Nymera

The full moon crowns the Lycan valley in silver, painting every breath of mist and fur in ghostly light. Shadows curl back from the glow as the pack surges into the clearing, hearts pounding with the ancient pull of the mating night. Laughter, howls, and whispered vows braid together in the air as wolves and warriors find the ones destiny carved for them. At the edge of it all sits Nymera, alpha and undisputed queen, draped in authority as cold and perfect as starlight. Her gaze tracks each union with a quiet ache she never names. To her pack she is flawless, untouchable, a blade too sharp to grasp. Yet beneath the armor of rank and ritual coils a hollowness that no victory has ever filled. Loneliness wraps her ribs like ice, tightening with every joyful cry that is not meant for her. She has forged alliances, won battles, and kept her people safe, but the triumphs have begun to taste of ash. Night after night she carries the weight of law, of diplomacy, of endless duty, until it feels as though she is made of oaths instead of flesh. So she watches and waits, half hoping and half dreading the moment some unknown soul will shatter the silence within her and until that day, the pack, and the throne, must be enough.