His Sightless Luna

The fire teaches the wolf to kneel-or burn.

The black SUV sliced through the ancient forest, its engine a low growl under a sky thick with twilight. Pines, gnarled and towering, stood like old sentinels, their skeletal arms clawing at the fading light. Inside, Ethan Hale sat perfectly still-jaw tight, shoulders squared, eyes fixed ahead. He breathed in the scent of damp earth and pine needles, a raw, wild smell that cut through the sterile hum of the AC.

He'd studied this estate for months, devoured every shred of intel: blueprints, satellite photos, security rotas, even the kitchen staff's shift patterns. But no amount of data, no pixelated image or hushed rumor, could prepare him for the sheer, suffocating weight of the place. The Vandresa estate wasn't just a stronghold; it was a cathedral of violence. A sanctuary where monsters wore tailored suits and spoke in velvet tones, where power was measured in spilled blood, and the moon watched like an indifferent god, casting long, predatory shadows.

The massive iron gates, forged into snarling wolf heads, swung open without a whisper, as if they knew him, a pre-programmed acknowledgment of his arrival. The SUV glided into the sprawling courtyard, where fountains bled red water into marble basins, and colossal wolf statues, carved from white stone, howled perpetually toward the bruised sky. The air here was heavy, thick with ozone and something metallic, something like iron and old fear.

Ethan stepped out. He was six-foot-two, with dark, neatly cropped hair and olive skin that hinted at distant, sun-drenched ancestries. Beta-born, cursed with no shift potential, yet impossible to overlook. He wore a black turtleneck beneath a charcoal wool coat, a minimalist ensemble that made his lean, athletic frame seem almost predatory. His beauty was sharp, etched with angles and an inherent intensity. And his eyes-a startling, luminous gold with a subtle, almost imperceptible upward slant-gleamed not with awe, but with cold, precise calculation. Every breath was measured, every muscle coiled.

Two guards approached, their movements deliberate, almost lazy. Both shirtless, their torsos a roadmap of scar tissue, both branded with the Vandresa crest-a stylized, rampant wolf-burned across their chests like cattle.

Alphas, he noted, judging by the effortless arrogance in their stride, the way their shoulders rolled with contained power. Too confident. Too slow, for someone like him.

"Name?" one barked, his voice like gravel, his gaze sweeping over Ethan with open disdain.

"Ethan Hale. Enforcer transfer from the Marrow Ridge Pack," he said smoothly, his voice a low, even baritone that carried no tremor. "Approved by Alpha Vandresa himself."

They exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them. The bigger one, a brute with a broken nose, lifted his head, sniffing the air with almost theatrical disdain. "Beta," he grunted, the word dripping with contempt.

Ethan didn't flinch, didn't react. His face remained a mask of polite indifference. "Efficient," he countered, the single word a quiet barb, highlighting their unnecessary slowness.

The bigger one's lips curled into a smirk, a flash of white teeth. He stepped forward, closing the distance, his bulk intimidating. "You don't smell like loyalty." The implication was clear: he smelled like an outsider, like prey.

"I don't smell like fear either," Ethan replied, his voice still low, but the temperature in the air seemed to drop several degrees. "Your Alpha wouldn't like delays." He met the man's gaze, his golden eyes unblinking, holding the challenge.

That earned a pause. The Alpha's sneer faltered, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. A second later, a voice, crisp and authoritarian, crackled through their earpieces-cleared access. A silent command, a reminder of the hierarchy even these Alphas couldn't ignore. The grand doors to the estate, massive and carved from dark, polished wood, swung open with a groan of ancient hinges.

Inside, the opulence was breathtaking, yet it was laced with an undeniable undercurrent of threat.

Crimson carpets swallowed footsteps, muffling all sound, as if the very air absorbed noise.

Chandeliers, intricate and heavy, hung from vaulted ceilings like skeletal jaws, dripping crystal teeth. Guards stood at every turn, some in their hulking wolf forms behind reinforced, mirrored glass panels, their eyes glowing in the dim light.

Others were human, towering figures-armed, bare-chested, their bodies a tapestry of old scars, each one a testament to battles fought and won.

The air was thick with the scent of old money, expensive cigars, and something else, something animalistic and dangerous that permeated everything.

Ethan was led through a labyrinth of echoing corridors to the Grand Hall, a throne room carved from dark, gleaming stone and a profound, watchful silence. The silence here wasn't peaceful; it was the silence of anticipation, of a predator waiting for its prey.

There, on a raised dais, Dominic Vandresa sat.

The Alpha of Alphas. A living myth, whispered about in hushed tones across the continent, draped in black and gold, exuding an almost palpable aura of lethal power. His silver-streaked hair, a striking contrast to his dark suit, was slicked back, sharp and severe, like the edge of a newly honed blade. His eyes were obsidian, depthless and ancient, fixed on a glass of deep red liquid that might've been the finest vintage wine-or something thicker, something that truly bled.

Around him, a semicircle of lieutenants stood in calculated proximity, their postures radiating deference mixed with their own simmering power.

Some leaned casually against pillars, their gazes bored yet watchful. Some growled under their breath, low rumbling sounds of impatience. Every man here had killed, had taken, had conquered something just this morning, or was planning to before the moon set. They were the apex predators, and Ethan, a beta, was the smallest fish in the deadliest pond.

Ethan bowed with perfect precision, a move rehearsed a hundred times in his mind, calibrated to convey respect without subservience. His gaze remained fixed on the space just above Dominic's head, an old trick.

"Beta Hale," Dominic said, his voice smooth as oil over flame, an unsettling calm that held a promise of violence. "You served under Varkos?"

"Yes, Alpha. Two years. He speaks highly of you."

A calculated lie, delivered with effortless conviction. Varkos was a worm and spoke of

Dominic only with a mixture of terror and grudging respect.

Dominic scoffed, a low sound that rippled through his lieutenants. "He speaks highly of who he fears."

A few chuckles ripped through the circle, sharp and predatory. Ethan remained still, his face unreadable, refusing to rise to the bait.

Dominic waved a hand, a dismissive gesture that nonetheless held absolute authority. "Your bloodline?"

"Maternal. Hale line. No shift potential. But I excel in infiltration, extraction, and-"

"We don't need mercenaries," Dominic cut in, his voice hardening, the pretense of politeness dropping away. "We need wolves who bleed for the cause. Who are loyal to the bone."

"I don't bleed," Ethan said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, a counter-statement not a challenge. "I finish."

A profound silence descended, thick and heavy.

The air crackled with unspoken tension. The lieutenants shifted, their eyes narrowing, waiting for the Alpha's reaction.

Then, a slow, predatory grin crept across Dominic's face, spreading like a stain. The kind of smile predators made right before the lunge, a silent declaration of intent. "Confidence," the Alpha purred, rising from his throne with a fluid grace that belied his power. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, his presence overwhelming. "That's rare in your kind. Most betas know their place."

"I know it, Alpha," Ethan replied, meeting his gaze directly now, his golden eyes unyielding. "I just have no intention of staying in it."

More silence, pregnant with anticipation. Then, a roar of laughter erupted from Dominic, deep and guttural, echoing through the hall. It wasn't friendly laughter; it was mocking, approving, a dangerous amusement. Dominic clapped Ethan on the shoulder, the weight of his hand heavy as iron, a test of his resolve.

"You may stay. For now. You'll shadow Rafe-my Second."

From the deeper shadows to Dominic's left, Rafe Danner stepped out. Built like a wrecking ball and twice as mean, with buzzed blond hair cropped brutally short and eyes like chips of frozen piss-cold, hard, and utterly devoid of warmth. He looked Ethan up and down, a slow, deliberate appraisal, like a lean dog sizing up a deer that foolishly claimed to be a lion. His lips, thin and bloodless, curled into a sneer.

"I'll enjoy watching you fail," Rafe muttered, his voice a low growl, clearly audible in the sudden hush.