Stolen Birthright

Valeria’s POV

The old woman drags me down a narrow, drafty corridor and shoves me into a cramped, dim room. She drops to her knees, her calloused fingers fumbling with a heavy iron key. The lock clicks. The burning silver shackles fall from my bruised wrists and raw ankles, hitting the wooden floorboards with a dull thud.

A massive wave of physical relief washes over my battered body. I rub the blistered, angry flesh, pulling deep, ragged breaths into my burning lungs.

The elderly woman rises, her wrinkled face an unreadable mask. Her tone turns chillingly practical. "You will stay in this room until the Alphas summon you again," she states, brushing the dirt from her skirt. "Be warned. They arranged no provisions for your upkeep. No food. No water. If you want to eat, you must find work around the territory to feed yourself."

She turns on her heel and leaves, shutting the heavy door behind her. The lock slides into place with a sickening finality.

A gnawing uncertainty consumes my thoughts as the suffocating silence settles over the small space. My stomach twists into a painful knot. These Boreal Alphas operate with a deep, personal grudge. They look at me like I am dirt, accusing me of unspeakable acts, claiming my father introduced us years ago. None of it makes sense. My father kept me locked away, hidden from the world.

My mind races back to Meridia. My home. My people. With no leader to protect the borders, my rich, fertile lands sit defenseless. These Valkin Alphas are ruthless. Or worse, other aggressive packs roaming the Orient and Occident could easily march in and seize the territory. I am trapped here in the freezing North, stripped of my power, while my legacy hangs by a thread.

A vicious hunger clawing at my insides snaps me back to the present. The pain is too intense to ignore. I cannot just sit here and let them starve me into submission.

I spot a plain, coarse kaftan the old woman left discarded on a chair. I pull the loose fabric over my shivering frame, the rough material scratching against my abused skin, and push open the frosted window. The freezing night air bites at my face and whips through my thin kaftan, but I slip out into the darkness, driven by pure, animalistic survival.

The cold stings my bare feet as I creep through the shadows of the Boreal pack grounds. My throat feels like sandpaper. I reach up, snapping a jagged icicle from the edge of a slanted roof, and drag the freezing ice across my cracked lips. The melted water soothes my parched mouth, giving me just enough strength to keep moving through the thick snow.

I scan the silent courtyard. Near the edge of the dark woods, a thick bush sags under the weight of tiny, red cranberries. My mouth waters. I dart toward the snow-covered branches, glancing over my shoulder to make sure no guards watch from the stone watchtowers.

My frozen fingers pluck the tart berries. I nervously gorge myself, shoving handfuls into my mouth. The bitter juice stains my lips and tongue, but the hollow ache in my gut finally dulls. I eat every last ripe berry I can reach, hoarding the small burst of energy.

Knowing I am pushing my luck, I hurry back to my prison. I scramble through the open window, praying the relentless, fresh snow obscures my frantic footprints before dawn breaks.

I sit on the edge of the hard mattress. The crushing weight of my isolation settles deep into my bones. The urge to break down and cry claws at my throat, yet I refuse to let the tears fall. I will survive this.

At daybreak, the door unlocks. I venture out into the freezing pack grounds, determined to seek work and earn a meal.

The moment I step onto the dirt paths, the atmosphere shifts. Countless judgmental, glaring eyes track my every step, burning holes into my back. Pack members stop their morning chores, dropping their axes and baskets to turn their heads and stare at me with raw, unfiltered hostility. Whispers drift through the crisp air, sharp and mocking. No one speaks to me directly. No one offers a simple greeting. The Alphas issued clear orders for the entire pack to shun me. This enforced social isolation is a physical weapon.

I swallow my pride and approach a busy blacksmith shop. The burly owner spots me near his tools. His face twists into a vicious sneer, and he waves a heavy hammer, driving me away with open disdain.

I try a bakery. The woman behind the counter slams the wooden shutters in my face without a single word.

I beg for an opportunity at a tailor’s stall, desperately offering to sweep the dirty floors for a single crust of stale bread or a bowl of scraps. The merchant spits at my feet and points toward the road. Every single owner rejects me.

Stripped of my wolf, I am helpless. I cannot shift. I cannot run into the harsh, unforgiving Boreal terrain to hunt wild game. The deliberate starvation is working. Exhausted and defeated, my muscles aching from the biting cold, I am forced to retreat to my cramped room, conserving my fading energy so I can attempt another midnight forage.

I push open my door and freeze.

A small pile of heavy, parchment-bound legal documents waits ominously on the worn bed.

My breath hitches. I step closer, my hands shaking as I pick up the top sheet. My heart plummets to the floor as I scan the dense, formal text.

Staring back at me is a forged marriage certificate. The black ink irrevocably joins my name with the three Boreal Alphas.

My stomach drops. I flip through the remaining pages. Beside the fake marriage license are binding legal papers confirming the irrevocable transfer of my entire inheritance. Official stamps mark the legal theft of my assets, my wealth, and my sovereign domain of Meridia.

Hot tears slip down my cheeks. The sheer scale of the betrayal hits me like a physical blow to the chest, stealing the air from my lungs. The twisted accusations, the brutal imprisonment, the deliberate starvation—it was all a calculated, sick game to break my defenses. I am nothing but a pawn to these ruthless Alphas. They claimed me solely to strip me of my birthright, steal my ancestral home, and erase my identity from the territory maps. They now own my fertile lands. They own my title. They own me.

A soft knock startles me from my grief.

I gasp, dropping the cursed papers onto the mattress. I hastily wipe the wet tears from my face, forcing my trembling shoulders to still. I take a deep breath and pull the heavy wooden door open.

The old woman stands in the dim hallway. She does not speak, but she quietly holds a small box and a woven basket in her hands.