Alpha Studo

The first few weeks after the battle, the pack remembered.

They remembered how Jack Stormclaw had thrown himself between their Alpha and certain death, an act of selfless bravery that should have carved his name into their history with unshakable honor.

They spoke of the warrior who had once stood unshaken on the battlefield, the man whose roar sent enemies trembling, whose presence commanded respect, whose blade never faltered.

Around flickering fire pits, his name became legend, whispered in reverence.

At first, they honored him.

The Alpha himself had come to visit, accompanied by the Beta and the pack's healer.

They arrived at Jack's small cottage, a modest home on the outskirts of the village, where the scent of pine and earth lingered in the crisp air.

The Alpha spoke of valor and sacrifice, of brotherhood and duty. The Beta placed a hand over his heart, a warrior's salute, while the healer pressed bundles of herbs and fresh linens into Christina's small hands.

"You will never be forgotten," the Alpha had assured them, his voice firm, his golden eyes solemn.

But words were just that... words.

And words faded.

At first, the pack brought food, thick bowls of venison stew, fresh-baked bread still warm from the fire, cuts of meat wrapped in cloth.

Christina could still remember the rich aroma that had once filled their small home, how her father would sit by the fire, eating in silence, his mind distant but his body warm.

Then, the portions grew smaller. The visits became infrequent.

And then, they stopped.

Jack never asked why. He never called out to the ones who once called him brother, never questioned why the pack that had once cheered his name now walked past their cottage as though it were nothing more than another shadow on the outskirts.

Christina was only seven, but she noticed everything.

She saw how her father... once a towering figure of power... now sat motionless for hours, his shoulders hunched under an invisible weight.

How his hands, once steady enough to wield a blade with deadly precision, now trembled when he tried to lift a simple wooden spoon.

She saw how his legs, now useless, dragged behind him as he maneuvered through their home, his movements slow, painful, and deliberate.

She saw the way he clenched his jaw when he thought she wasn't looking, his golden eyes flickering with something she didn't yet have words for.

Shame.

Loss.

A grief so deep it settled in his bones.

The warriors had come in the beginning. They had sat with her father, sharing old stories, slapping his back, laughing like they could somehow erase the ache in his soul with forced camaraderie.

But laughter fades when it's laced with discomfort.

Soon, the visits became shorter. The laughter turned into awkward silences.

The same men who once followed Jack into battle struggled to meet his gaze. And then, the elders came.

Christina sat on the floor, her small fingers clenched in her lap, watching as they took the last thing her father had left.

His title.

Lead Warrior.

It wasn't done cruelly. The elders spoke with soft voices, gentle reasoning. It was for the good of the pack.

A warrior had to be strong, capable, able to lead from the front lines. Jack was none of those things anymore.

Her father simply nodded, his face unreadable, his voice calm when he murmured, "I understand."

Christina did not understand.

She felt something break inside her, a fissure so deep it left a hollow, burning ache in her chest.

Days passed, then weeks. The air around them felt different. The warriors who once clapped her father on the back now avoided their home.

The butcher, who had once set aside the finest cuts of meat, now looked past them in the marketplace.

Even the other pups stopped asking her to play.

Christina did not know what hurt more... the silence of their once lively home, or the way her father did nothing to change it.

One evening, as the fire crackled low, casting long, flickering shadows against the wooden walls, she finally asked.

"Papa… why don't they visit anymore?"

Her father ran a rough, scarred hand over his face, the motion slow and tired.

His golden eyes... so much like hers... held something she still could not fully understand.

"They don't know what to say, little one," he murmured, his voice quiet. "They don't know how to look at me anymore."

Christina frowned, confusion furrowing her small brows. "But you're still Papa. You're still strong."

A small, sad smile pulled at the corners of his lips. "Not to them."

His words sat heavy in the space between them.

That night, as Christina lay in bed, staring at the wooden beams above her, she listened to her father's breathing. Slow. Steady.

But she had seen how his hands curled into fists when he failed to stand. How his jaw locked in frustration when he tried...over and over...to regain what had been stolen from him.

How his pride crumbled, piece by piece, beneath the weight of their reality.

And she hated it.

She clenched the thin blanket between her fingers, her heart hammering with a quiet, unshakable determination.

If the pack only respected the strong…

If the weak were forgotten…

Then I will never be weak.

She would become stronger than all of them. She would make them see her father again. She would make them remember.

The very next morning, she began to train in secret.

In the woods behind their cottage, she practiced the movements she had seen her father teach the other warriors... stances, dodges, footwork.

She ran, her small legs pounding against the earth, pushing herself to be faster, stronger.

She lifted rocks, branches... anything she could carry, anything that would make her muscles ache, force her body to remember that it could grow.

Each night, when the world fell silent, she whispered her own promise.

She would rebuild what the pack had abandoned.

She would remind them what strength truly meant.

She would reclaim her father's honor.

And one day, they would never look away from him again.