"Some victories are born not of strength, but of sacrifice."
The southern border reeked of blood, burnt earth, and panic. When John arrived, the chaos had already swallowed the land. Rogues had never dared push this deep into Lockwood territory—not like this.
The warriors were scattered, many injured, and others already fallen. But there was no room for fear.
John climbed atop a fallen tree trunk, his voice a steel blade cutting through the fray.
"Hold your ground!" he bellowed. "Fight with your soul, not just your claws. Victory is ours if we claim it—together!"
The scattered soldiers rallied, howling in unison as their prince charged forward, a flash of silver across the battlefield.
The clash was brutal—fang against fang, claw against steel. The rogues were more coordinated than anyone expected. It was almost... tactical.
Then came the arrow.
Slick with wolfsbane and humming with dark enchantment, it whistled through the air—aimed directly at John's heart. His eyes widened—but there was no time to move.
A blur of copper-red fur leapt between him and death.
The arrow hit with a sickening thud.
The red wolf collapsed beside him, gasping, the scent of blood and wolfsbane filling the air. John's heart stuttered.
"No!" he roared. "Get him out of here—NOW!"
Another warrior shifted and obeyed without hesitation, dragging the bleeding wolf—Brian—to safety.
The fight dragged on for hours. The cost was steep. But by the time dawn broke over the blood-soaked trees, the border was held. Barely.
John stood among the dead and wounded, panting, his claws slick with rogue blood. He didn't know who had given these bastards the courage to push this far. But something was wrong.
It had been two days since the rogue ambush at the southern border—and two days since the copper-furred wolf had thrown himself in front of a wolfsbane arrow meant for John.
The young warrior had nearly died saving the prince's life.
John hadn't left it at a mere thank you. He made sure the man lacked for nothing. A private room in the palace infirmary, round-the-clock care, and his personal healer assigned to monitor his condition. He even had someone look into the red wolf's past.
What he found hit harder than expected.
An orphan. No living family. His parents had died in a ghastly accident when he was still a boy. No pack claimed him. No legacy left behind.
A lone wolf with nothing... who risked everything.
John sat beside the bed in silence, his mind turning over the idea of gratitude, loyalty, and fate when a groggy sound pulled him from his thoughts.
The copper-haired man stirred, blinking slowly as the haze of unconsciousness began to fade.
"Doctor," John called, standing. "He's awake."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice softer now. "It's good to see you up. How are you feeling?"
Brian blinked a few times, the memories of the battle flashing behind his eyes. He remembered the arrow. The pain. The prince. Slowly, he turned his head to face John, still weak but more focused now.
"With all due respect, Your Highness," he said, voice rough and dry, "I'm fine. What about you? I hope you weren't hurt."
John blinked in mild surprise.
"I'm fine—thanks to you," he replied, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You've got a hell of a spirit. I could use a wolf like you."
Brian straightened slightly despite the pain, eyebrows lifting.
John continued, "What would you say to joining the Royal Guard?"
For a heartbeat, Brian stared. Then, a flicker of pride lit his features.
"It would be an honor, Your Highness."
One Month Later
Peace had returned—for now.
The southern border held strong, and reports of rogue activity had dwindled. Within the palace, rumors buzzed like bees in spring. Some whispered that the mysterious red-haired warrior might be named Beta once John ascended the throne.
John didn't confirm or deny it.
What mattered more was that he had found a trustworthy sword—one earned, not inherited.
John and Brian had grown close, often seen training together or exchanging quiet talks in the hall. But in all this, one truth remained: there was still no word of the missing girls.
Raven and Sage had vanished without a trace.
On one particularly sunny day, John wandered into the royal garden. He found himself near the white lilies Raven had always loved. The breeze was warm, but his thoughts were elsewhere—on his sister's defiance, her stubbornness, the fire in her eyes.
"She always hated parties," he muttered to no one, smiling faintly. "Would've run off with the gardener if it meant freedom."
A breathless voice cut into his thoughts.
"Your Highness! A message—urgent!"
The palace courier bowed, holding out a sealed letter. The crest was unmistakable.
Raven.
John's breath caught as he took it.
Without hesitation, he turned and headed straight to the Alpha King. The time for waiting was over.
With shaking hands John opened the letter in front of the whole family and read it out loud.
To my family,
I'm safe. Truly. For the first time in a long while, the world feels still. I'm somewhere the wind doesn't feel like chains, and my breath doesn't taste like duty.
I miss home—more than words can carry. The lilies. The laughter. Even your scolding, John.
But I won't return. Not yet.
Please don't search for me. One day, when the time is right... I'll find my way back.
Tell Father I'm still his little stormcloud.
And tell Mother... I finally found a sky that lets me breathe.
—Raven
After John finished reading the letter aloud, the room fell into silence.
A stillness that held both relief and heartbreak.
The Alpha King sat back in his chair, eyes fixed on the letter as if willing it to say more. There was no mention of danger, no sign of pain—but there was also no promise of return. Not soon.
John exhaled slowly, his jaw tight.
"She's alive," he said quietly. "She's happy... but she shouldn't have to be alone to feel that."
His eyes rose to meet his father's.
"Dad," he said, voice firmer now, "let me go. Let me find her. Maybe if she sees me—hears me—she'll come home. Even if she doesn't, I need to know why she left like that."
The Alpha King didn't speak for a while. The fire crackled in the hearth. A breeze moved the sheer curtains, ghosting across the polished floor.
Then came the tension—the arguments.
She's not ready.
You don't know what you're walking into.
The realm needs its prince.
But in the end, the father outweighed the king.
"You can go," he said at last, voice low and worn. "But you don't go alone."
John nodded, half-expecting the condition.
"I already know who I'm taking."
By nightfall, The prince and his copper-haired guard—John and Brian—rode out together.
To find the runaway princess.
To bring her home... or understand why she couldn't come back.
One week after the rescue.
The moon hung high above the palace, its silver glow slipping through the arched window of the study. Inside, the room was dim, lit only by a single oil lamp that flickered over scattered parchment and opened files.
Brian sat at the desk, shirt sleeves rolled up, posture relaxed—but his eyes were sharp, fixed on the image in his hand.
A portrait.
Delicate ink strokes captured her gaze. Sharp. Fierce. Unmistakable.
Raven Lockwood.
Bryce, his longtime informant and silent ally, leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"Told you the girl looked familiar," he muttered, dropping another file on the desk. "That's the Alpha's daughter. Lockwood royalty."
Brian didn't reply immediately. He turned the picture slowly in his hand, recalling the flash of that night—the scent of fear, the fire in her voice, the softness of her hand as she pulled him through the dark.
So that was her.
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose.
"She's the one I helped escape from the cellar," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Bryce smirked. "You planning to tell them that?"
Brian's lips curved—not quite a smile, but something colder. Calculated.
"No," he said simply. "Not yet."
He set the picture down gently on the desk and tapped his finger against it.
"What better way to get close to the Lockwoods," he said slowly, "than through their precious daughter?"
His eyes glinted with something unreadable as he stood, rolling the tension from his shoulders. He wasn't just a soldier anymore. He was inside.
And now... the game had truly begun.