The Alpha-Consort’s Betrayal:Her Stolen Nesting GroundsChapter 1

I was sipping my afternoon moon-tea when a scry-post caught my eye.

"My son was born right here in Northbridge Territory—and the moment he arrived, the pack matron gifted him eight nesting grounds and three market-dens!"

"His sire's already set aside 6.6 pounds of moon-gold for him. Any sweet she-wolves out there interested in becoming my future daughter-in-bond?"

The post was spreading like wildfire through the glamour-net. Tens of thousands of scent-marks and howls of approval.

I almost scrolled past—just another she-wolf fishing for attention—until I zoomed in on the images.

My blood ran cold.

Those nesting grounds. Those market-dens. They were my luna's grant. The ones I'd brought into my mating bond.

And that moon-gold? I could see the etching on the bars. My pup's initials.

How in the Moon Mother's name had they ended up in some stranger's post about her son?

——

I checked the territory markers on the market-dens again. Three consecutive claim-seals—the exact ones my parents had specifically chosen when I was mated. "For your future," they'd said. "Collect the tribute and live well."

As for the moon-gold, there was no mistaking it. Seren Ashvale's initials were etched right into the side.

My fingers flew across the scry-mirror: "Are these really yours?"

The reply came instantly.

"If they're not mine, what—are they yours?"

Before I could respond, more images appeared. A she-wolf draped in spelled silks, cradling an infant, surrounded by heaps of moon-gold and enchanted jewelry like some dragon guarding its hoard.

Then another message:

"I'm looking for a future daughter-in-bond, not a den-keeper."

"I checked your scent-trail. That pup of yours? Not exactly what we're looking for, sweetling."

The casual cruelty of it blanked my mind.

But the howl-thread had already descended into a feeding frenzy.

"Moon's teeth, the poster ate her UP! Some wolves are just bitter!"

"Right? Can't claim it yourself so you accuse others of glamour-forging? Pathetic!"

Someone had even captured my pup's images from my profile: "Poster's not wrong though—her pup is... yikes. And she's trying to get attention under this post?"

"Give it up, omega. The young heir doesn't want your little runt!"

My breath came in sharp, shallow bursts. The scry-mirror nearly slipped from my fingers.

Seren was five years old.