Pregnant with the Amnesiac Alpha’s Heir

Ravien Pov

The wind howled across the cliffs of the Bloodthorn Mountains, cold and sharp as a blade. Far below, the dense forest stretched like a shadowed sea. At the very edge of a narrow ledge, Alpha Ravien stood cloaked in dark furs, the weight of generations pressing on his shoulders.

He stared at the horizon, his amber eyes fierce yet weary. The moon was rising behind the trees, casting long silver beams over the crags. The light touched his skin like a warning.

Another vision had come last night.

More blood. More screams.

And always—**her**.

Not the woman he loved, but the face of a stranger, unknown, blurred by fog. Her body lying lifeless in a pool of moonlight, silver blood pouring from her chest.

A women dressed in white, standing beneath a full moon, her eyes filled with love.

Then her body collapsed , silent, lifeless.

Always his bride.

And always dead.

He always reached her too late and every time he woke choking on the guilt of a death of unknown women.

He clenched his jaw, fists tightening at his sides.

The curse was never merciful. It gave no name, no way out only pain.

Since the time of the first Alpha of his bloodline, the curse had followed every generation without mercy. The first woman each Alpha married their chosen Luna would die within months, her end always marked by violence or mystery. Some fell ill with no cure. Others simply vanished, leaving behind nothing but blood and questions.

The second wife? Always untouched. Safe.

The curse was cruel, precise, and never broken.

It wasn't madness. It was fact.

And Ravien, as the current Alpha of the Blackthorn Pack, was next in line to carry the weight of it.

His father had died long ago. His mother, too. And his brother, who had once tried to marry for love, had paid the price.

The pack had made their decision.

To protect their legacy, Ravien would follow tradition.

He would marry a stand-in Luna someone chosen for the role, someone he could keep at arm's length. A symbol. A shield.

And afterward, once the curse had claimed what it would, he would marry **her**.

The one he truly loved.

And she was the only thing that made his life bearable.

In the Blackthorn stronghold, Ravien room a soft knock came at the door.

He didn't answer.

A second knock, softer then before.

The door creaked open. He didn't need to look up to know who it was, it was Seris.

She walked quietly, barefoot across the cold floor, and sat beside him without a word.

Her presence always steadied him. She didn't need to speak for him to feel the depth of her emotions anger, fear, sorrow.

They had loved each other since they were sixteen.

And now he had to marry someone else.

"You're still going through with it," she said quietly, not asking just stating what they both knew.

Ravien just stared into her eyes.

"The curse isn't a story, Seris. You know that."

She turned to him. "And what if it isn't real? What if you're walking into something worse by believing in it?"

He closed his eyes, jaw tight.

"It's not about belief. It's about blood. My brother's first Mate was torn apart in her sleep. My grandfather's died within days of their bond being sealed. My father? Poisoned during his mating ceremony. They all thought they could outsmart it. They were wrong."

Her voice cracked. "And you think sacrificing someone else makes it right?"

"No," he said, finally looking at her. His golden eyes burned with guilt. "But I can't let it be you."

Tears welled in her eyes. She turned away.

They sat in silence for a while.

Then, quietly, she whispered, "I would have taken the risk."

He reached for her hand and kissed her knuckles with reverence.

"I know," he said. "But I never could."

Two days later, his warriors rode with him ten hand-picked guards, all sworn to secrecy. traveled north, toward the Hollowpine Pack, where the temporary Luna candidate awaited. She was a political match, a distant cousin to one of the elder lines, briefed on her role and well-compensated. She would be marked, mated… and, if the curse held true, gone before the season's end.

It was cruel.

It was calculated.

It was survival.

Ravien barely remembered the girl's name. He didn't want to.

He rode at the front, silent beneath his black hood. The air grew colder as they passed into the edge of the wildlands thick pine forests, frost-covered grass, and winding, narrow trails barely wide enough for two horses to pass.

Dread sat heavy in his chest. Not just because of the curse. But because for the first time in his life, he was truly choosing to give himself to the path it had carved. He wasn't fighting it. He was becoming part of it.

He hated himself for it.

They rode in silence until the sun began to set behind the mountains.

That was when the first arrow flew.

The first struck one of his warriors in the neck. He slumped from his horse before the others could react.

"Ambush!" someone shouted.

Figures emerged from the trees, fast and masked, with the stench of rogues on their clothes. They weren't just bandits they moved with precision. Paid mercenaries.

"Form a circle!" Ravien shouted, dismounting. His wolf itched beneath his skin, but the slope of the trail made it dangerous. If they lost footing here, it was over.

Steel clashed. Arrows flew. Men shouted.

Ravien fought like he always did precise, controlled, brutal. But the numbers kept growing, pouring from the trees like darkness given shape.

And then he felt the heat of pain slice through his side.

He staggered.

Another blow knocked the wind from him—then his foot missed the edge of the path.

He felt his body tilt.

He reached for something or anything.

But there was nothing to grab.

The last thing he saw was a warrior lunging for him, too far away.

And then he fell.

The ravine swallowed him whole.

Branches tore at him as he plummeted down the ravine, the world a blur of rock, wind, and blood.

When he hit the bottom, the world shattered into black.

The forest was still.

His body lay sprawled in the underbrush, limbs twisted, blood trickling from a wound above his brow.

His cloak was torn. His weapons lost.

The world faded in and out, like the flicker of a dying flame.

And in the back of his mind, where his wolf should have howled in panic, there was silence.

Not even pain.

Just quiet.

And then… nothing at all.

Just silence.

Darkness.

Oblivion.

Above him, the moon slipped behind clouds, and the night quieted.