The chamber was steeped in silence, thick enough to choke on.

Ronan sat beside Elara’s still form, his elbows braced on his knees, head bowed so low his tangled hair shadowed his face. The faint golden glow from the hearth painted him in tired light—its warmth never quite touching the cold that clung to his skin.

He hadn’t moved in hours.

Days, maybe.

The Lycan King, the most feared creature of the realms, looked nothing like royalty. His once-commanding figure was a ruin—unshaven, gaunt, eyes hollow. His crown of authority had long since slipped away, leaving only a man broken beside his mate.

Her chest rose faintly beneath the silken sheets. That fragile rhythm was the only thread keeping his sanity tethered.

The door creaked open.

Matthew stepped inside, closing it softly behind him. His sigh broke the quiet. “Ronan,” he began, voice careful, “you need to remember who you are.”

The king didn’t lift his gaze.

His thumb stroked the back of Elara’s hand, slow and absent. “I remember who I am, Matthew. That’s the problem.”

Matthew’s jaw flexed. He’d had this conversation far too many times. “Then remember what that means. You’re the Lycan King. Your people need their ruler, not this-” he gestured helplessly toward him “this ghost haunting his own mate’s bedside.”

Ronan’s lips curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Do you think I haven’t tried to do what’s right? You know what happened the last time I did.”

“You’re not the only one who lost something,” Matthew said quietly. “But war isn’t the answer.”

Ronan finally looked up, eyes burning with grief and something darker. “They made her like this.”

“I know,” Matthew said softly, taking a step closer. “But they were once her family, Ronan. Whatever they did, she should be the one to decide their fate, not you. Not now.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy as stone.

Ronan’s hand tightened around Elara’s. His thumb brushed the scar at her wrist, the faint mark left by silver restraints she never should’ve borne.

He said nothing.

Matthew exhaled and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m not speaking as your Beta now. I’m speaking as you bestfriend.” He gave him a small, wry smile. “It’s been seven months. You haven’t left this room once. You haven’t even—”

“Bathed,” Ronan finished hollowly.

“Exactly.” Matthew nodded toward the adjoining door. “The king’s bath is right there. You’ll hear if anyone even thinks of coming near her. I’ll post guards outside the door myself. She’ll be safe.”

For a long moment, Ronan didn’t move. Then, finally, he blinked—once, twice—and rose to his full height. His joints protested, cracking faintly with disuse. He looked down at Elara one last time.

“Tell my mother,” he said hoarsely, “to bring another dress for her. Something warm.”

Matthew’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Of course, Your Highness.”

With that, he bowed and turned for the door.

Ronan lingered a heartbeat longer, his expression softening as he lifted Elara’s hand to his lips. “Wake up soon, my little warrior,” he whispered against her knuckles. “Before I forget how to be king.”

Then he turned and strode into the bath chamber.

The door closed behind him.

The silence returned.

And then—faintly—Elara’s lashes fluttered.

⸻

Matthew’s boots echoed softly along the marbled corridor as he made his way down the hall. The palace air was heavy with the familiar mix of rain and mountain pine that always came with the upper towers. He found Queen Arwen in the east garden courtyard, where the vines curled like whispers against the stone walls.

“Your Majesty,” Matthew said, bowing low.

Arwen turned from the window where she stood watching the drizzle fall. The years had barely touched her—silver threaded through her dark hair, yes, but her eyes still gleamed with that piercing, moonlit sharpness that had made kings tremble.

“Matthew,” she said softly, “how is my son?”

Matthew straightened, his tone lighter than his expression. “I finally convinced him to have a bath.”

Arwen’s lips curved, a sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh escaping her. “Seven months,” she murmured. “The last time he bathed was before she fell into the coma.”

Her voice thinned, softer. “He’s been feeling her pain since childhood, you know. Long before he ever met her.” Her gaze drifted toward the gray sky. “I used to wonder why he’d flinch at night or wake crying when nothing was wrong. Now I know. Their bond… it cursed him early.”

Matthew’s chest tightened. “You always said the moon goddess’s curse was cruel.”

“Cruel and binding,” she agreed. “When we first found out that his mate was the reason he was experiencing the pains, I wanted to end her life. To stop the pain she caused him. But when I saw her few months ago, so broken, so lost—I realized she wasn’t the cause, only the vessel.” Arwen’s hands clenched loosely around her shawl. “I couldn’t bring myself to harm her. The goddess chose her for a reason, even if we can’t see it yet.”

Matthew nodded slowly. “That’s why you stopped him from attacking Northwood.”

Arwen’s smile was wry, but there was steel beneath it. “War can wait. The Northwood pack isn’t our true enemy. They’re a distraction—and we have bigger shadows stirring.”

Matthew tilted his head, curiosity flickering, but she didn’t elaborate. Instead, she began walking toward the main castle steps.

He fell in beside her. “Ronan asked that you personally change Elara’s attire,” he said. “Apparently, he doesn’t trust anyone else with his mate.”

That drew a genuine chuckle from the queen. “He’s just like his father. That man once barred every healer from touching me when I was pregnant, convinced they’d harm the child.” She smiled faintly at the memory. “Ronan has his stubbornness.”

“And his temper,” Matthew muttered under his breath.

Arwen shot him a knowing glance. “That, too.”

They were halfway across the corridor leading to the king’s wing when the air changed.

A pulse of raw, blistering energy ripped through the walls, rattling the sconces and shivering the air. The marble beneath their feet quaked.

Matthew froze. His wolf surged instinctively, hackles rising. “What—”

Before he could finish, a thunderous roar echoed through the castle.

Ronan’s voice.

Angry. Terrified. Unrestrained.

“Where is my mate?!”