble.
The six wolves immediately dropped to their bellies, lowering their heads in absolute submission.
From the darkness near the hearth stepped a man who looked carved from granite and war.
He was impossibly tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a simple tunic of dark leather that did nothing to hide the lethal coiled tension of his muscles.
His hair was pitch black, brushing the collar of his tunic, but it was his eyes that stole the breath from Isolde’s lungs.
They were a piercing, luminescent silver.
King Tristan Rothwell, the sovereign of the northern territories, the apex alpha.
I I Isolde stammered, her voice raspy and broken.
She scrambled backward until her spine hit the carved wooden headboard.
Please, my lord, I have done nothing.
If Cedric sent me as a tribute, I swear I am of no use.
I cannot hunt, I cannot fight.
Quiet.
Tristan said softly.
He stepped forward, the heavy thud of his boots echoing in the grand chamber.
As he approached, the overwhelming scent of rain-soaked earth and crushed mint washed over her, the pure undiluted pheromones of a prime alpha.
It was dizzying.
Tristan stopped at the edge of the bed.
He looked down at her, his expression an impenetrable mask.
He did not see the dirt smudged on her cheek, nor the tattered rags she wore beneath the royal furs.
He saw the fragile, shaking girl with hair like spun moonlight.
“You are not a tribute, Isolde to Blanchett,” Tristan said, his voice dropping an octave, slipping into a low rumble that made the hair on her arms stand up.
“Cedric Huxley is dead.
I severed his head from his shoulders 3 days ago.
I sold His pale pink eyes widened in shock.
“Dead? But why?” Tristan reached out.
Isolde flinched violently, expecting a blow, but his large, calloused fingers merely brushed a stray lock of white hair behind her ear.
His touch was burning hot, sending a bizarre, electric shock straight down her spine.
“Because,” Tristan murmured, his silver eyes flashing with a dangerous, possessive light, “he dared to put a collar on what belongs to the crown.
” Isolde stared at him, paralyzed by confusion and fear.
“Belongs to the crown?” She was a cursed omega, an outcast.
She had passed out during a sudden, violent raid on the Huxley settlement, expecting to wake up dead or sold to the fighting pits.
Instead, she was lying in the alpha king’s personal chambers, surrounded by his elite lycan guard.
“Drink,” Tristan ordered, lifting a silver goblet from a bedside table and offering it to her.
“It is a tonic of willow bark and honey.
You have been unconscious for 3 days.
Your body is starved.
” Isolde’s hands shook so badly she could barely hold the goblet.
Tristan did not mock her.
Instead, his large hands enveloped hers, steadying the cup as she drank the sweet, soothing liquid.
The proximity to him was intoxicating and terrifying.
He was a myth brought to life, a king who had conquered five territories, who was said to rip out the throats of his enemies with his bare teeth.
Yet, here he was, feeding an omega like a fragile, porcelain doll.
“Rest now,” he commanded, stepping back.
The warmth of his proximity vanished, leaving her shivering.
“You are safe in Rothwell Keep.
No harm will come to you here.
That is my absolute vow.
” As Tristan turned and swept out of the room, the six massive wolves rose and followed him, the heavy oak doors closing with a resounding thud.
Isolde was left alone in the magnificent, terrifying silence.
She pulled her knees to her chest, trembling.
Kings did not make vows to Omegas.
Kings did not slaughter Alpha leaders over a servant.
Isolde was not stupid.
She knew the dark legends of the Rothwell line.
They were a cursed bloodline, requiring immense power to sustain their dominance.
As she looked around the opulent, gilded cage she found herself in, a sickening realization began to take root in her mind.
She wasn’t a guest.
She was a sacrifice.
A week passed in a haze of terrifying luxury.
Isolde was attended to by silent, terrified maids who bathed her in lavender oils and dressed her in gowns of heavy velvet and silk.
Her bruises faded, and the hollows of her cheeks began to fill out.
But the dread in her stomach only multiplied.
King Tristan was a phantom.
He visited her chambers every evening, standing by the fire, asking her stilted, formal questions about her comfort.
He never touched her again, keeping a rigid distance.
His jaw tightly clenched, his silver eyes tracking her every movement with a dark, brooding intensity.
Isolde interpreted his distance as disgust.
He was a king.
She was an albino abomination.
He was merely ensuring his sacrificial lamb was healthy.
She was finally allowed out of her chambers on the eighth day, though accompanied by two towering royal guards.
The keep was a massive stone fortress bustling with lords, ladies, and military commanders.
The moment Isolda stepped into the grand corridors, the whispers began.
The white rat from the lowlands, look at her eyes, demonic.
Why does the king harbor such an omen? It brings bad fortune.
Isolda kept her head bowed, staring at the polished stone floors, her heart squeezing with familiar shame.
She was an omega.
Her biology demanded she submit, to make herself small, to avoid the wrath of stronger wolves.
Well, well.
If it isn’t the king’s little stray.
Isolda stopped.
Blocking her path was Lady Diana Stanhope, a high-ranking noblewoman with fiery red hair and the aggressive sharp scent of a beta female.
Diana was draped in emerald silk, her eyes sweeping over Isolda with undisguised contempt.
Rumor had it that Diana had been vying for the position of Luna, the king’s mate, for over a decade.
Lady Diana, Isolda whispered, bowing deeply, exposing her neck in a sign of total submission.
Diana scoffed, stepping closer.
Pathetic.
You lack pigment and you lack pride.
Do you know the unrest you are causing, creature? The northern barons are threatening a rebellion.
They refuse to tolerate a cursed albino residing in the royal wing.
Diana leaned in, her voice dropping to a vicious hiss.
You are fattening yourself on our food, sleeping in our furs, while true wolves prepare for war.
Enjoy your temporary comfort, little rat.
Lord Reginald and the council will ensure you do not last the winter.
Enough.
The word cracked through the corridor like a whip.
Lady Diana stiffened, all the color draining from her face.
Tristan stood at the end of the hall, flanked by his imposing beta, Lord Reginald Ashford.
Tristan’s aura flared, thick and suffocating, forcing every wolf in the corridor, including the haughty Diana, to drop to their knees.
Isolda’s legs gave out, and she collapsed onto the cold stone, trembling violently.
Tristan strode forward, ignoring Diana entirely.
He stopped in front of Isolda and did the unthinkable.
He knelt.
Right there, in the middle of the grand corridor, the Alpha King lowered himself to the floor.
He reached out, his large hands gripping her shoulders, pulling her gently upright.
“Why are you on the floor?” he asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through her bones.
“I I am an omega, my king.
” Isolda stammered, tears pricking her pale eyes.
“It is my place.
” Tristan’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek.
He stood, pulling her up with him, tucking her small frame against his side.
“You bow to no one in this keep, Isolda.
Not to a lord, not to a lady.
Never again.
” He turned his piercing silver gaze to Diana, who was still trembling on the floor.
“Lady Diana, if you ever speak to her in that tone again, I will tear out your tongue and feed it to the hounds.
Do we understand each other?” “Yes, my king.
” Diana choked out.
Tristan guided Isolda away, leaving a stunned, terrified silence in their wake.
Isolda walked beside him, her mind spinning wildly.
Why was he protecting her so fiercely? Why humiliate a high-ranking noble for a cursed outcast? Later that evening, the answer seemed to reveal itself in the most horrifying way possible.
Isolde had slipped out of her chambers, unable to sleep.
She wandered toward the grand library, seeking the comfort of the fire.
As she approached the heavy oak doors, she heard hushed, urgent voices.
She paused, pressing her back against the cold stone wall, holding her breath.
It was Lord Reginald Ashford, the king’s beta, speaking to a group of men.
“The king is losing his mind,” Reginald hissed.
“He slaughtered Huxley, risking a border war, and for what? For that white-haired freak.
The council will not stand for it.
She is an omen of death.
” “Then what is his plan, Reginald?” another voice asked.
“Why keep her in the royal wing? Why feed her the best meats and clothe her in silk?” “Isn’t it obvious?” Reginald sneered, his voice dripping with dark certainty.
“The blood moon eclipse is in 3 weeks.
You know the old texts as well as I do.
The Rothwell line must secure its power.
A pure, unmarked soul, born of the omega cast, bathed in the light of the blood moon.
It is the ancient ritual.
He is not protecting her out of kindness.
He is preparing a vessel.
He is going to sacrifice her to the moon goddess to secure his absolute dominion over the continent.
” Isolde clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle a sob.
Her blood ran ice cold.
A vessel.
A sacrifice.
It made perfect sense.
It explained the rich food, the gentle treatment, the fierce protection.
You do not let a bruised, battered sheep go to the slaughter.
You present a perfect, unblemished offering to the gods.
Tristan didn’t care for her.
He was grooming her for death.
She fled back to her room, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.
She had escaped the cruel beatings of Cedric Huxley, only to walk into the bloody, ritualistic jaws of the Alpha King.
She had 3 weeks until the blood moon, 3 weeks to figure out how to escape the most heavily guarded fortress in the realm, or die on an altar.
What Isolde didn’t know, what no one outside of Tristan’s deepest, most fiercely guarded thoughts knew, was that the Alpha King had no intention of sacrificing her.
He had scented her across the battlefield in Doncaster, the overwhelming, undeniable scent of white jasmine and winter snow, the scent of his fated mate.
But, he knew the fragile, terrified omega would shatter if a monstrous Alpha King suddenly claimed her.
He was waiting, giving her time to heal, unaware that his court of vipers had just convinced his mate that he was going to murder her.
The 2 weeks leading up to the blood moon were a master class in deception.
Isolde played the part of the healing, docile omega, flawlessly.
She ate the rich roasted meats, wore the heavy, jewel-toned velvets Tristan provided, and kept her gaze submissively lowered whenever the towering king entered her chambers.
But, beneath her quiet exterior, her mind was a tempest of survival.
She mapped the guard rotations.
She noted that a sentry named Weston, a young beta with a tendency to drink too much plum wine, always dozed off near the eastern servants gate just past midnight.
She scavenged what she could, a thick woolen cloak from the laundry stores, a discarded hunting knife, and a small pouch of dried venison.
On the eve of the blood moon, a fierce blizzard rolled out of the northern mountains, burying Rothwell deep under a thick blanket of ice and howling wind.
It was a suicidal night to brave the wilderness, but Isolda knew it was her only chance.
The storm would mask her scent and cover her tracks.
Better to freeze to death as a free woman than be gutted on an altar by a king she was dangerously foolishly beginning to admire.
When the castle clock struck two, she slipped out.
The eastern gate was exactly as she had predicted.
Weston was snoring in his alcove, muffled by the howling wind.
Isolda squeezed through the heavy iron bars and plunged into the blinding white abyss of the Grimshaw woods.
For hours, she pushed through thigh-deep snow, her lungs burning, her bare fingers going numb around the hilt of her stolen knife.
The cold was a physical entity, clawing at her fragile frame.
Yet, she kept moving, driven by the sheer terror of Tristan’s silver eyes and the bloody ritual Reginald had described.
By dawn, the storm broke, leaving the forest eerily silent and bathed in the pale light of morning.
Exhausted, Isolda collapsed against the roots of a massive oak, gasping for air.
Snap.
Isolda’s head snapped up.
The sound of a breaking branch echoed like a gunshot in the frozen quiet.
Well, well, the little white rat is tougher than she looks.
Emerging from the tree line was not the king, nor his royal guard.
It was Liam Bradley, one of Lord Reginald’s most ruthless enforcers, flanked by three massive, scarred mercenaries.
They were in their human forms, bundled in heavy furs, but their eyes held the feral, predatory gleam of wolves ready for a kill.
Did you really think the king’s beta wouldn’t keep eyes on his precious sacrifice? Liam sneered, drawing a long, jagged broadsword.
Reginald knew you’d run eventually.
He gave us explicit orders.
We are to bring back your head and tell the king the rogue wolves got you.
It saves us the trouble of a rebellion and rid the keep of your cursed presence.
Isolda scrambled backward, raising her pathetic little hunting knife.
“Stay back.
” she screamed, her voice cracking.
Liam laughed, a cruel barking sound.
He lunged, moving with terrifying supernatural speed.
He backhanded her across the face.
The force of the blow sent Isolda flying into the snow, the knife tumbling from her grasp.
She tasted copper as her lips split open.
“Hold her down.
” Liam commanded, raising the broadsword.
“Make it quick.
The king will want to see the body.
” The mercenaries stepped forward, their shadows falling over her.
Isolda squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the cold bite of the steel.
Roar.
It was not a howl.
It was a sound that tore the very fabric of the air, a deafening guttural explosion of pure unadulterated apex fury.
The ground shook.
Isolda opened her eyes just in time to see a shadow the size of a warhorse erupt from the trees.
It was a dire wolf of nightmarish proportions.
Its coat pitch black against the snow.
Its eyes burning with a blinding luminescent silver light.
King Tristan.
He did not shift into a man.
He did not ask questions.
The massive black wolf slammed into Liam’s chest with the force of a battering ram.
The sickening crunch of Liam’s rib cage echoed through the clearing as the alpha king’s jaws clamped down, crushing the enforcer in a spray of crimson.
The three mercenaries screamed, shifting into their wolf forms to fight, but it was a slaughter.
Tristan was a force of nature, a god of war unleashed.
He moved with a brutal, calculating lethality, tearing through the traitors in a blur of black fur and snapping teeth.
Within seconds, the snow was painted red, and the woods fell dead silent once more.
Tristan’s massive wolf form stood panting in the center of the carnage, his silver eyes locking onto Isolda.
He began to walk toward her.
Isolda scrambled back against the tree, hyperventilating, pressing her hands over her face.
Please, she sobbed.
Please, just make it fast.
Don’t take me to the altar.
The crunching of snow stopped.
A moment later, a heavy, warm cloak was draped over her shivering shoulders.
She lowered her trembling hands to see Tristan in his human form, kneeling before her in the blood-stained snow.
He was heedless of the freezing cold, his chest heaving, his silver eyes wide with a mixture of raw terror and absolute confusion.
The altar, Tristan breathed, his voice breaking.
He reached out, his blood-soaked hands trembling as he hovered them over her bruised face, terrified to actually touch her.
Isolda, what are you talking about? Why did you run from me? Reginald, she choked out, her teeth chattering violently.
I heard him in the library.
He said the blood moon ritual.
He said you needed an unmarked omega, that you were feeding me to sacrifice me to the moon goddess to secure your power.
Tristan went entirely still.
The air around him seemed to freeze, crackling with a sudden, suffocating dark energy.
His eyes darkened from silver to a stormy, terrifying black.
Reginald told his men I was a sacrifice.
” Tristan’s voice was a dead, hollow whisper that frightened Isolda more than his roar.
“Yes.
He said the council wouldn’t accept an albino and that you were grooming me to die.
” Tristan closed his eyes, a ragged breath shuddering through his massive frame.
When he opened them, the sorrow and rage in his expression broke Isolda’s heart.
Carefully, gently, he slid his arms under her knees and behind her back, lifting her out of the snow and pressing her tightly against his warm, bare chest.
“Isolda,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her snow-white hair.
“I am going to kill Reginald Ashford for what he has put you through.
But first, you must understand.
I brought you to my chambers.
I fed you.
I protected you.
Not to sacrifice you.
I did it because from the moment the wind carried your scent to me in Huxley Slums, my wolf recognized you.
” Isolda stared up at him, her pale pink eyes wide with disbelief.
“Recognized me?” “You are my fated mate,” Tristan vowed, his voice thick with emotion.
“My Luna.
The queen of the northern territories.
” Isolda’s mind blanked.
“But I am an omega.
I am cursed.
I am albino.
” A fierce, possessive smile touched Tristan’s lips.
“You are perfect.
And tonight, under the blood moon, the entire realm will understand exactly who and what you are.
” The journey back to Rothwell Keep was swift.
Tristan carried her the entire way, his body radiating a furnace-like heat that warded off the biting chill of the winter woods.
When they breached the main gates, the fortress was in absolute chaos.
Guards were sprinting through the courtyards and nobles were clustered in panicked groups.
Tristan did not stop.
He carried Isolde straight into the great hall, kicking the massive oak doors open with a crash that rattled the chandeliers.
The hall fell deadly silent.
Standing near the throne was Lord Reginald Ashford alongside Lady Diana and Commander Bennett.
When Reginald saw the blood coating his king and the fragile white-haired girl clutched safely in his arms, the beta’s face drained of all color.
“My king,” Reginald stammered, stepping forward.
“You found her.
” “The rogue wolves.
” “Liam Bradley is dead,” Tristan said, his voice carrying the lethal calm of a drawn blade.
He set Isolde down gently on the steps of the dais, standing protectively in front of her.
“He confessed everything before I tore his throat out, Reginald.
” Gasps erupted throughout the hall.
Diana backed away, her hands flying to her mouth in horror.
“Tristan, listen to reason,” Reginald shouted, realizing the game was lost, panic finally bleeding into his tone.
“Look at her.
The northern barons will never kneel to an albino omega.
It is an insult to the moon goddess.
She is weak.
I did what had to be done to protect your legacy.
” “My legacy,” Tristan snarled, his eyes flashing silver as he stalked down the steps toward his beta.
“He’s standing right behind me.
” Before Reginald could draw a weapon, Tristan’s hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around the beta’s throat with a sickening snap.
Reginald choked, his feet lifting off the marble floor.
“You plotted against your king,” Tristan roared, his voice magically amplified, forcing every wolf in the hall to their knees.
“But far worse, you ordered the assassination of your queen.
” Tristan threw Reginald across the room.
The traitor crashed into a stone pillar, sliding to the floor, unconscious and broken.
Tristan turned to the terrified court.
“Lock him in the dungeons.
He will face the executioner at dawn.
” Commander Bennett scrambled to obey, dragging the disgraced lord away.
Tristan turned back to Isolde.
The anger melted from his features, replaced by a profound, unshakable devotion.
He held out his hand.
“Come,” he whispered.
“The eclipse is beginning.
” He led her out to the highest balcony of the keep.
The storm clouds had parted, revealing a massive, terrifyingly beautiful crimson moon hanging low in the night sky.
Below them, thousands of pack members had gathered in the courtyard, their faces turned upward, watching their king and the controversial white-haired girl.
“Tristan, they hate me,” Isolde whispered, shrinking back against his side.
“They think I am a demon.
” “They have forgotten the old lore, my love,” Tristan said gently.
“They see a lack of color and think it is a curse.
But my bloodline remembers.
” “Look at your hands.
” Isolde looked down.
As the deep red light of the blood moon washed over the balcony, something impossible began to happen.
Her pale, translucent skin did not reflect the red light.
It absorbed it.
A soft, ethereal silver luminescence began to glow beneath her skin.
Her snow-white hair caught the lunar magic, floating slightly around her shoulders like a halo of liquid starlight.
Below, in the courtyard, the murmurs of discontent instantly died, replaced by a wave of collective stunned gasps.
“The white seer,” an elder in the front row whispered, falling to his knees.
“The Moon Touched.
” Isolda felt a surge of ancient thrumming power wake in her veins, a power that had been suppressed by years of abuse and starvation.
The albino trait was not a genetic failure.
It was the rarest genetic marker in werewolf history.
The omegas born without pigment were the direct conduits of the Moon Goddess, meant to balance the volatile destructive power of the apex alphas.
Tristan turned to her, his silver eyes filled with absolute reverence.
He knelt before her, in full view of his entire kingdom, and bared his neck in the ultimate display of submission.
“I, Tristan Rothwell, King of the North, offer my life, my pack, and my soul to the Moon Touched.
” he vowed, his voice echoing across the silent courtyard.
“Take my mark, Isolda, and rule by my side.
” Tears streamed down Isolda’s glowing cheeks.
She was no longer the abused, starving rat of the Huxley slums.
She was the anchor to the most powerful wolf in the world.
She reached out, her glowing fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw, and leaned down, pressing her teeth into the juncture of his neck.
As the mating mark sealed, a shockwave of silver and red light pulsed outward from the balcony, washing over the thousands of wolves below.
The sheer, overwhelming power of the king and the Moon Touched Queen forced every single wolf, including a weeping, utterly defeated Lady Diana, to shift into their wolf forms and bow their heads to the stone.
The Alpha King had not chosen a sacrifice.
He had found his goddess, and the North would never be the same again.
Did the shocking twist of Isolda’s true lunar bloodline leave you breathless? From a battered outcast to the most powerful queen in the northern territories, this epic romance proves destiny always wins.
If you love this thrilling werewolf drama, hit that like button.
Share this story with your fellow fantasy lovers, and subscribe to our channel for more breathtaking, twist-filled supernatural audiobooks every single week.
See you next time.
