Ronan spent the weeks after his first shift trying to understand his place in the pack. Everyone treated him differently—not because he was powerful, but because now he was officially part of the hierarchy. A wolf. Not a child.
But even then, nothing about him stood out.
He wasn't the strongest beta.
Not the bravest.
Not the fastest.
Not the most aggressive or intuitive.
He was just Ronan.
He sat through lessons in the main cabin where older wolves explained the difference between dominance and recklessness, between loyalty and obedience, between instinct and impulse.
He listened carefully, but the words didn't settle into him the way they did for others. They felt like rules, not instincts. Expectations, not truths.
His father didn't pressure him.
But he watched him.
Always watched him.
Not with disappointment.
Not with pride.
With assessment.
As if trying to see whether the boy in front of him could one day become the Alpha the pack needed.
When Ronan was eleven, his father began taking him to pack meetings—not to speak, but to observe. Ronan would sit quietly beside him, back straight, eyes forward, taking in discussions about borders, disputes, supply runs, and negotiations with nearby packs.
He said almost nothing.
When they returned home one night, Ronan finally asked, "Why do I need to be there if I don't say anything?"
His father didn't answer right away. Instead, he placed a hand on Ronan's shoulder and guided him to sit on the porch steps.
"You don't learn leadership by talking," his father said. "You learn it by seeing."
Ronan kicked at the dirt lightly. "But I didn't see much."
"You saw the pack look at me."
Ronan paused. "…Yeah."
"Good," his father said. "Because one day they'll look to you the same way."
Ronan didn't feel ready for that.
Didn't think he ever would.
But he didn't argue.
He only nodded.
⸻
When he was twelve, Ronan sparred for the first time with a wolf from another pack—just a friendly match, arranged during a cooperative gathering. The other wolf was older, stronger, and confident in a way Ronan wasn't. They circled each other, waited for the signal, and launched forward.
Ronan barely lasted thirty seconds.
The other wolf knocked him flat, pinned him easily, and ended the match without arrogance or insult. Ronan's father helped him up and brushed dirt off his shirt.
"You're not expected to win yet," he said.
Ronan looked down. "He didn't even try."
"That's fine," his father said. "You're still learning. Strength isn't the first skill you need."
"Then what is?"
His father tapped his forehead lightly. "This."
Ronan blinked. "My head?"
"Strategy," his father clarified. "A good Alpha doesn't fight harder than everyone else. He fights smarter."
Ronan nodded again.
But inside, he felt… ordinary.
Plain.
Unspectacular.
Other pups were rising.
Excelling.
Showing their claws.
He wasn't.
Not yet.
⸻
When Ronan was thirteen, his father finally allowed him to take part in patrols—short ones, supervised. Ronan loved those nights more than anything else. Not because he excelled at tracking or fighting—he didn't. But because being part of a real patrol made him feel included.
Like he belonged.
One night, after a particularly long run through the south fence line, the patrol leader told the boys to keep moving. Ronan slowed slightly, rubbing at a sharp ache in his calf.
Another beta—older by two years—looked back at him and smirked.
"The Alpha's kid gets tired too?"
Ronan's cheeks burned. "I'm fine."
"Sure you are," the boy teased.
Ronan didn't snap back. He rarely did. But the comment stuck with him longer than it should have.
Later that night, after patrol ended, his father found him sitting alone on the porch. Ronan didn't speak. He didn't complain. He didn't mention the older boy's teasing.
His father sat beside him without asking what was wrong.
"You think too much," his father said.
Ronan stared at the dirt. "…Maybe."
"You will grow," his father said firmly. "Not all wolves develop at the same pace. Leadership comes slow to some and fast to others. What matters is that you stay steady."
Ronan looked at him. "Is that enough?"
His father met his gaze directly. "It has to be."
They sat in silence for a long time after that—just father and son, heir and Alpha, two wolves watching the quiet Texas sky.
Ronan didn't feel powerful then.
He didn't feel important.
He didn't feel destined.
He felt like a boy trying to fill a role he didn't quite fit yet.
A role that would one day be reshaped by fire, blood, and ritual.
But not yet.
Not here.
Not in these memories.
For now, he was just Ronan Vael.
The Alpha's son.
The ordinary beta.
Trying his best.