Zarek's POV
The grand halls of Nyxvalen pulsed with life.
Sunlight poured through towering stained-glass windows, casting blue and silver patterns across the marble floors. Servants moved briskly, advisors whispered, and beyond the castle walls, his people thrived.
But inside the royal quarters… peace of a different kind reigned.
His mother's laughter echoed from the garden terrace — soft, melodic, the kind that could make even hardened warriors smile. His father trailed behind her, carrying a basket of wildflowers like an obedient pup, utterly smitten despite centuries of ruling together.
Zarek paused by the archway, watching them — his powerful father, the great King Daemon Sylion, conquered by nothing… except his mother's smile.
"You could join us, you know," his mother teased, tossing a violet bloom toward his chest as she caught him staring.
He grunted, catching the flower mid-air.
"Later," he promised, though his wolf stirred beneath his skin — restless, irritable.
The ache gnawed at him again — that same hollow, frustrating void that had haunted him for years. His parents meant well, but their affection only amplified the truth:
He was still alone.
Mate-less. Incomplete.
The Elders whispered fate had overlooked him.
Fools.
Fate never forgets kings.
And today… destiny clawed at his senses with sharp, undeniable hooks.
His skin rippled, fur bursting along his spine as he shifted smoothly, paws landing on polished stone. His massive wolf form towered, sleek as midnight, silver eyes flashing with ancient instinct.
The castle blurred behind him as he bolted into the forest, muscles coiled, ears flattened against the wind.
He needed to run — to hunt, to feel the earth beneath his claws.
But the scent hit him before he reached the old ruins.
It wrapped around him — wild, unfamiliar… utterly impossible.
Feminine. Mortal. Marked by fate.
She smelled like she didn't belong here — delicate, reckless… tangled in soft magic.
His snarl rippled through the trees, paws thudding harder as he veered toward the ruins — the ancient battlefield his ancestors guarded fiercely, though few remembered why.
The temple ruins loomed, silent and ageless — stone arches cracked and strangled by glowing vines.
And there… standing like she belonged to neither this world nor any known realm… was her.
Small. Messy hair. Strange, rough clothes clinging to her form. A pack strapped awkwardly to her back. Dirt smeared along her cheeks, eyes wide with panic and wonder.
He crouched low, instincts sharpening.
She muttered to herself, pacing the ruins, holding some kind of small, black object to her face. It clicked and flashed — some foreign tool? Or a weapon? She didn't seem dangerous… only lost.
Her scent… tangled around him — dangerous and maddening.
And then — she spoke to nothing.
Her lips moved rapidly, eyes fixed on empty space. Laughing? Whispering? Her voice curled through the ruins, melodic despite the nonsense.
He frowned. There was no one else here. No warrior, no threat… yet she looked utterly engrossed, speaking to thin air.
Confusion rippled through him. His wolf crept closer and let out a soft growl.
Her head snapped toward him as his paw crunched softly against loose stones.
Her eyes — bright green, wild with nerves — locked onto him.
"Oh, come on," she groaned, visibly exasperated, speaking in a language he barely understood. "Ancient ruins, glowing ghost ladies, and now a judgmental wolf? Peak life choices, Armish."
She took a cautious step back, whispering something he couldn't understand — and it made him mad at himself. Why couldn't he understand the words spilling from her pink, kissable lips?
Again, she mumbled under her breath, her heart pounding so loud he feared it might burst out of her tiny body.
How is she so small?
I could literally carry her in my pocket.
"We have to feed her well," his wolf rumbled with approval.
He was still thinking about that when she tripped… over a rock.
She looked so cute lying there that an amused chuckle escaped him before he could stop it.
He crept closer while she muttered to herself again. Looks like my mate loves talking to herself, he thought with amusement.
She froze when she sat up and saw him. So, he shifted — maybe she'd be less afraid if he stood in his true form?
There he stood, naked — natural for his kind, but clearly not for her, judging by the way her beautiful green eyes went impossibly wide.
She stared… and stared… her gaze trailing lower, lingering far too long before she slapped a hand over her face, muffling a scream that echoed through the ruins.
He blinked, impressed. How can someone that small produce a sound so loud?
She covered her eyes, saying something again — and that's when he caught the scent of tears.
His wolf snarled softly. Why is she crying? What happened? Did we do something?
His voice softened, ancient tongue curling off his lips, "Veylin'ka… ethar'i suun?"
Little wanderer… are you alright?
But she kept crying, her words frantic, her body trembling.
Suddenly, she pushed herself upright — stubborn little thing — but her legs crumpled beneath her.
The ruins pulsed, the air thick with ancient magic, as she collapsed.
Zarek lunged forward, but she had already fallen into the darkness.