MATED TO THE SECRET ALPHA
Chapter 187: Sourthen Islands

Chapter 187: Sourthen Islands

Suddenly, an arm crawled up from the crevice, then, a second arm – longer, leaner, crowned with talon-like fingers – slithered out of the chasm. It was followed by a head.

Or something like it.

Bone-white and eyeless, it rose slowly from the darkness, its face split in an eternal grin, its flesh brittle and thin like wax stretched over a skull. The thing moved with jerks and cracks, like every step threatened to snap its own spine. Behind it, more shapes moved.

They were not alone.

The warriors who still stood unsheathed their weapons. One fired a bolt from a crossbow. It struck the creature’s shoulder with a thud but did nothing more than make it turn, grinning wider. Another warrior swung his blade, but he was too slow.

The creature pounced.

Snow exploded. Blood sprayed the white canvas.

The tall figure moved at last.

He walked forward with slow, deliberate steps, stopping only once he stood before the edge of the crevice. The wind screamed around him. Ice clawed at his cloak. His people, or maybe not his people, were dying behind him, but he didn’t turn.

Instead, he looked down at the creature and whispered something in a language none of them knew. The sound of it made teeths ache and ears bleed.

The beast paused.

Then shrieked.

The cliffside cracked in response, as if the mountain itself recoiled. From the wound in the earth came more howls—dozens of them.

The man lifted his hand once more, and from the sleeve of his cloak fell a blade – not of steel, but of something darker, older. It pulsed with dull red light, like a dying heart.

And still he did not flinch.

Behind him, the warriors rallied. Some dragged wounded comrades away. Others formed a line behind the tall man, who seemed to be their leader – weapons raised, eyes wide with dread but determined. The merchants, those who could still run, fled, abandoning everything but their lives, however, they soon returned, screaming with their hands flailing above their heads.

The creature lunged again.

And the man met it with a single, perfect strike—his blade slicing through the pale flesh with a hiss of steam and a flash of unnatural fire.

The beast shrieked, falling backward into the crevice. But more came, now swarming the broken road, shrieking and crawling from the shadows like ants from a broken nest.

It was no longer a caravan.

It was a battlefield.

And the war beneath the ice had only just begun.

...

Miles beyond the wastelands, across the vast ocean, lay a chain of seven islands, each connected by towering bridges. At the center stood the largest island, home to the formidable and teeth shattering Dark Snow Pack.

Despite its ominous name, the island’s city thrived. Like the other six, it was prosperous and alive. The cities and woods buzzed with life — traders shouting their wares, children laughing or wailing. Wolves and humans mingled freely, vibrant banners fluttered from the rooftops, and the air was thick with the scent of spices and snow. The city was structured, safe, and oddly serene.

The people of the Southern Islands were as distinct and vivid as the city itself. The werewolves, proud and primal, moved with the grace of hunters and the swagger of kings. Their rugged masculinity was unmistakable — wild hair grown long and braided with bones, feathers, and bits of carved wood, each braid telling different stories.

Shirts were a rarity among the males, even in snow. Instead, they wore thick fur coats draped casually over their broad shoulders, leaving their chests bare to the cold as a sign of strength. Their trousers were often dark leather or thick wool, worn with belts adorned in trinkets from past hunts.

Their women were just as formidable as their male counterparts — fierce, alluring, and wrapped in mystique. Their attire balanced practicality with elegance, suited for both survival and power.

Most wore tightly-fitted leather or woolen garments that allowed ease of movement, often layered with fur-lined cloaks or sleeveless vests stitched from pelts.

Their hair was long and just as honored as the men’s, often braided into elaborate patterns laced with beads, tiny bones, feathers, or even shards of polished obsidian to mark their strength or status.

A high-ranking female might wear claw pendants or silver-threaded embroidery on her sleeves, while a warrior might sport scars like medals, uncovered with pride. Jewelry was subtle but meaningful – ear cuffs, talon rings, or amulets carved with the runes of their ancestors.

They carried themselves like queens of ice and fire — proud, untamed, and deeply respected.

In contrast, the humans, both men and women bundled up in heavy cloaks, clinging to warmth. Human women, however, brought color to the land — dressed in layers of rich and vibrant fabrics, embroidered with flowers, moons, and beasts.

They wore earrings that jingled like bells and bracelets that caught the light, their presence as enchanting as the scent of blooming spices in the frosty air.

They’re soft and delicate, like flowers. Their skin, unlike the werewolf women, are free from scars and blemishes.

The contrast between the werewolves and humans of the Southern Islands was striking, but the harmony between them was undeniable.

The humans, who lived in the shadows of the towering werewolves, had their own place in the ’kingdom’. They were the artisans, the traders, the farmers, the healers, the scholars, and the storytellers. Their hands wove beautiful fabrics, sculpted works of art from obsidian, crystals, bones, and stone, and crafted intricate jewelry that told stories of the past.

The women, with their delicate beauty, were often seen as symbols of grace and fertility — their presence a reminder of the softness and gentleness that still thrived in a world dominated by strength and survival.

At the heart of it all stood the ruling family, the Dark Snow Pack.

And within the pack’s estate, chaos was about to be unleashed.

A man, tall, with broad shoulders and a presence that commanded attention, strode through the grand halls of the Dark Snow Pack’s estate. His dark, shoulder-length hair, braided and unbraided, framed a face carved from stone, sharp and ruthless.

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