The Alpha Cast Out His Weak Mate—Unaware She Was Carrying the Only Heir to the Lycan Empire

Leave this hall, Giada. A weak Luna has no place beside her alpha. >> I will leave with my dignity. >> You should be grateful, little dove. >> Cast into the freezing northern winds, a frail mate was discarded for her perceived weakness. She walked away with nothing but the wool on her back and a secret growing in her womb.

A child who was not just an alpha’s heir, but the sole savior of the entire Lycan Empire. Deep within the stone fortress of Dun Hollow, winter had arrived with a vicious, unrelenting howl. Frost clung to the massive tapestries that lined the great hall, and the hearth fires seemed to cower beneath the draft that seeped through the ancient mortar.

Lord Ewan Stewart, alpha of the northern reaches, sat upon a seat carved from iron and direwolf bone. His expression as unyielding as the frozen landscape outside his windows. He was a leader burdened by the immense weight of a starving pack and the constant threat of rogue incursions along his borders. Beside his heavy wooden table, stood Giada Edwards.

She was a woman of striking, but delicate beauty, possessing a gentle demeanor that felt entirely misplaced among the hardened warriors of Dun Hollow. For two years, she had been Ewan’s chosen mate, a union born of an unexpected fiery bond that had temporarily defied the rigid expectations of the Lycan nobility.

But love, as the harsh northern winters often proved, was a poor substitute for strength. Giada had never shifted. Her wolf lay entirely dormant, and during the nights of the full moon, while the rest of the pack ran wildly through the pine forests, she was confined to her chambers, violently ill and shivering with a fever that left her bedridden for days.

In the eyes of the pack, she was a liability. In the eyes of the council, she was a curse. The border skirmishes have cost us 20 good men this month alone. Lord Reginald Hastings, the eldest and most ruthless of Ewan’s advisers, stated, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings, “Reginald paced before the Alpha, his heavy fur cloak sweeping the stone floor.

Our enemies smell weakness, Ewan. They know your mate cannot fight, cannot lead the females, and most damning of all has failed to produce an heir. A pack without a strong Luna and a secured lineage is a pack waiting to be slaughtered.” Giada stood in the shadows near the archway, her hands instinctively resting over her lower abdomen.

Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Just hours prior, in the quiet seclusion of the village apothecary, the elderly healer, Martha Higgins, had confirmed what Giada had suspected for weeks. A faint, rapid heartbeat fluttered beneath her own. She was with child. The joy that had initially bloomed in her chest was now suffocating beneath the crushing reality of the council meeting playing out before her.

She had planned to tell Ewan tonight in the privacy of their chambers, hoping the news of an heir would finally silence the council’s venomous whispers. But Ewan did not look like a man ready to receive good news. His jaw was clenched, his broad shoulders tense beneath his leather armor. He looked exhausted, cornered by his own people.

“We need alliances,” Reginald continued, gesturing toward a woman standing proudly near the roaring hearth. Rowena Thomas. She was the daughter of the neighboring southern Alpha, a towering woman with fierce, calculating eyes and a reputation as a lethal warrior. Her auburn hair fell in thick braids, and she watched Ewan with an undisguised predatory hunger.

“Taking Lady Rowena as your mate would unite our territories. It would bring 300 fresh warriors to our gates and secure the bloodline with a woman who can actually survive a winter run. Ewan’s gaze flickered toward the shadows where Giada stood. For a fleeting second, his stoic mask cracked, revealing a tempest of guilt and sorrow.

But the Alpha’s duty to his people was a relentless master. He closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Step forward, Giada.” Ewan commanded, his voice devoid of its usual warmth. Giada’s legs felt like lead as she stepped into the flickering torchlight. The entire hall fell dead silent. Dozens of eyes, varying from pitying to disdainful, locked onto her fragile frame.

She looked up at the man who had promised to protect her. The man who had whispered words of eternal devotion into her skin. “Ewan.” She murmured, her voice trembling slightly. “Please, let us speak in private. There is something you must know.” “There is nothing left to say.” Ewan interrupted, his tone hard, though his hands gripped the armrests of his chair so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“For 2 years I have shielded you from the harsh realities of our world. I have prioritized my heart over my duty to the pack. But a leader cannot lead if he is blind to the suffering of his people. We are dying, Giada. I need a Luna who can stand beside me on the battlefield, not one who requires an escort to walk through the courtyard.

” Tears pricked Giada’s eyes, but a sudden, fierce spark of pride kept them from falling. “You are judging me by the standards of a brute. Have I not cared for the orphaned pups? Have I not managed the winter stores when your warriors were too busy boasting to plan for the snows?” “That is the work of a steward, not a Luna.

” Rowena Thomas interjected, stepping forward with a mockingly sympathetic smile. “You are frail, little bird. It is no fault of your own. You were simply born broken. The Alpha requires a true wolf. Giada ignored the other woman, keeping her tear-filled eyes locked on Ewan. “Is this truly what you want? To discard our bond because your councilmen are afraid of the dark?” Ewan stood up, his massive frame dominating the room.

The spiritual tether between them, the mate bond, pulsed with a searing, agonizing heat. Breaking it required a conscious, violent tearing of one’s own soul. “I, Ewan Stewart, Alpha of Dun Hollow,” he began, his voice booming with absolute authority, though a fine tremor betrayed his internal agony, “do formally reject you, Giada Edwards, as my mate and my Luna.

You are released from my side. You will leave these lands by sunrise, and you shall not return.” A collective gasp echoed through the hall. The words struck Giada with the force of a physical blow. The invisible tether connecting her spirit to his snapped. A blinding, searing pain ripped through her chest, dropping her to her knees on the unforgiving stone floor.

She gasped for air, clutching her heart as the room spun. The rejection of a mate was known to drive wolves to madness, and even for a human-leaning Lycan like Giada, the agony was indescribable. Ewan took a step forward, his hand instinctively reaching out, but Reginald cleared his throat loudly. The Alpha stopped, his face turning entirely to stone.

He turned his back on her. Through the haze of her blinding pain, Giada’s hands slid down to her stomach. “My child,” she thought, the realization hitting her like ice. If she revealed the pregnancy now, she would be forcing him to keep her out of obligation, raising her child in a court that despised her, alongside a man who had chosen politics over their bond.

Her child would be treated as an anomaly, perhaps even taken from her to be raised by Rowena. No. She would not allow her baby to be a pawn in Dunhol desperate political games. Gathering every ounce of her remaining strength, Giada pushed herself up from the floor. She refused to let them see her break completely.

Wiping a single tear from her cheek, she lifted her chin, staring at the broad, unmoving back of the man she had loved. “I accept your rejection, Lord Stewart.” she whispered, her voice surprisingly steady. “May your new queen bring you the peace you have paid so dearly for.” Without another word, Giada turned and walked out of the great hall, leaving the warmth of the fires behind her.

Stepping out into the brutal, unforgiving mouth of the northern winter. The Frostbite Hinterlands lived up to their menacing name. For 3 days and 3 nights, Giada trudged through snowdrifts that reached her thighs. The biting wind tearing at the meager wool cloak she had wrapped tightly around herself.

Her supplies consisted of a half-empty canteen of water, now frozen solid, and a few strips of dried venison she had managed to smuggle from the kitchens before her hasty departure. Every step was an agonizing battle against the elements and her own deteriorating body. The severed mate bond felt like a festering wound in her chest, draining her energy, while the new life growing inside her demanded whatever little sustenance she had left.

She navigated through the Whispering Woods, a dense, ancient forest of towering pines where rogue wolves were known to hunt. Giada masked her scent as best she could, rubbing crushed pine needles and damp earth over her clothes, a trick she had learned from the pack scouts. She moved silently, her survival instincts dormant for so long under Ewan’s protection, sharpening with every passing hour.

By the fourth afternoon, the sky turned a bruised, ominous purple. A blizzard was approaching. Giada stumbled over a hidden root, crashing hard into the snow. She tried to push herself up, but her arms trembled violently and gave way. Her hands were numb, tinged with a frightening shade of blue, and her vision was beginning to blur at the edges.

“I can’t die here,” she thought, her frozen fingers desperately clutching her stomach. “I have to protect the baby.” She dragged herself toward the hollowed-out base of a massive oak tree, curling into a tight ball among the exposed, snow-covered roots. The wind began to howl, a deafening roar that drowned out the sound of her own ragged breathing.

She closed her eyes, succumbing to the heavy, seductive pull of sleep that accompanies extreme hypothermia. Just as the darkness threatened to swallow her entirely, the unmistakable crunch of heavy boots on snow pierced the howling wind. Giada forced her eyes open to a slit. Through the swirling whiteout, tall, imposing figures emerged.

They were not rogues, nor were they Yewen’s scouts. These men wore armor of polished obsidian and deep crimson cloaks, colors that had not been seen in the northern reaches for over a century. The Imperial Guard of Valerius. The leader, a towering man with a scarred jaw and piercing gray eyes, knelt beside her. He pulled off his heavy iron gauntlet and pressed two warm fingers against her icy neck.

“She is barely alive,” the man said, his voice deep and rough. He looked over his shoulder to his lieutenants. “Bring the furs, quickly.” Captain Penhalligan, one of the younger guards, cautioned, stepping forward. “We are deeply into Stewart territory. If we are caught aiding a trespasser, it could spark a diplomatic incident with the northern alpha. We should leave her.

Captain Arthur Penhaligon ignored the young soldier. He leaned closer to Giada, his nostrils flaring slightly as he caught her scent beneath the pine and dirt. A look of sheer, unadulterated shock washed over his hardened features. He recoiled slightly, staring at her delicate frostbitten face as if he were looking at a ghost.

“Sir?” the young guard asked, noticing his captain’s reaction. “Do you not smell it, boy?” Arthur whispered, his voice trembling with a reverence Giada had never heard from a warrior. “Beneath the human stench, beneath the scent of the north.” The young guard leaned in, sniffing the air. His eyes widened comically. “By the ancestors, it cannot be.

That is the scent of the royal bloodline. But it is faint, muffled, as if chained.” “It is her,” Arthur said, immediately stripping off his own thick, heated crimson cloak and wrapping it tightly around Giada’s shivering form. “The lost daughter, the emperor’s true heir.” Giada wanted to speak, to tell them they were mistaken.

She was just Giada, the weak, discarded mate of a northern lord. But her lips were frozen shut, and the last of her consciousness slipped away as Captain Penhaligon lifted her effortlessly into his arms, shouting orders to his men to ride fast for the capital. When Giada finally awoke, she was no longer in the freezing woods.

The air was thick with the scent of frankincense and burning sandalwood. She lay on a bed softer than a cloud, draped in silk and heavy velvet quilts. A roaring fire crackled in a grand marble fireplace, casting dancing shadows over walls adorned with gold leaf and tapestries depicting ancient Lycan victories.

“Drink this, my lady,” a gentle voice urged. Giada blinked, adjusting to the warm light. An elderly woman in pristine white robes was holding a warm silver goblet to her lips. Giada drank greedily. It was a rich spiced broth that immediately sent a rush of heat and vitality through her veins. “Where Where am I?” Giada croaked, her throat dry and raw. “You are safe.

” A new voice answered. Captain Arthur Penhallowgan stepped out from the shadows near the door. He was no longer in his armor, but dressed in an elegant dark tunic. He bowed deeply, a gesture of profound respect that made Giada highly uncomfortable. “You are in Okaven.” The heart of the Valerius Empire. Giada sat up, pulling the velvet quilts to her chest.

“The capital? Why would you bring me here? I am nobody. I was banished from Dunhallow.” Arthur’s expression softened with a mixture of pity and awe. “You are far from a nobody, Giada. For 22 years you have been hidden. The weakness you experienced, the inability to shift, it was not a defect.

It was a powerful binding spell placed upon you by the finest warlocks in the Empire.” “A spell?” Giada shook her head, thoroughly bewildered. “Why would anyone cast a spell on me?” “To hide you.” A fragile, rattling voice echoed from the heavy mahogany double doors. The guards in the room immediately dropped to one knee. Giada watched as an old man was wheeled into the chamber.

He was incredibly frail. His skin like translucent parchment, but his eyes, a striking luminous gold, radiated an ancient undeniable power. He wore the crown of the Lycan Emperor, an intricate weave of silver branches and black diamonds. King Alister Pendleton. Alister looked at Giada, tears spilling over his weathered cheeks.

“My beautiful girl, you have your mother’s eyes.” Giada’s breath hitched. “I I don’t understand.” “Your mother was my true mate, a commoner whom the Imperial court despised.” Alister explained, his voice breaking as he wheeled himself closer to her bedside. “When she became pregnant with you, my political rivals conspired to have her assassinated.

They succeeded in poisoning her, but she held on just long enough to give birth to you. Knowing they would come for you next, I made the hardest decision of my life. I had our court warlocks bind your wolf, sealing away your royal scent and your power. I sent you far to the north to be raised as a human orphan, safe from the lethal politics of the crown.

” Giada stared at the emperor, her mind reeling. Her entire life, her perceived weakness, the bullying she endured in the pack, the ultimate devastating rejection from Yuan had all been because her true nature was locked away in a desperate bid to save her life. “I am dying, Giada.” Alister confessed, reaching out a trembling, age-spotted hand.

Giada hesitated, then slowly reached out, placing her hand in his. A spark of pure, undeniable familial magic danced between their skin. “The empire has no recognized heir. Without one, the realm will tear itself apart in civil war when I pass. I had my guards searching for you for years, hoping the warlocks could reverse the spell safely.

” “Can they?” Giada asked, a strange new sensation bubbling in her chest. Arthur stepped forward. “They do not need to, my lady. The spell was designed to break under one specific condition, the creation of new royal life. When you became pregnant, the magic recognized the new royal blood and began to unravel the binding to protect the child.

Giada gasped, her free hand flying to her stomach. “You know about the baby?” “Our healers sensed it the moment you arrived.” Alister smiled warmly. “The blood of the Pendleton kings flows in your veins and now in the next generation, your wolf is waking up, my daughter, and she is furious. The transformation did not happen overnight, but when it did, it shook the very foundations of the Imperial Palace.

For weeks, Giada was subjected to intense fevers and bone-deep aches. It was vastly different from the sickly weakness she had felt during the full moons in the north. This pain was electric, vital, and terrifyingly powerful. The healers and warlocks of Oakhaven surrounded her, chanting ancient rites to ease the transition as the decades-old binding spell shattered completely.

On the night of the blood moon, the dam broke. Giada stood in the center of the royal courtyard, surrounded by the elite Imperial Guard, her father watching from the balcony above. The cold night air felt different on her skin, now invigorating rather than biting. Her senses had exploded. She could hear the heartbeat of a mouse in the castle walls.

She could smell the individual herbs in the apothecary three wings away. Then, the shift began. It was a symphony of cracking bone and reshaping muscle, agonizing yet deeply euphoric. Giada threw her head back and let out a scream that seamlessly transitioned into a booming, earth-shaking howl. When the transformation was complete, a collective gasp swept through the courtyard.

Several guards fell to their knees in sheer reverence. Giada was not just a lycan, she was a royal pureblood. Her wolf was massive, standing a full head taller than the largest alpha warriors. Her fur was an iridescent blinding white, gleaming like freshly fallen snow under the moonlight. Her eyes burned with a fierce luminescent gold.

The aura she projected was suffocating in its power, a natural dominance that commanded immediate unconditional submission from every Lycan present. She felt whole. For the first time in her life, the empty void inside her was filled with a primal protective fury. She lowered her massive head to her belly, a soft rumbling purr vibrating in her chest.

The child inside her was safe, bathed in the protective magic of a royal wolf. Meanwhile, hundreds of miles to the north, the fortress of Dunhallow was descending into chaos. Lord Ewan Stewart sat on his iron throne, a half-empty goblet of ale dangling loosely from his fingers. The winter had grown exceptionally cruel, but the weather was nothing compared to the toxic atmosphere within the castle walls.

Taking Rowena Thomas as his mate had been the greatest tactical error of his life. The promised 300 warriors from the southern pack had arrived, but they were undisciplined and belligerent, causing daily brawls with Ewan’s own men. Rowena herself proved to be a tyrant. She ruled the pack females with an iron fist, punishing any who dared to speak out of turn, and hoarding the winter rations for her own loyalists, while the weaker pack members starved.

Worst of all, the promise of a strong heir had proven empty. The pack’s healers had quietly informed Ewan a week prior that Rowena was entirely barren, suffering from a childhood injury she and her father had deliberately concealed to secure the political marriage. Ewan had sacrificed his true mate, his soul’s counterpart, for a lie.

The physical toll of the broken mate bond was destroying him. Ewan barely slept. When he did, he was tormented by vivid, agonizing dreams of Geda walking out into the blizzard, her fragile frame swallowed by the snow. He would wake up in a cold sweat, clutching his chest. The phantom pain of his severed soul driving him to the brink of madness.

He had sent scouts into the whispering woods a month after her departure, overcome with guilt, but they had found only her abandoned, frozen canteen and a trail of tracks that vanished into the snow. He believed she was dead. He believed he had murdered her. >> My lord, Reginald Hastings’ voice pulled Euen from his dark reverie.

The councilman looked pale, clutching a rolled piece of parchment tightly in his hands. Euen didn’t look up, his hollow, bloodshot eyes staring at the stone floor. >> What is it now, Reginald? Have Rowena’s men started another fire in the lower ward? >> No, my lord, Reginald stammered, stepping forward.

A raven arrived from the capital, from the Imperial Palace. Euen finally looked up, his brow furrowing. >> Valerius? We haven’t heard from the emperor in a decade. We are a border territory. They do not concern themselves with us. >> King Alister has passed away, Reginald said, his voice trembling slightly. Euen sighed, rubbing his temples.

>> A tragedy, to be sure, but it means little for our current survival. The empire will fall into civil war now. We must double the guard at the southern pass. You misunderstand, Lord Euen. >> Reginald swallowed hard, unfurling the parchment. His eyes darted nervously to his alpha. There will be no civil war.

The emperor found his heir before he died. A daughter, hidden away and bound by magic for decades. She has ascended the throne, and her first royal decree commands the presence of all regional alphas at Oak Haven to swear fealty. Then we will ride for Oak Haven, Ewan said dismissively, reaching for his ale. Who is this new empress? Reginald’s hands shook so violently the parchment rattled.

He took a step back as if afraid Ewan might strike him. The decree bears the royal seal of Empress Giada Pendleton, formerly known as Giada Edwards. The silver goblet slipped from Ewan’s fingers crashing loudly against the stone floor. Dark ale pooling like blood. The silence in the great hall was absolute. Ewan’s heart stopped in his chest.

Giada. His fragile broken mate. The woman he had cast out into the freezing wilderness to die choosing a barren tyrant over her. She was alive. She was not weak. She was the most powerful Lycan on the continent and as the horrifying weight of his actions crashed down upon him a faint lingering echo of the mate bond, a bond he thought he had completely destroyed flickered in the back of his mind.

But this time he didn’t just feel her presence. He felt a secondary tiny heartbeat echoing alongside hers. Ewan rose slowly from his throne, his face utterly drained of color, his mind shattering as the truth of what he had thrown away finally settled over him. Spring had barely begun to thaw the frozen expanses of the northern reaches when Lord Ewan Stewart and his small retinue of advisers departed for the capital.

The journey to Oak Haven was a miserable grueling endeavor made infinitely worse by the oppressive silence that suffocated the traveling party. Ewan rode at the vanguard on his massive black destrier. His broad shoulders slumped, his eyes sunken and shadowed by weeks of relentless insomnia. He had left Rowena Thomas behind in Dunhallow stripping her of any authority and confining her to the Eastern Tower under heavy guard.

The moment Ewen had discovered her deceit regarding her barrenness and witnessed her cruel hoarding of the pack’s meager winter supplies, the fragile political illusion he had sacrificed his true mate for completely shattered. He had chosen a monster for the sake of optics, discarding the only woman who had ever shown his people genuine compassion.

Every mile they traveled south, the faint, maddening flutter of a second heartbeat echoed in the back of Ewen’s mind, tethered to the fraying remnants of a mate bond he had so brutally attempted to sever. “My lord, we should rest the horses,” Reginald Hastings advised, pulling his mount alongside Ewen’s.

The elder councilman looked equally exhausted, his earlier arrogance entirely erased by the terrifying realization that the woman he had actively conspired to banish was now their supreme ruler. Ewen stared blankly at the lush, green, rolling hills of the Valerius Empire that stretched out before them. The contrast to their starving, frozen homeland was a bitter pill to swallow.

“We do not stop,” Ewen grumbled, his voice rough as gravel. “The decree demanded our immediate presence. We will not test the empress’s patience.” When the towering white marble spires of the Imperial Palace finally came into view, Ewen felt a sickening drop in his stomach. The palace was a sprawling architectural marvel, adorned with banners of deep crimson and gold, buzzing with the life of a thousand guards, courtiers, and regional alpha representatives who had already answered the royal summons. Captain Arthur

Penhallowgan awaited the northern delegation at the enormous iron wrought gates. Clad in his polished obsidian armor, the commander of the Imperial Guard looked at Ewen with undisguised contempt. “Lord Stewart,” Arthur greeted, his tone clipped and severely formal. “You are the last of the regional alphas to arrive.

Disarm yourselves. The Empress expects you in the grand hall immediately.” Ewan silently unbuckled his broadsword, handing it to a waiting guard. His heart pounded fiercely against his ribs. As they were escorted through the vast vaulted corridors of the palace, the scent of blooming jasmine and rich spices filled the air, completely overpowering the familiar pine and blood Ewan was accustomed to.

Then, the towering mahogany doors of the grand hall were thrown open. Ewan stopped dead in his tracks, the breath knocked completely from his lungs. She was unrecognizable as the frail, shivering girl he had banished into the blizzard. Giada radiated a terrifying, awe-inspiring power. She wore an elegant gown of ivory silk that draped flawlessly over her curves, adorned with a cape of pure, unblemished white wolf The crown of the Lycan Emperor, a delicate but commanding weave of silver branches and black diamonds, rested upon

her soft, raven hair. Her eyes, which had once been a soft, human hazel, now glowed with a permanent, luminescent golden hue of the royal bloodline. But, it was not the crown, nor the overwhelming aura of her awakened white wolf, that caused Ewan’s knees to buckle. It was the undeniable prominent swell of her abdomen.

Giada was heavily pregnant. She rested one hand gently over her belly, a gesture Ewan suddenly remembered her making in the shadows of Dunhallow’s hall on the night he destroyed their lives. The phantom heartbeat that had been haunting his dreams for months was suddenly deafening, echoing in harmony with Giada’s own steady pulse.

“My child,” Ewan thought, a singular tear escaping his bloodshot eyes and tracking down his scarred cheek. “She was carrying my child when I threw her to the wolves. Step forward, Lord Ywen Stewart of the Northern Reaches. The herald announced. His voice booming across the silent hall. Ywen’s legs moved purely on instinct.

The crowd of alphas parted, watching the mighty northern warlord with a mixture of pity and barely concealed disdain. Rumors of the new empress’s origins had spread like wildfire through the capital. Everyone in the room knew exactly who Ywen was and exactly what he had done. Reaching the base of the marble dais, Ywen did not simply bow.

He collapsed onto both knees, pressing his forehead against the cold, polished stone floor. The ultimate submission of an alpha. Look upon your empress, Captain Penhallow again barked from his position beside the dais. Ywen slowly raised his head. Giada was looking down at him. There was no hatred in her glowing golden eyes.

There was no sorrow. There was only a calm, vast emptiness that terrified Ywen more than any display of fury could have. She looked at him not as a former lover, nor a rejected mate, but as a minor, insignificant vassal in her vast empire. You are late, Lord Stewart. Giada spoke. Her voice, once soft and timid, now carried a resonant, melodic authority that vibrated through the very stones of the hall.

The dormant power within her had fully blossomed, projecting a wave of dominance that forced even the strongest alphas in the room to lower their gaze. My empress, Ywen choked out, his voice trembling so violently he barely recognized it. He stared at the swell of her stomach, his heart shattering into a thousand irreparable pieces.

I I did not know, Giada. I swear on my life I did not know you were carrying an heir. I did not know who you truly were. Giada’s expression remained perfectly serene, entirely unmoved by his desperate display of remorse. “Would it have mattered, Ewan?” she asked, her tone entirely conversational, though the words sliced through the air like daggers.

“If I were merely Giada, the human orphan carrying a child, would that have spared me from the winter storms? Would you have defied your precious council if I did not wear this crown? Do not insult me by pretending your regret stems from anything other than the realization of my power.” Ewan flinched as if struck. Behind him, he heard Reginald Hasting whimper quietly.

“I was blind,” Ewan pleaded, desperately reaching a hand out toward the dais, though he dared not climb the steps. “I was suffocating under the weight of a dying pack. I let fear and the whispers of old men dictate my heart. I have lived in agony every day since you walked out of those gates. The mate bond.

” “The mate bond,” Giada interrupted smoothly, “is dead.” A collective gasp rippled through the assembled crowd. “It died,” Giada continued, her voice echoing with chilling finality, “the moment you ordered me into the freezing dark. The agony you feel, Lord Stewart, is merely an echo, a phantom limb. My wolf is royal, unbound, and absolute.

She does not weep for a man who chose political convenience over his own soul.” She slowly stood up. The sheer magnitude of her aura washed over the room, heavy and intoxicating. Captain Penhallow immediately dropped to one knee, followed swiftly by every other Lycan in the hall, until Ewan was surrounded by an ocean of bowed heads. “You stand before me hoping to claim a child,” Giada stated, walking gracefully down the first two marble steps.

She paused, looking down at the broken alpha. “But this child is the sole heir to the Valerius Empire. They will be raised in Oak Haven, surrounded by warmth, loyalty, and strength. They will never know the bitter chill of Dun Hollow, nor the treacherous hearts of your councilmen. Please, Ewen whispered, tears now flowing freely, soaking into his heavy leather collar.

He is my blood. I beg of you, Giada. Punish me. Strip me of my title. Exile me, but do not deny me my child. I am not denying you your child, Ewen. She said softly, though the words offered no comfort. You denied yourself when you cast me out. You forfeited any right to the title of father when you stood by and let Reginald Haysting dictate the worth of my life.

Giada turned her gaze to the trembling councilmen behind Ewen. Lord Haysting, you cited my inability to manage logistics as a failure of a Luna, did you not? Reginald threw himself to the floor, shaking violently. Mercy, Imperial Majesty. I was a fool, a blind, ignorant fool. Indeed, Giada agreed. She looked back to Ewen.

Your pack is starving, Lord Stewart. Your new mate, Rowena Thomas, hoards rations while your weakest pups freeze in the lower wards. Your border defenses are crumbling because your men are demoralized by their alpha’s weakness. Ewen lowered his head, unable to deny a single word. It was the absolute truth. Therefore, I issue my decree, Giada announced, projecting her voice so every ear in the massive hall could hear her judgment clearly.

Lord Ewen Stewart, you will retain your title as alpha of the northern reaches. You will not be granted the mercy of an easy exile. Ewen’s head snapped up in confusion. You will return to Dun Hollow, Giada commanded, her golden eyes flashing with unyielding authority. You will formally annul your union with Rowena Thomas and send her back to the southern reaches in disgrace.

You will strip Reginald Hasting of his council seat and place him in the lower wards to tend to the orphans he so readily dismissed. And you will rebuild your territory. She stepped back up the dais, her white fur cape trailing elegantly behind her. The crown will send a continuous caravan of grain, medical supplies, and Imperial builders to the north, Geota continued.

Because unlike you, I do not discard my people when they are weak. But know this, you and Stewart, you serve at my pleasure. You will spend the rest of your days managing the logistics of a frozen wasteland, ensuring that no Lycan under your banner ever goes hungry or feels discarded again.

If a single pup freezes to death in your territory, I will replace you. Yuan stared at her. The gravity of her mercy crushing him more thoroughly than any execution ever could. She was saving his people. She was doing what he had failed to do, but she was forcing him to live with the excruciating knowledge of what he had thrown away every single day of his life.

“And the child?” Yuan asked, his voice barely a breath. “When my heir comes of age,” Geota said, sitting back down upon the emperor’s seat, “they will tour the provinces. You may welcome them as a loyal vassal welcomes their future sovereign. Nothing more. Nothing less.” Yuan bowed his head, resting it against the marble floor once again. The punishment was absolute.

He would live his life watching his true mate rule the world, watching his child inherit an empire, while he remained trapped in the frozen north, a servant to the woman he had once commanded. “I accept your decree, Imperial Majesty.” Yuan wept softly against the stone. >> [snorts] >> “Long may you reign.

” The ascension of Empress Geota Pendleton marked the beginning of a golden era for the Lycan Empire. Under her rule, the fractured territories were bound together not by fear or political marriages, but by genuine prosperity and unyielding justice. She gave birth to a healthy, powerful son in the heat of the summer, a boy with raven hair and striking silver eyes.

He was raised surrounded by the fierce loyalty of the Imperial Guard, with Captain Arthur Penhallow serving as his sworn shield and mentor. Giada ruled with a wisdom that became legend, proving that true strength did not lie in the ability to survive a winter run, but in the resilience of a heart that refused to be broken. Far to the north, the fortress of Dunhallow thrived.

The granaries were full, the fires roared high, and the orphans were clothed in thick, warm furs. Lord Ewan Stuart ruled efficiently and fairly, transforming the northern reaches into a formidable stronghold of the Empire. But those who visited the great hall of Dunhallow often whispered of the Alpha’s solitary nature. He took no mate, entertained no suitors, and rarely smiled.

Every night, long after his council had retired, Ewan would stand alone on his highest balcony, staring out into the howling, snow-blind wilderness. He would endure the biting wind against his face, a silent, eternal penance, haunted by the memory of a fragile girl in a woolen cloak, and the blinding, radiant Empress she became without him.

If you enjoyed this medieval Lycan tale of survival, hidden royal bloodlines, and the ultimate karma of a regretful Alpha, be sure to hit that like button. Drop a comment below on what you think Empress Giada should do when Ewan finally arrives at her court. Should she forgive him or make him grovel? Don’t forget to share this video with your fellow fantasy romance fans, and subscribe to our channel for the next thrilling parts of this story.