Forsaken Ch. 00

Full Synopsis:

Ingrid Penhurst has received the worst punishment that can be bestowed upon a witch, bar to be burnt alive at the stake. She has been Forsaken from her Coven, and it is entirely by choice.

Headstrong and gifted, she will take no part in her Aunt's bloodthirsty schemes and plans of igniting war against the lycans. Instead she spends her time serving drinks to wealthy men and listening to her cousin complain about her nonexistent love life.

Vidar Brynjolf is Alpha of the strongest lycan pack in Europe. His hatred toward witchkind knows no bounds. Ruthless, controlled and unstoppable; he's fought against the witches and won before, and he'll do it again if he has to.

With his father's recent, unsolved death still fresh in his mind, the uprising of the witches is enough to send him into fury and full blown war. Only this time, there will be nothing left of them to salvage.

When their two unlikely paths cross, the impossible will become possible. No lycan has ever found their Fated Mate in a witch; at least, not until now.

Even as Vidar pursues his Fated One, his blatant hatred and distrust toward her and her kind is obvious. He may expect his Mate to bow to his demands, but Ingrid is no meek maiden. She has no use for a man in her life, especially not one who pushes her away even as he pulls her near.

With their own distrust and prejudice conspiring against them, and a brimming war on the horizon that will shake the very Halls of the Gods, their unusual union seems destined to go up in flames. But will it be tied to the pyre, on the battleground, or in each other's arms?

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Name Pronunciation:

Vidar: Vi as in 'victory', dar as in 'dart'

Brynjolf: Brin-yolf

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Disclaimer:

Copyright © Troubled_Rose 2018

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the author.

A/N:

Before we get started, I just feel like I need to warn you that I'm writing this story completely blind. Currently I know about as much as you do in regards to what will happen. What can I say, it'll either turn out as genius or absolutely insane. I'm taking bets now if you want in.

I have a general idea of what I want to happen/who I think the characters are, but mostly they're writing themselves and I'm just the mindless conduit clanking away behind the keyboard. This is entirely first draft, so my deepest and most sincere apologies for any continuity errors, spelling and/or grammatical mistakes and any other general sloppiness you may come across. Please, feel free to give me an earful over it. I will happily fix it up as I go along.

Now, this is a slow burn. There will also be limited fluff in this story between our main characters, perhaps even none at all. So if that's not your thing, bow out now. Vidar is not a nice man, he's an anti-hero. Ingrid is not an innocent heroine, she's a grown, badass woman. My characters will not always express viewpoints I agree with, sadly I don't control them as much as it may appear as if I do. Conflict is paramount in a good story imho, and you can't have conflict (and therefore eventual resolution) without some controversy, potentially dislikeable actions/people and all-round shittiness.

Anyway, enough of my rambling as I'm sure nobody is here for this shit. Thank you to everyone who actually reads this story, you people are bloody brilliant.

Now... on with the show!

[IF YOU SKIPPED AHEAD, THE STORY STARTS HERE!]

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Great, marble pillars lined the impressively large chamber, its vaulted ceiling looming above the small, gathered group below.

The room was Spartan in decoration, giving off a cold, bleak atmosphere that was both awe-inspiring and intimidating. That same cold, imposing aura seemed to emanate from the darkly dressed man lounging upon the stone dais in a throne carved from marble.

It couldn't have been comfortable, posed as he was as though he relaxed upon feathered down, and yet he made it look effortlessly so.

His incredible size managed to fit perfectly upon his seat, one leg spread out with his foot crossed lazily over a knee. A long finger tapped impatiently on his stubbled chin, steel grey eyes narrowed on the few people in front of him.

"Alpha, I mean no disrespect, but if the witches are not dealt with accordingly they will perceive only weakness from you. We must put them in their place and keep them there, just as your father did!" The reedy voice of Jarle Raginfrid echoed vehemently through the silent, cavernous chamber.

The woman standing to the left of the throne winced at the imperious tone of the older wolf, knowing her brother would not take kindly to the insinuation of his alleged weakness. Especially in front of the rest of the Elder Council and his appointed Beta.

Her brother Vidar Brynjolf, the Alpha of the Brynjolf Pack, appeared to all those present as though the careless words of the thin, goateed man barely phased him. His gaze remained just as hard and stony, his posture casually composed. Only the keen eyes of his younger sister noticed the ever so slight clenching of his left hand upon the armrest closest to her.

When Vidar finally moved to lean forward, it was like watching a predator prepare to strike. His eyes never left Jarle's face as he spoke in a voice that was both dangerous and deathly calm. "Are you implying that I am weak, Raginfrid?"

"N-no, my Alpha." The colour drained from Jarle's face as he stumbled to reply, as if only now realising what he'd implicated.

"Are you saying that you could do better...?" Vidar's cold tone whispered through the air like silk, sending a terrified chill down Jarle's back.

"No!" He was quick to deny, eyes widening even as he dropped his gaze submissively from the huge Alpha wolf. His throat bobbed nervously as he plundered on in an attempt to reverse what he had so foolishly started, "I merely wished to impress the urgency of this rising situation, my Alpha. Forgive me, I did not mean to offend."

Vidar allowed the older man to stew in fear for a moment longer, the wolf within enjoying the act of his submission. It soothed the anger that had risen furiously within him, and for a moment he toyed with the idea of taking the old wolf's threat seriously. By the laws of their kind he was entitled to take up the challenge Jarle had unintentionally thrown at him, and would be within his rights to tear the man to pieces to assert his status as Alpha.

Finally, Vidar sat back, wordlessly dismissing the cowering Jarle. His attention turned to his Beta Sigurd who stood to his right as always, a pensive look on his face as he watched the confrontation come to a close.

"Sigurd, I wish to speak with these witches causing trouble in my territory. Send a team out and bring their leader to me immediately, and detain any troublemakers along the way." Vidar spoke with unquestionable authority, his Scandinavian accent only adding to his cold image.

Sigurd nodded once, and moved to leave his Alpha's side. He was stopped by the emotionless tone of his best friend and leader, "I want you to oversee this personally, Sigurd. Shed blood if you have to."

Sigurd's eyes gleamed with satisfaction, the only change to his otherwise stern appearance. "It shall be done, Alpha."

After his Beta had left swiftly through the side door, Vidar looked back to Jarle who had burrowed himself between two of the other Elder Council members as if it would afford some protection from the ire of his Alpha.

"My father Eirik Brynjolf brought this pack back from the brink of extinction. I will continue his legacy and do whatever it takes to see my people thrive, Raginfrid. Do not forget that, and do not let your impudent tongue run away from you again. Next time I shall cut it out." Vidar warned darkly, his voice as calm as if he were exchanging pleasantries on the weather.

Jarle bowed his head in deference once more, his eyes trained somewhere near his Alpha's booted feet. His trembling did not go unnoticed to the rest of the council, much to their disgust.

"Yes, my Alpha."

Jarle was physically weak, but he had connections and was as clever and wily as a snake. He was one of the oldest surviving members of their pack and that afforded him certain pardons and luxuries, such as being on the Elder Council. His job was to advise the Alpha though, not question him. Vidar knew he would have to punish him somehow, if only to dissuade future insubordination.

"Gabriel Durant of the Durant Pack has asked for my assistance regarding a group of Rogues pilfering from his territory. You will go and oversee in my stead Raginfrid." He decided, knowing it would solve two of his problems. Jarle hated leaving the comfort of his own home and family, and would find it especially vile to be stuck in the midst of the French peacock Gabriel and his pack. Dealing with such a distasteful situation as Rogue wolves was no-one's idea of a good time, and who knew how long he'd have to stay in France until it was resolved.

Just as he expected Jarle's brow furrowed in aversion to the idea, but he nodded dutifully and accepted the pardon gladly. He would live to see another day, and that was a great mercy.

"Good, now is that all?" Vidar looked to the rest of the council, eyebrows raised expectantly. Nobody moved a muscle, their admiration and respect for their Alpha palpable.

The council disbanded after a short dismissal, leaving him alone with his sister and his unsettling thoughts.

His advisers had come to him with the news of witches assembling in illegal covens and disturbing the peace, breaking more laws by selling their spells and concoctions to humans and enthralling any lycan who interfered.

His people had seen neither hide nor hair from the witches in decades, and now sightings of the hags seemed to be popping up like boils all over his territory. Their little business with the humans would end up getting a lot of them killed if they did not comply, disband and disappear, and all for a few extra coins at that.

Witches. Like most lycans, he despised the lot of them. They were vermin; slimy little rats that wriggled their way in and out of everything. His father had lead the charge that had crushed their kind during a war that had raged on for almost a hundred years.

Many great wolves all over Britain and Europe had been killed, but in the end his father had been lenient with the witches. He had given them a chance; given them laws to abide by and exiled the survivors from lycan territory. Allowed them to live, even as many called for them all to burn.

And how did they repay this kindness? His father had barely cooled within the grave and they were assembling and rebelling already. If they thought him weak, he would show them just how wrong they were.

"Vidar, the witches -"

"I do not want to hear it, Iona." Vidar interrupted his sister, casting his gaze away from her worried face.

"They will retaliate! You need to be prepared!" She pushed on insistently, striding to stand in front of him.

"I know." He responded, glaring up at her now. His little sister was the only person he permitted to speak to him so informally, with the occasional exception of his Beta.

Iona went on as if she hadn't heard him. "The Alpha of the Wentworth Pack warned us that this would occur. The witches have been gathering forces in Britain for some time now, they have grown uncontrollable. If war breaks out..." Now his sister began to pace, her heeled boots clicking on the stone floor. "Treaties must be made!"

"Treaties?" Vidar laughed humourlessly, "The witches are under our rule and always have been. There will be no treaty made with their kind. They will submit."

"But the Wentworth Pack-"

"Is not our problem, Iona." He ground out, pulling himself up to his full height. He towered over most wolves, and his sister was no exception. "We are not in England; we are in Norway. We will deal with our own problems, and they will deal with theirs."

Iona flinched, opening her mouth again to argue. Vidar silenced her with a look that brooked no argument.

"Now, unless Marcus Wentworth has witnessed a legion of witches marching on our territory from Britain...?" He questioned, obviously mocking her concern.

She frowned at her brother, crossing her arms sullenly. "You know he hasn't."

Vidar smirked, "Then there is nothing to worry about, Älskling."

His use of the sweet endearment only served to ruffle her feathers further, seeming to dismiss her like an overly paranoid child. Iona glared up at her brother.

"Skjerp Deg!" She shot at him in their native tongue, before whirling around and storming off toward the huge wooden set of doors.

Vidar's husky laughter followed her on the way out, and before she could slam the doors behind her she heard her brother call out "Drittunge." in reply.

As much as he teased his sister for her concern, he wasn't an idiot. He'd been looking into the issue over in Britain for many months now, and knew something would have to be done on their part soon.

The witches were gathering, they were moving. Plans were surely being made, and he doubted they would benefit his people. He needed to make a move, and soon. Perhaps a visit to the Wentworth Pack would not be out of the question.

But he would have to do so in a way that did not strike more alarm in his Pack than there needed to be. His sister was meddlesome and that could be a problem; his concern for her safety was paramount. She was under his protection, especially now that their parents were gone, and he was determined to keep her out of unsavoury dealings.

She spoke of treaties and peace, but such things were a pipe dream in their world. He had seen the carnage of war firsthand, had delivered death by his own claws. They could never live side by side with the witches, it would be as absurd as breaking bread with a bloodsucker.

He'd find something to distract Iona with, something helpful for her to focus on and divert her attention, and then he'd pay his old friend Marcus a visit. It was time they settled this witch problem, once and for all.

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Älskling - Term of Endearment (ie: sweetheart, dearest etc.)

Skjerp Deg - "Sharpen yourself up" (ie: you're making an idiot of yourself)

Drittunge - "Brat"

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Her feet were bare, scratched and bloodied as she ran.

Dodging around trees that stabbed jaggedly up into a black night sky, she had hoped futilely that she would lose him in the eerie fog.

Her breath came in desperate, painful gasps, arms pumping wildly by her sides. Her white nightgown flowed out behind her and caught on her legs, her long chestnut hair whipping around in the breeze.

She was disoriented and terrified, her heart thrumming like a scared hummingbird in her ears.

Where am I?

A wolf's howl cut sharply through the dark forest, causing an involuntary whimper to tumble from her lips. The accursed beast was hot on her heels, and something told her it was playing with her now.

Enjoying the chase.

The thought sent a shiver of revulsion up her spine.

Ingrid sent a silent prayer to her holy patron Hecate, begging for the Goddess' guidance and protection. She could hear the snapping snarls of her pursuer, four humongous paws thudding powerfully against the soil. He was so close.

She knew she could never outrun him, that much had become clear very quickly. But she wasn't about to give in without a fight, either. Her Aunt was a High Priestess, for Hecate's sake. This is what she had been trained for. Power was in her blood.

Ingrid drew one final, staggering breath in, preparing herself to turn around and fight. She whirled, hair crackling with sparks of furious energy as she called upon the power within, and came face to face with a lycan.

The humanoid beast stood on strong hind legs, twice the size of a grown man and powerfully built. He snapped at her, shadows piercing across dripping, snarling fangs and making him appear all the more grotesque. His deranged eyes glowed silver in the night, fixated on her.

Her gaze filled with horror at the sight.

The lycan did not halt in his pursuit, his back paws gripping the forest floor with claws of three-inch steel as he ran straight for her. Powerful muscles bunched beneath an ivory coat, preparing to deliver one fatal blow.

She was going to die.

Ingrid screamed, all the fight she had in her fleeing before the sight of the beast, when she was suddenly pulled from sleep into consciousness.

Someone was shaking her so roughly her head was rattling. Her eyes snapped open, a desperate, strangled gasp leaving her throat as she shot up in bed and fought off the hands of her attacker.

"No! Get away from me!" She screamed.

"Ingrid, calm down! It was a nightmare!" A familiar voice answered desperately, dragging her flailing arms down to the bed. "It was just a nightmare!"

Her thrashing limbs stilled, her breath coming in sharp bursts in the otherwise silent room.

"Bridget?" Ingrid cried out weakly, recognising the concerned face of her cousin in the dim fluorescent light from the lamppost across the street.

"Yes, it's me." Bridget soothed, rubbing her thumbs into the palms of Ingrid's hands in comfort. "You're okay, it was only a dream."

Ingrid's body relaxed, taking in the sight of her darkened bedroom. She was safe.

"Oh, god..." She exhaled shakily, withdrawing her hand to rub at the tension building between her eyes. "I'm so sorry for waking you."

"Don't be. Was it...?" Bridget trailed off, looking at her with worry. Guilt began to gnaw at Ingrid's belly; she hated being the cause of that look.

"Yes." She confirmed. "Same dream..."

"That's three times in the last two weeks." Bridget pointed out, as if she needed reminding.

The night terrors that had started plaguing her at the beginning of the year had only grown in frequency as of late, but this time it had been different. She had never seen the creature's face before. She wasn't sure what that meant, but it didn't bode well.

"You need to talk to someone about this." Bridget went on after receiving no response from her friend.

Ingrid looked at her with a pained expression, "You know I can't."

"Why not?" Bridget pressed, "It's getting serious now! You can't keep blowing this off. If this is an omen-"

"It's not an omen." Ingrid insisted, running a shaking hand through her tangled hair. "It's just a dream, right? You said so yourself."

"You know that's not what I meant." Bridget replied with a frown. "I just think if you told Aunt Edyth-"

"Stop." Ingrid held up her hand to silence her friend. "I'm not talking to that woman. I'm not letting her weasel her way back in to my life."

"But maybe she can help!" Bridget pushed, her voice laced with concern.

Ingrid scoffed, "Help? She'll just use this as an excuse to bring me back in to the fold. I will not be used as a weapon in her stupid war."

Bridget sagged visibly in defeat. "I just don't know what to do to help you..."

"Sure you do." Ingrid responded, standing from the bed and shaking out her tight muscles.

A crease formed between Bridget's brows. "But... the tea isn't working anymore."

Ingrid pressed an apologetic kiss to her head, before looking down into the worried eyes of her cousin and closest friend. "It worked for months, Bridge. We'll just have to brew it stronger next time."