The next morning.

A faint scream split the silence of the dungeon. It wasn’t loud, just enough to echo once, then die. Elara’s frail body trembled against the cold floor. Blood traced her temple, and the iron scent of it filled the room. Her breaths came shallow and ragged as she curled into herself.

Draven stood above her, whip dangling from his hand, his chest heaving with exertion. “You really do know how to ruin a man’s morning,” he sneered.

“P–please…” her voice cracked. “I–I beg of you…”

He crouched beside her, smiling faintly. “You beg too much. It’s starting to sound like music.”

He raised the whip again, but before it came down, something flickered across his link to the packhouse. A guard’s frantic message: The Lycan King has arrived at the border.

Draven froze mid-swing. The whip lowered. For a moment, he simply stared at the trembling, broken girl. Then, forcing a smirk, he said, “Seems your screams will have to wait, mate.”

He tossed the whip aside, straightened his jacket, and hissed toward the shadows. “Get her cleaned up. If she reeks of blood when His Majesty’s around, I’ll have your heads.”

Then he left, the echo of his boots fading into silence.

——

Far beyond the Northwood gates, the Lycan King’s convoy rolled across the muddy road, black and sleek under the rising moon. Inside the lead vehicle, Ronan D’Aric sat still, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead. His hands gripped the armrest hard enough to make the leather creak.

Matthew, his Beta, shot him a side glance. “You felt it again, didn’t you?”

Ronan’s gaze flicked toward the window. “Worse this time.”

“Pain?”

“A scream,” he murmured, his tone unreadable. “It’s… pulling at me.”

His wolf stirred restlessly under his skin, pacing and growling. The ache in his chest burned sharper with each passing mile, like claws dragging across his heart.

When the car stopped before the Northwood mansion, the pain didn’t subside, it spiked.

Ronan exhaled slowly. “She’s here.”

Matthew frowned. “You’re certain?”

Ronan’s eyes glowed faintly gold. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

At the mansion gates, Draven stood waiting with his Beta and Omega, all three bowing so low it almost looked like groveling. Even from afar, his hands were trembling. When the Lycan King stepped out, the air thickened instantly. Power rolled off him in heavy waves. Every wolf present dropped their gaze instinctively, as though staring too long would burn them.

Ronan was everything the rumors promised. Tall, broad-shouldered, cold, divine. His aura didn’t merely command, it subjugated. And every wolf there felt the silent truth of the stories whispered through the realms: his bloodline was blessed directly by the Moon Goddess.

Draven forced a smile through clenched teeth. “Y-Your Highness… what an honor to-”

“Spare me the pleasantries,” Ronan interrupted softly, his tone cutting like frost. “You received my letter.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. Everything has been prepared.” Ronan gave a single nod and walked past him, Matthew close behind. The mansion doors opened on their own as servants scrambled out of the way.

Inside, Draven led them to his grand hall, where scented candles burned and trays of wine lined the table. But Ronan didn’t sit. He stood by the tall windows, golden eyes scanning the compound beyond. His aura pressed down like gravity itself, heavy and suffocating.

“Your pack seems smaller than I remember,” he said without turning.

Draven swallowed hard. “We… we’ve had a few territorial issues, Your Highness. Rogues-”

“Rogues don’t leave marks like these.” Ronan gestured at faint claw scars across the marble columns. “Those are from wolves. Your own.”

Draven’s throat tightened. “Just training accidents.”

Ronan finally turned his head slightly, enough for Draven to see the faintest twitch of amusement in his eyes. “Of course.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Finally, Matthew cleared his throat. “His Highness will like a tour of the environment while the rooms are prepared.”

“Ah, yes!” Draven said too quickly. “It would be my honor to lead the tour while you wait, but wouldn’t it be best if you actually rested in-”

“I’ll take the tour,” Ronan said flatly before he could finish.

Draven blinked. “You… wish to see the grounds personally?”

“Yes.” Ronan’s tone left no room for argument. “A walk helps me think.”

His gaze shifted slightly, as though distracted by something far away. “There’s… something about this place.”

Draven forced a laugh. “Of course, Your Majesty. I’ll-”

Cierce stepped forward suddenly, her red gown glinting under the chandelier. Her smile was sweet poison. “If Your Highness permits, I’d be delighted to give you the tour myself. Alpha Draven is busy, and—”

Matthew’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “No.”

Cierce froze, startled.

“The Alpha,” Matthew said coldly, “will lead the tour himself.”

Draven’s stomach sank. He glanced briefly at Cierce, who lowered her gaze with a nervous flicker. Her confidence wilted under the Beta’s glare.

Ronan said nothing. He had already started walking toward the doors, his steps measured, silent.

Draven scrambled to follow, sending a quick mind-link to Cierce: “Did you hide her scent?”

Her voice came back smooth but tense. “The potion took effect an hour ago. She smells like decay and ash now. Even the goddess herself couldn’t recognize her.”

Draven exhaled shakily. “Good. Don’t do anything stupid. He’s not someone we can play with.”

Cierce’s lips tightened as she watched the King disappear through the doors. “He doesn’t scare me.”

But that was a lie and they both knew it. Everyone in that house was terrified of him.

Outside, the tour began.

Ronan walked silently beside Draven, his gaze flicking from building to building. Every movement of his head was slow, deliberate. He didn’t speak, but his expression darkened the further they went.

The deeper they moved into the compound, the stronger the ache in his chest became. It pulsed beneath his ribs like a heartbeat that wasn’t his own.

He paused abruptly, glancing toward the eastern wing. “What’s below that hall?” he asked.

Draven’s steps faltered. “Below? Ah- ah, nothing important, Your Majesty. Old storage. We keep… training materials there. Chains. Silver restraints. Old relics—”

“Silver.” Ronan’s tone was soft but dangerous.

“F–for training, of course,” Draven stammered.

Ronan didn’t answer. His eyes narrowed as he looked toward the ground. The pain flared again- sharp, searing, primal. For a heartbeat, his wolf pushed forward, desperate. She’s close. She’s suffering. But when Ronan inhaled deeply to track the scent, what he caught was wrong. It wasn’t the soft sweetness that had haunted his dreams for months, it was rot. Ash. Poison. A stench that clawed at his senses.

He frowned, stepping back slightly. The confusion in his expression was brief but visible. “Something reeks here.”

Draven’s heart leapt into his throat. “Ah, yes, my lord, the lower quarters are under renovation- mold, perhaps…”

Ronan turned his head toward him sharply, golden eyes glinting. “You think mold smells like blood?”

Draven froze. Sweat dripped from his brow. “I-I beg your pardon…”

The King’s aura flared briefly, washing over him like pressure from a storm front. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“N–no, Your Highness!” Draven bowed quickly, trembling. “Forgive me… I spoke poorly.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Even Matthew shifted uneasily, ready to intervene if his King’s temper broke. But Ronan simply inhaled again, long and deep. The scent stung, unnatural. It hid something beneath it. Something faint and painfully familiar but every time he reached for it, the rot choked it away.

He stepped back, letting the tension fade from his posture. “Your pack needs cleansing, Alpha.”

Draven blinked. “C–cleansing?”

“There’s corruption in the air,” Ronan said quietly, still staring at the eastern hall. “I can smell it.”

His voice dropped lower, almost to a whisper. “And something beneath it is crying.”

The words made Draven’s blood run cold.

Matthew stepped forward. “Your Majesty, perhaps we should retire until the rooms are ready.”

Ronan’s gaze lingered a moment longer on the east wing, his wolf still growling inside him, restless and hungry. Finally, he turned away. “Prepare the chambers. I’ll stay one night.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

As soon as the King and his entourage disappeared into the mansion, Draven’s mask cracked. His hands shook. He spun toward Cierce, who had been waiting at the corridor. “You nearly got us killed!” he hissed.

Cierce crossed her arms, feigning calm. “You’re overreacting.”

“He smelled the blood,” Draven snapped. “He felt something. That man’s tied to the goddess herself. If he ever finds out what we’ve been doing, Northwood will be dust!”

“He won’t find out,” Cierce shot back. “The potion worked. He didn’t even flinch at her scent. Besides, I don’t see how it is his business what we do to that bitch.”

Draven dragged a hand down his face. “You don’t understand. His kind doesn’t need a scent. They feel through the bond of the moon. If he’s here, it’s not a coincidence. And it is against the shifter laws to wrongly imprison another shifter.”

Cierce’s lips curved slightly. “Then maybe fate’s on our side. She’s still alive, isn’t she? Besides, she’s not entirely a shifter.”

He glared. “Barely.”

“Then, we’ll keep her that way,” she said, turning on her heel. “At least until the King leaves.”

Draven didn’t respond. His wolf was pacing, ears flat. Something deep inside him whispered that they had just danced too close to death.

That night, as the moon rose high above the Northwood mansion, Ronan stood by his window, silent, still as stone. The pain hadn’t stopped. He closed his eyes, letting the faint echo of it roll through his chest.

“She’s close,” he murmured to himself.

Matthew entered quietly. “You still feel it?”

“Yes.” His voice was low, raw. “But it’s… distorted. I can’t find her.”

“Perhaps the bond’s being blocked.”

Ronan’s eyes flickered gold in the moonlight. “Who would dare to block the bond of the Moon Goddess?”

He turned back toward the east wing, his expression unreadable.

“Wherever she is,” he said softly, “she’s crying out for me.”

Deep below, Elara stirred on the cold floor, clutching her chest as a strange warmth brushed through her pain and For the first time in years, she dreamed of light.