Magnus's POV Bastien's cane struck the marble once, sharp as thunder. "You still hate us, don't you?" I didn't answer. Hate was too small a word for what the Shadowbane bloodline had done - to my mother, to me. The old wolf thought my silence was guilt, but it was restraint. Because if I let my wolf speak, the mansion would drown in blood. I remember every story - not as they told it, but as it truly happened. Ulric Sanchez - my father - had been the second son once, reckless and hungry for what was never his. My uncle Phelan was the rightful heir: noble, brilliant, adored by Bastien. His Luna, Ulva, was the kind of she-wolf the elders praised - composed, diplomatic, perfectly bred. Ulric was different. He called it love, that weakness for a musician named Raya. She was soft, with blue eyes that trembled at every cruelty of our world. She never should have stepped into the den of wolves. He found her at a performance, lured by her scent - the wild honey of innocence. He disguised himself as a trader's son, pursued her like prey, promised her peace. And she believed him. When she discovered the truth - that he was a Shadowbane, son of Bastien - she tried to run. But Ulric never let go of what he claimed as his. He begged, threatened, even swore his life to force her to stay. In the end, she gave in. Love or pity, no one could tell. For a while, they were happy. Until Phelan died and the bloodline tore itself apart. Ulric wanted more than a mate; he wanted power. But Raya wasn't made for court games. She didn't understand the way dominance worked - the scent of submission, the battle of fangs behind every smile. Then came Ivy. She was Ulric's childhood bondmate - clever, ruthless, the perfect she-wolf. When she returned from the border wars, she found Ulric trapped in a marriage that dulled his ambition. She reminded him what he'd lost. Whispered in his ear that greatness could still be his. Raya discovered them. She didn't scream. She just broke. By then, she was pregnant with me. My father begged her to stay, claimed the affair meant nothing. But even I, unborn, could feel the fracture. Her heart had turned to ash.When she tried to leave, he locked her away in the Court - a gilded cage where even moonlight couldn't reach. Her parents came for her once. The guards turned them away. That night, in a storm, their carriage overturned on the mountain road. They never made it home. After that, Raya never smiled again. When I was born, her mind was already unraveling. She called me her "little wolf," then forgot she'd ever said it. Sometimes she'd stare at the window for hours, whispering to ghosts only she could hear. Ulric couldn't stand it. He left for the border under the guise of expanding the pack's trade network - but it was the coward's escape game, not ambition. He left us to rot under Bastien's roof, surrounded by wolves who saw my mother's weakness as blood sport. They made her their scapegoat, and I their entertainment. The Shadowbane estate reeked of hierarchy and rot. The females of the bloodline - my grandfather's other mates, their daughters, their smug companions - always laughed too loudly when my father left. Servants followed their lead, bowing to the strong, kicking the weak. And the old Alpha Bastien, the patriarch of this diseased dynasty, simply looked away. He didn't care what happened to a "tainted" mate and her halfblood child. He believed in the law of fangs: the unfit will be devoured. My mother, Raya, was beauty in its rawest form. No wolf could deny it. Her scent - soft wildflowers with a hint of sorrow - stirred instincts in even the coldest beast. That was why my father's younger brother, Conor began to linger near her. He'd smile when no one watched. Whisper when they did. Until one day, cornered and desperate, my mother fled down the marble stairs to escape his hands - and fell. Her skull struck the stone. No one helped her. They called her a temptress, a human-blooded witch who seduced pack males for sport. Conor's mate led a group of females who dragged her before me - I was only a cub then - and beat her bloody under the moonlight, warning her not to "entice" other males. Bastien ordered her wounds healed, not out of pity, but to avoid gossip that could stain the family crest. That was the moment I learned: in the Shadowbane Pack, mercy was a luxury reserved for the powerful.Raya began to fade after that. Her mind cracked like ice underfoot. She'd wake in the night screaming at invisible wolves, then weep, clutching me to her chest as if I were her last anchor to sanity. Some nights she'd try to end it - once with silver shards, once by drowning herself and me both. When she recovered, she'd beg the moon for forgiveness and press her face against my fur. "I'm sorry, little wolf," she'd whisper. "I just want the pain to stop." Once, she tried to reach out to my father's sister, Luna of the Runeclaw Pack. She wrote letter after letter, pleading for help. None were answered. By the time I turned five, my father returned - and he didn't come alone. Ivy walked beside him. She wore the scent of dominance and satisfaction, as if she had finally claimed what she'd always wanted. The moment she stepped into the ancestral den and saw my mother's hollow eyes, she smiled. I remember that smile. I still dream of tearing it from her face. They said it was time to "end the farce." Ulric arranged for the divorce, finally giving my mother what she had begged for years before. But when we drove away from the Shadowbane stronghold - my mother, my father, Ivy, and me - everything burned. Ivy couldn't stop gloating. She mocked my mother's fall from grace, the death of her mortal parents, how her "delicate lineage" brought nothing but shame. And maybe the Moon heard her. Because on the highway, my mother snapped. The madness surged again. She lunged forward, seized the steering wheel, and screamed - a sound not of rage, but release. The world flipped. Metal screamed. Fire. Blood. When I crawled from the wreckage, my mother's body was wrapped around mine, shielding me from the flames. I lived. Ulric didn't. His ribs shattered inward; his wolf couldn't heal what was broken inside. Ivy lost the pup she carried - and with it, her womb. Three lives intertwined in ruin. When the smoke cleared, my mother was gone - finally free.I spent months under Bastien's roof again, waiting for my father to recover. When he did, he married Ivy. He called it duty. I called it blasphemy. Ivy couldn't bear her own child anymore, so she turned her hatred on me. She saw in my face every loss she'd suffered. Her punishments were inventive: starvation, drowning, needles under the skin. Sometimes, she'd whisper that I should've burned with my mother. Ulric stopped interfering after a while. He said it kept peace in the house. He didn't see that peace was the silence of a grave. Once, she tried to cast me out into the wild - left me bound in silver wire deep in the Frostfang forest. The others thought I was dead. But I survived. The wilderness taught me how. Hunger taught me when to strike. Wolves taught me to kill. A month later, when they found me, I walked into the Shadowbane hall barefoot and bloodstained, dragging a feral alpha's pelt behind me. That was the day Bastien finally looked at me - really looked. He saw not Ulric's weak son, but a wolf the pack could not break. And I saw him for what he truly was: the architect of every cruelty that made me. The boy they left to die had become their heir. Their weapon. Their curse.