Blackmoor – Centuries Ago
The scent of blood thickened the air, clinging to the shattered remains of a battlefield littered with the dead. Alpha King Ronan Nightshade stood at the center, his chest heaving, his claws still wet with the lives he had ended tonight. His warriors kneeled around him, waiting for his decree, but their presence barely registered in his mind.
Victory was meaningless.
Because tonight, he had lost something far worse than any war.
The wind howled across the desolate lands, and from the shadows emerged The Oracle, her silver cloak fluttering like mist. Even the fiercest wolves trembled in her presence, but Ronan… Ronan felt nothing but anger. He knew why she had come.
"You seek the truth," she spoke, her voice carrying across the ruined kingdom. "But you will not like what you hear."
Ronan clenched his fists, his sharp nails nearly piercing his own skin. "Speak."
She lifted a single hand, palm outward. The words sealed his fate.
"You will never find your mate."
The world tilted. His breath caught.
"You may rule, but your bloodline ends with you. Your wolf will rot. Your mind will decay."
His warriors recoiled, murmurs spreading like wildfire. But Ronan didn't flinch. He would not accept this. He had slaughtered kings, conquered nations. He was the strongest Alpha in history—there was no prophecy he could not defy.
Except this one.
The Oracle said nothing more. She turned, vanishing into the mist. And that night, the curse took root.
New York City – Present Day
The neon skyline stretched far beyond the penthouse windows, casting fractured light onto polished marble floors. Ronan Nightshade sat in the darkness, one hand gripping the edge of his desk. The glass of whiskey untouched before him.
It had been 257 years, and still no mate.
In the human world, he was a billionaire, the CEO of a ruthless corporate empire spanning across continents. To mortals, he was a 27-year-old entrepreneur, a man whispered about in gossip columns, feared in boardrooms, desired by many but known by none.
Yet none of his wealth, none of his power, meant anything.
Because three years remained before the curse would consume him. Before he lost everything.
He exhaled slowly, his hands tightening as he felt his wolf stirring beneath the surface unsettled, restless. The animal within him was growing harder to control. The curse was worsening.
Already, there were moments of instability. Late at night, when the city was quiet, he would catch glimpses of his own reflection shifting, his pupils glowing, his teeth sharpening.
If he didn't find her soon… if he failed to break this fate… he would become nothing more than a beast.
A knock at the door snapped him from his thoughts.
"Enter."
His most loyal Beta, Kieran, stepped inside. There was urgency in his posture, a tension Ronan immediately recognized.
"Something's changed," Kieran said. "The pulse you feel it too, don't you?"
Ronan stilled.
Then… he felt it.
The shift in the air. A foreign energy threading through his senses, something so faint yet unmistakable. His pulse quickened, his instincts roaring to attention.
His mate.
She was here.
Close.
Ronan stood abruptly, his wolf fighting for control. His Beta watched, silent but knowing.
Three years.
That was all the time he had left.
And now, after centuries of waiting, his mate was finally within reach.
He wouldn't waste another second.
He would find her. Claim her. Save himself.
Before it was too late.