Alpha King's Cursed Bride

I will die tomorrow.

The thought isn’t a panicked one. It isn’t even sad. It’s a whisper, soft as the wind that snakes through the cracks of my cell. A truth I’ve been born into. No Blight survives past eighteen. That’s the age when the curse—our curse—blooms into something monstrous. Something unforgivable.

I don’t know what it means to be what I am. No one does.

All I know is that it’s something people like me need to die for.

The people of Raedwyn fear what lives in my blood. They whisper of the Blood Wolf, of moons that drip with red light and herald death. It’s a story mothers tell their children to keep them obedient: Behave, or the Blight will devour us all. I’ve heard it through the bars of this cell, from the guards who forget that the monster they speak of is only feet away.

My wrists ache. 

The iron shackles have been my companions since the day I could walk, cold and unyielding, biting into my skin with every movement. My nails are jagged, the remnants of countless attempts to claw my way free. The walls of my cell bear the scratches of my desperation, long lines that mark the days, the years, of my imprisonment. I’ve counted every one.

It’s how I know I’ve reached eighteen.

The air here smells of damp stone and mildew, the scent so constant it’s embedded in my skin. The cell is small, barely enough space to stretch out, though I’ve long since stopped trying. Stretching hurts when you’re covered in bruises.

The guards are talking outside again, their voices low but not low enough. They think I can’t hear. They think I’m too weak, too broken to care.

“She’ll turn soon,” one of them mutters. “You’ve seen what happens. Best to kill her now, before it’s too late.”

The other one laughs, the sound short and bitter. 

“Not our call. The Alpha wants her alive until tomorrow. Says it’s tradition to do it on the eighteenth.”

My throat tightens, but I don’t make a sound. If they knew I was listening, they’d stop, and I need their words. Words are weapons. Information is the only armor I’ve ever had in this place.

The Blood Wolf. The words linger in my mind, foreign and familiar all at once. Is that what I am? A wolf? 

A beast waiting to be unleashed? 

I don’t feel like a beast. 

I am a girl with too many scars and not enough hope.

The floor beneath me is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and stays there. I trace the lines of the stone absentmindedly, my fingers finding the grooves I’ve worn into it over the years. Each mark is a memory. The day I tried to bite through the chains and broke a tooth. The day I scratched at the walls until my nails bled and cracked. The day I gave up, only to try again the next morning.

The guards move away, their footsteps echoing down the corridor. Silence falls, heavy and suffocating. I press my back against the wall, drawing my knees to my chest. My hair falls over my face, a curtain of red that I can’t bring myself to touch.

Red. Like blood. Like the wolf.

The people of Raedwyn say we Blights are cursed. That we’re born wrong, marked by the gods for something dark and terrible. I’ve never believed in gods, but I believe in fear. I’ve seen it in the way the guards refuse to meet my eyes, the way the villagers whisper and cross themselves when they hear my name.

Isla. Just a name, but it feels like a weapon aimed at my own chest.

I don’t want to die. I tell myself I’ve accepted it, that tomorrow is just another day, but the truth is, I’m not ready. There’s something inside me, something stubborn and fierce, that refuses to bow.

If I’m going to die, I’ll make sure they remember me. Not as a monster. Not as a curse.

As something more.

I don’t want to fall asleep.

Sleep is dangerous. It dulls your edges, makes you slow, and gives them more chances to break you. But tonight, exhaustion clings to me like a shadow, and my body betrays me. My head dips forward, my muscles slacken, and before I can stop it, the void claims me.

It doesn’t last long.

I wake to pain. A hand in my hair, yanking me upright so violently my neck wrenches. I don’t scream anymore. Screaming only gives them what they want. Instead, a low grunt escapes my throat, sharp and involuntary. I hate myself for it.

The first time they dragged me like this, I screamed until my voice broke. That earned me a fist to the face, hard enough to knock me unconscious for two days. I learned my lesson.

The guard’s grip tightens as he pulls me to my feet, my bare toes scraping against the cold, gritty stone. I don’t fight him. Not because I can’t, but because there’s no point. Fighting only makes them hurt you longer.

"Move," he snaps, his voice rough and impatient. “Now.”

I shuffle forward, my wrists still bound in the heavy manacles that have become an extension of my body. My ankles are chained too, the links clinking with every step. The corridor feels endless, dimly lit by torches that cast flickering shadows on the damp walls. The air is colder here, sharper, as though it knows where I’m being taken.

Then we stop. The guard shoves a heavy door open, and I’m yanked into a new cell.

This one is different.

There’s light here, faint but undeniable. It streams in through a small, barred window near the ceiling, casting golden streaks across the filthy floor. For a moment, I forget everything else. The pain, the chains, the guard’s sneer—all of it fades as my eyes lock onto that light.

The sun.

It’s been years since I’ve seen it. Even this meager sliver feels like a gift, a miracle I don’t deserve. I stumble toward the window, my chains rattling, and press myself against the wall beneath it. The warmth hits my skin, tentative and fleeting, but enough to make me feel alive in a way I haven’t in years.

I tilt my head back, letting the light touch my face.

For a heartbeat, I forget that I’m a prisoner.

For a heartbeat, I could be anyone else.

Then I see it.

Beyond the bars, the window offers a partial view of the courtyard. I see feet, dozens of them, shifting and shuffling, packed tightly together. Boots caked with mud, bare toes on cobblestones. A crowd.

They’re all facing the same direction, their attention fixed on something I can’t quite see. I rise onto my toes, straining for a better angle, and that’s when I notice the stage.

It’s raised and simple, just planks of wood hastily nailed together. But it’s what’s in the center that holds my gaze. A block of wood, stained dark with red, the edges splintered and worn from years of use.

And standing beside it, a man in a black cape, his face hidden beneath a heavy hood. He’s motionless, waiting, one hand resting on the hilt of a sword strapped to his hip.

I know what this is. I don’t need to see the rest of the stage to understand.

This is where the heads roll.

My stomach clenches, a hollow, twisting ache that has nothing to do with hunger. I’ve heard the stories, the whispered rumors that filter down to the dungeons like poison. The executions are a spectacle, a warning to anyone who dares defy the Alpha King.

I step back from the window, my breath coming faster now, shallow and unsteady. The light that felt like a gift moments ago now feels like a cruel joke, illuminating the very place I’ve spent my life trying to avoid.

Because tomorrow, that stage will be for me.

They come for me again.

I don’t fight it. I’ve learned not to waste my strength on battles I can’t win. Instead, I let them drag me, their hands rough and impersonal as they yank me forward. My bare feet scuff against the stones, the grit biting into my skin.

Outside, the air is bright and sharp, too pure for the filth they’re about to put on display. My first breath of it is too fast, too deep. It tastes like freedom, but only for a second.

The crowd is already screaming. I hear them before I see them—the roars of anger, the curses hurled like daggers.

“Blight!” someone screams, the word laced with venom, cutting through the air like a whip. Another voice follows, sharp and biting, then another, each one more hateful, more savage. The crowd surges, their hatred swelling into a crushing wave that drowns me.

“Burn the monster!”

“End her before she kills us all!”

“Kill her!”