VARG POV
In the ancient lands of Alberta, the winter wind roared with a cruelty unlike any other. The echoes rebounding off the massive stone halls of the manor were not the howls of wolves, but the low rumble of a familial war. Young Varg stood at the head of the table like a statue, feeling the suffocating weight of "tradition" crushing his very bones. Everyone clung so desperately to those godforsaken tenets that even breathing felt like a burden too heavy to survive. He couldn't remember living in the moment; his lungs were being torn to pieces by the constant reminders of the rules governing his future.
"Five dead heirs, Varg! Five!" his uncle Samuel bellowed, slamming a silver chalice onto the table.
"Our bloodline is dying. That unbridled savagery of yours freezes the very veins of Alberta. You need an Omega. A submissive female to soften you, to keep your hearth burning, to obey you... Your rage will be the end of us!"
