The cold morning air clung to Marco's skin as he stood at the edge of the training grounds, his fingers tightening around the reins of his horse. The mist curled low across the dirt path ahead, a silent invitation to the road he had been waiting to take for years.
He was finally going home.
The weight in his chest didn't lift as he watched the sun creep over the horizon, casting long shadows across the camp behind him. This place had hardened him, reshaped him into something unrecognizable—something who knows how to fight. But all he could think about now was her.
Regina.
The name burned in his mind, a quiet chant that matched the steady thrum of his heartbeat. Was she okay? Had she changed? Had she waited for him?
He shouldn't have expected her to.
The past two years had taught him that hope was a dangerous thing to hold onto.
Still, it was all he had left.
A memory stirred—one from long ago, buried deep beneath the violence that had shaped him.
He had been five. Curled up in the warmth of his mother's embrace, her silver hair soft against his cheek.
"Promise me something, Marco," she had whispered, her voice laced with a gentleness he had almost forgotten existed.
His small fingers had clutched at the fabric of her dress. "What is it, Mama?"
She pressed a kiss to his forehead, lingering. "Be good, my love. Be a good boy. A good man when the time comes."
His chest tightened.
"I will."
"And a good Alpha."
At the time, the words had been nothing more than a distant future, a lesson he didn't yet understand. But now, standing on the precipice of claiming a throne that had been soaked in blood, he finally understood what she had meant.
He had to be better than his father.
He had to be the Alpha his pack deserved.
A voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and mocking.
"Are you leaving without saying goodbye?" He didn't need to turn to know who it was.
Viola.
She approached with her usual predatory grace, the red fabric of her cloak flowing behind her like spilled wine. Her eyes gleamed with amusement as she stopped just short of him, tilting her head in that way that always made it feel like she was calculating something.
Marco exhaled sharply, tightening his grip on the reins. "Goodbye."
Viola smirked. "Oh, Marco, you should know by now—I don't lose."
His gaze darkened. "You never had me to begin with."
She laughed, low and taunting. "Not yet."
Marco turned away, pulling himself onto his horse without another glance.
Viola stepped closer, reaching out—not to stop him, but to let her fingertips graze the scar on his cheek. "We'll meet again," she murmured, her voice soft, almost dangerous.
He didn't react.
"And when that happens, you'll beg me to be your Luna."
Marco yanked the reins, the horse surging forward and rode away.