Chapter Text
The old tales claimed that the Wolf Gods chose a child’s path long before they ever took their first breath.
It was said that fate lived in the marrow of one’s bones, woven into the soul before birth, impossible to outrun no matter how fiercely one resisted.
Every child in the kingdom would one day stand before the High Priest, where the gods themselves would reveal the role they had been destined to fulfill.
Alphas would become protectors, warriors, and rulers. Betas would become the foundation upon which kingdoms stood. Omegas, blessed with intuition and grace, were believed to carry the heart of the realm.
It was a sacred tradition, one no man or woman questioned. At least, not until the Wolf Gods decided to rewrite the story.
Long before Jude and Jobe Bellingham became princes, they had simply been two boys chasing one another through the winding dirt paths of a sleepy village nestled along the southern forests of Wessex.
Their home had been no larger than the cottages surrounding it, its stone walls worn smooth by countless winters and its roof patched more times than either brother could remember. Their mother worked tirelessly as the village seamstress, stitching torn cloaks, repairing old dresses, and mending the boots of weary travelers.
They had little money and even fewer luxuries, but their childhood never felt empty. It was filled instead with laughter echoing through wheat fields, stolen apples from neighboring orchards, muddy footprints tracked across freshly cleaned floors, and evenings spent huddled beside a crackling fire while their mother told them stories of kings, wolves, and gods who watched from beyond the stars.
If Jobe had always been content to listen, Jude had always been determined to become part of every story.
From the moment he could walk, stillness seemed impossible for him. He climbed trees so tall they scraped the clouds simply because the older boys insisted he couldn’t. He challenged children twice his size to races through the woods, returning home breathless and victorious more often than not.
When another village child was picked on, Jude never hesitated to throw himself into the middle of it, regardless of whether he was outnumbered. His knuckles were perpetually bruised, his knees forever scraped raw, and there was hardly a week that passed without their mother scolding him for coming home covered in dirt or with another tear in his tunic.
Jobe, on the other hand, had always been his opposite.
Where Jude burned like wildfire, Jobe flowed quietly beside him like a stream. He rarely raised his voice, smiled more often than he frowned, and somehow possessed the impossible gift of calming his older brother with nothing more than a patient glance.
If Jude returned home bleeding from another reckless adventure, Jobe was already searching for clean cloth to wrap around his hands. If Jude stormed away after losing an argument, Jobe was the one who followed.
The village often joked that the brothers shared one soul between them, divided neatly into fire and peace.
Everything changed the summer the king rode into their village.
King Mark had traveled south to inspect the harvest after dangerous storms had swept through the countryside, but history would remember the journey for an entirely different reason. Among the crowds gathering to greet their ruler stood a young widow balancing a basket of freshly sewn garments on one hip.
Their mother.
No one, not the villagers, not the royal court, not even the king himself, expected that a chance conversation beneath the shade of an old oak tree would blossom into something far greater. Yet over the following months, the king returned again and again under increasingly questionable excuses until eventually there was no pretending left to do.
Within the year, their mother wore a crown, and two village boys found themselves sleeping beneath painted ceilings instead of a leaking roof.
The castle overwhelmed Jobe and thrilled Jude.
He wandered marble corridors as though he’d been born within them, slipping away from etiquette lessons to explore hidden staircases and abandoned towers.
He challenged squires to races across the courtyards, climbed onto rooftops despite repeated warnings, and once disappeared for an entire afternoon after deciding he wanted to know what the view looked like from the highest castle spire.
It took nearly twenty guards to find him comfortably sitting among the gargoyles with a stolen loaf of bread tucked beneath one arm.
The royal tutors quickly discovered that Jude questioned everything.
“Why must princes bow this way?”
“Why can’t I train with the older knights?”
“Why do I need to learn to fence?”
Every lesson became an argument and every argument became a debate. And somehow, despite the endless lectures he received, there remained something irresistibly charming about the boy who refused to accept the world simply because someone older had told him to.
On the other hand, Jobe adapted more quietly.
He befriended servants before nobles, spent afternoons wandering the royal gardens instead of the training yard, and somehow learned the names of every stable hand, cook, and guard stationed within the castle walls. The staff adored him. The knights respected him. Even the horses seemed to calm whenever he wandered into the stables.
As the years passed, whispers spread throughout Wessex.
The princes’ Reveal Ceremony drew closer with each passing season, and the kingdom had already made up its mind.
Jude was fearless, loud, protective, stubborn beyond reason, and had the confidence of someone born to lead armies. If a servant struggled beneath a heavy crate, Jude carried it himself. If another noble insulted his family, Jude was the first to step forward. He sparred relentlessly, refusing to leave the training yard until he’d landed at least one clean hit against knights nearly twice his age. More than once, the captain had laughed and declared to the watching soldiers, “There’s your future alpha.”
No one questioned it.
Jobe, meanwhile, preferred listening to speaking, thinking before acting, and solving disagreements with words rather than fists. Calm, thoughtful, endlessly patient…
“The younger prince will surely be an omega,” people would murmur fondly.
It became less of a prediction and more of an accepted fact. Even Jude believed it. Especially Jude.
The night finally came and The Hall of Wolves had never been so crowded.
Nobles stood shoulder to shoulder beneath towering stone pillars carved with wolves that seemed to watch from every corner of the room. Banners bearing the royal crest hung between flickering iron fireplaces while villagers packed themselves onto the upper balconies, eager to witness the moment the Wolf Gods unveiled the destinies of Wessex’s princes.
Jude stood tall, confident, and almost amused. This was merely a formality. Nothing more.
He nudged Jobe with his elbow.
“Try not to faint, pup.”
Jobe rolled his eyes and shoved Jude’s shoulder.
“I think you will be more dramatic than I will.”
The High Priest called Jobe first. A weathered hand rested gently over the younger prince’s heart. The hall fell silent.
One heartbeat, then another.
Finally…
“Alpha.”
The word rang through the chamber.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then cheers erupted from every corner of the hall.
Jobe blinked in complete disbelief.
“…Me?” he pointed to his chest.
The High Priest smiled warmly.
“The Wolf Gods have spoken.”
Jude laughed, running up and wrapping an arm around his brother’s shoulders with genuine pride.
“I knew you had it in you.”
He truly meant it.
Then his own name echoed through the chamber. Jude stepped forward, shoulders squared, chin lifted proudly. He barely glanced at the priest. He already knew what was coming.
The old man’s hand rested against his chest. His expression changed.
Jude noticed, along with everyone else.
Silence stretched painfully across the hall.
“…Omega.”
The word barely rose above a whisper.
Yet somehow it echoed louder than every cheer that had come before it.
Jude stared.
His smile disappeared.
“No.”
The High Priest looked down slowly.
“My prince…”
“You’ve made a mistake.”
No one answered him. The silence was far worse.
He looked toward his mother and her eyes glistened with tears, a jewel filled hand covering her mouth.
Toward the king.
His face remained unreadable.
Toward Jobe, whose jaw went slack.
Shock mirrored his own.
Around them, whispers had already begun. The same nobles who had spent years calling him Wessex’s future alpha now watched him with careful, pitying eyes.
Jude felt something inside him crack. Without another word, he turned and walked away.
The great doors swung open beneath the force of his hands before slamming shut behind him with a thunderous boom that echoed throughout the palace.
He didn’t stop.
He ignored the servants stepping hurriedly out of his path, ignored his mother’s voice calling after him, ignored Jobe shouting his name somewhere behind him. By the time he reached his chambers, his breathing had become uneven. He shoved the heavy door closed hard enough for the frame to rattle before silence swallowed the room.
Then everything broke.
The silver goblet resting atop the table shattered against the opposite wall. A chair splintered beneath his hands. Books scattered across the floor. A porcelain vase exploded into hundreds of tiny pieces against the fireplace.
His chest rose and fell violently as rage, humiliation, and heartbreak tangled together until he could no longer tell one from the other.
When there was nothing left to throw…he was left with silence.
Jude sank to the floor beside his bed, pulling his knees tightly against his chest as he buried his face into folded arms. The tears that escaped weren’t born from shame. They came from grief.
Not for the role the Wolf Gods had given him.
But for the future that had been stolen away in front of an entire kingdom.
He could already hear the whispers.
“Impressive… for an omega.”
“Brave… for an omega.”
“Strong… for an omega.”
Every achievement he earned from this day forward would carry those invisible words behind it. No one would simply see Jude again. They would see an omega first.
And somewhere far beyond the grey waters of the North Sea, where jagged mountains tore through the sky and winters lasted long enough to make lesser kingdoms kneel, another child had spent his entire life walking toward the destiny everyone expected of him.
_________
Erling Haaland had been born beneath the roof of the High Jarl, his first cries swallowed by the howl of wolves echoing through the frozen cliffs.
Unlike Jude, he had never known a life beyond power. Before he could properly walk, wooden axes were placed into his tiny hands. Before he could read, he had learned the names of every weapon hanging within the great hall.
Each morning began before sunrise, his father dragging him into the snow while the stars still clung stubbornly to the heavens. He learned to row until his shoulders burned, to wrestle boys years older than himself, to swing an axe until his palms bled and then continue long after they had hardened into calluses.
The North expected greatness from the High Jarl’s eldest son, and his father demanded nothing less. Every scar was celebrated. Every bruise earned approval. The clan watched him grow into broad shoulders and impossible strength, whispering that no child had ever been more destined to become an alpha.
When his own Reveal Ceremony finally arrived, the High Priest needed only moments before declaring what everyone had known since the day Erling was born.
Alpha.
The great hall erupted with cheers. Warriors pounded their fists against wooden tables until the room shook. His father smiled with unmistakable pride, convinced the Wolf Gods had confirmed what the North had always believed.
Yet despite becoming everything his people expected, Erling never became the man they imagined. Strength settled upon him as naturally as snowfall upon mountains, but cruelty never did.
He carried injured wolf pups back to the village instead of abandoning them to die. He let children weave wildflowers through the braids of his golden hair during midsummer festivals, laughing softly while other warriors rolled their eyes. He mourned enemies alongside friends, believing every life lost to battle was one too many. His father called it softness. His mother called it wisdom.
Erling never argued with either of them. He simply continued to train until he became the strongest warrior the North had ever seen, all while refusing to let the weight of an axe harden the gentleness that had always lived quietly within his heart.
Neither Jude nor Erling knew the other’s name.
Not yet at least..
One believed the Wolf Gods had taken everything from him. The other believed they had given him exactly what was expected. Neither realized that fate had only just begun its work.