Alpha Studo

The fires burned low, casting flickering shadows against the twilight sky. The scent of burning flesh lingered, thick, acrid, undeniable.

It mingled with the crisp night air, curling through the gathering like an unspoken eulogy.

The pyres stood tall, their towering flames licking at the heavens as if pleading with the gods to take notice.

The Silver Shadow Pack had suffered a great loss, and tonight, they mourned as warriors did: with fire, silence, and the weight of remembrance pressing upon their hearts.

Some wept, their shoulders quaking as grief clawed its way through their chests.

Others stood stiff, swallowing sorrow behind clenched jaws and narrowed eyes, memorizing the faces of the fallen even as the flames consumed them.

Christina stood among them, her tiny frame swallowed by the sea of bodies. She was five... too young to understand death, too old to ignore its presence.

The firelight danced against her golden eyes, reflecting loss she couldn't yet name but could feel deep in her bones.

Her small fingers clutched onto the robe of a pack elder, its rough fabric grounding her in reality.

Her heart pounded as she searched the crowd, looking for the one face that mattered most.

Papa.

Jack sat apart from the others, a silent silhouette against the flickering glow.

Once, he had been a towering force of strength... proud, powerful, unbreakable.

Now, he was a shadow of himself.

His golden fur, once vibrant as autumn's final blaze, was dulled by soot and dried blood.

His broad shoulders sagged under the weight of unseen burdens, his gaze lost somewhere in the distance.

He had been home for days, yet the warmth of homecoming had never reached him.

At first, the pack had praised him. They had brought him food, spoken his name with reverence, and recounted his bravery with awe.

But warriors who could not fight held no place among them for long. Soon, the whispers had started.

"A warrior who can't fight is no warrior at all."

"He should have died with the others."

"How long will the Alpha take care of him before the burden outweighs the honor?"

Christina didn't understand all of it, but she saw the change in their eyes. Before the battle, they had looked at her father with admiration.

Now, they looked at him with something else... something that made her fists clench.

Pity.

She hated it.

Jack, for his part, barely reacted. He didn't flinch at the whispers. Didn't acknowledge the glances.

He merely sat, his massive frame hunched forward, hands resting loosely on his knees.

A giant brought low by the weight of his own despair.

As the flames crackled and sputtered, devouring the last remnants of the fallen, the pack began to disperse, their murmurs fading into the night. Only then did Christina move.

Her small feet carried her forward, the embers casting an eerie glow on her pale skin.

She hesitated for only a moment before reaching him, her voice a fragile thread against the silence.

"Papa."

Jack blinked slowly, turning toward her. Even now, he looked like an untamed force of nature... shoulders broad, jaw strong, golden green eyes burning with something distant. But she saw the truth beneath it. The exhaustion. The hurt.

She climbed into his lap without hesitation, curling into him like she used to before the battle had taken everything from them.

Her tiny fingers gripped his tunic, still stained with blood that no amount of washing seemed to remove.

"They're gone, Papa," she whispered, her voice barely a breath against the night. "Everyone is crying."

Jack swallowed hard, the lump in his throat thick and unyielding.

"Yes," he rasped, the words scraping against his throat like broken glass. "They are."

Christina tilted her head up, golden eyes...his eyes...studying his face with quiet intensity.

Even at five, she understood things in ways that made him ache.

"But you're still here," she said simply, as if the answer was obvious.

Jack's breath hitched. He had faced enemies ten times his size, had stood against the fury of war itself, and yet it was this small voice...his daughter's voice...that shattered him.

His chest rose and fell, unsteady. Then, for the first time since the battle, he wept.

Tears slipped down his dirt-streaked face, carving silent trails through soot and sorrow.

The grief he had buried, the pain, the guilt, the fear... finally spilled free, unraveling in the arms of the only person who still looked at him as if he mattered.

And Christina, young as she was, understood. She didn't speak. Didn't try to stop his tears.

She simply held onto him, her tiny arms wrapped around his neck, her warmth grounding him in a way nothing else could.

"Papa, why are you sad?" she finally asked, voice soft, almost hesitant.

Jack exhaled shakily. "Because I lost my brothers. My friends. They were brave warriors, Christina. They gave everything for our pack."

Christina frowned, considering his words. Then, with a determination that only a child could muster, she reached up and wiped at his tears with her small hand.

"But you're still here," she insisted, her tiny fingers pressing against his rough cheek. "You're my hero. You fought for us. You're not like them, Papa. You're alive."

Jack let out a shaky laugh... a broken, exhausted sound. But there was something else in it, too. Something lighter. Something real.

"Yes, my little one," he murmured, pulling her close. "I am alive. And I will always be here for you, no matter what."

The fire had burned low now, its embers glowing like the last remnants of a dying star.

Around them, the night stretched on, vast and unending. But in this moment, it didn't matter.

Because they had each other.

And for now, that was enough.