The wedding celebration was a masterpiece of controlled chaos, a vibrant testament to the unification of the Pack and the Coven. The amphitheater, minutes ago the site of solemn vows, had erupted into a dizzying festival of light, sound, and raw energy. Morvanes, shedding the tense formality of the ceremony, indulged in fierce, stomping dances, their booming laughter mixing with the rhythmic thunder of large kettle drums. Coven members, usually reserved, were sharing spiced wine and tales of old magic, their soft, melodic voices contrasting with the primal joy of the Pack. The air, once sharp with tension, was now warm with roasted venison, sweet cider, and the earthy, grounding scent of the combined Pack’s collective happiness.
Kian watched the revelry from his vantage point near the ancient altar, a rare, genuine smile easing the hard lines of his face. His happiness was rooted entirely in Amelia. She was settled deeply into her specially cushioned seat, her hands—still swollen and heavy from the intense pregnancy—resting over the huge swell of her tight abdomen. Her indigo gown pooled around her, and she looked regal, exhausted, and perfectly content.
Gareth and Myra, the newly bound couple, were the stars of the evening. Gareth, usually stoic, was positively beaming, his protective arm wrapped tightly around Myra, who was a powerful Witch and looked lighter and brighter than Kian had ever seen her. They were sharing a long, loud toast with Roric, whose enthusiasm was as infectious as his grin.
“See them, Kian?” Amelia murmured, resting her head against his shoulder. “They are everything we fought for. Stability, peace… two worlds finally choosing to share a future.”
“They are happy, and that is what matters,” Kian agreed, his lips brushing her hair. He felt a deep sense of accomplishment. The threat of the Coven was neutralized, the Keep was warded, and for this one night, they were allowed to simply exist without a blade drawn. He had tripled the perimeter guards, placing his most trusted warriors, and even Maeve, with her sensitive magic, was positioned nearby, laughing with Myra. It was the safest place on the continent.
Amelia shifted, wincing slightly as one of the triplets adjusted position, sending a dull ache through her ribs. “I feel like a mountain that has decided to host a picnic,” she joked, though her breath was shallow. “I need a moment to breathe, my King. The noise is wonderful, but it is intense.”
Kian immediately signaled for a fresh cup of warm herbal tea. “I will step away for two minutes. Lord Valerius has been waiting to congratulate Gareth, and I should offer him a word before he leaves. Don’t move. Stay exactly here.” He summoned a pair of trusted guards, two massive Morvanes named Borin and Silas, and placed them directly behind Amelia’s throne. “Your only task is the Luna. Do not let anyone approach her without my explicit command.”
The guards snapped to attention. “Yes, Alpha.”
Kian pressed a gentle kiss to Amelia’s forehead. “I am two hundred paces away. I will not be longer than three minutes. If you feel anything—anything at all—shout.”
Amelia squeezed his hand. “Go. They all need to see their King happy.”
With one last, lingering look, Kian moved through the crowd, his Alpha aura a gentle but firm presence that parted the celebrating Morvanes. He was focused on his mission: a quick, politically necessary conversation with the visiting Lord.
He had just reached Valerius, receiving a handshake and a few formalities, when the world, for Kian, went instantly and terrifyingly silent.
It wasn’t a sound that was cut off; it was sensation. The vibrant, familiar hum of the Pack, the comforting, steady pulse of Amelia’s Fae energy—all vanished, replaced by a sudden, sickening void.
Kian's primal instincts screamed. He shoved Valerius aside, transforming in mid-stride. The Morvane within him burst forth, a magnificent, fur-covered beast of war, leaving his ceremonial leathers shredded on the ground. He ran, not toward the perimeter, but straight for Amelia’s throne.
The path was open, the clearing still full of dancing figures, but the small area around Amelia’s throne was a dead zone. The two massive guards, Borin and Silas, were slumped forward, their massive bodies lifeless, a strange, viscous liquid pooling beneath their faces.
Kian skidded to a stop, his wolf’s eyes scanning frantically. Amelia’s cushioned throne was empty.
Empty.
He lunged forward, sniffing the air wildly, seeking the faintest trace of his Luna’s scent, or the scent of the assailant. What he found made his Morvane heart freeze: a sharp, clinical smell of ozone and nullifying herbs—a Coven-level distraction, meticulously placed. A small, intricately carved wooden pipe lay near the throne, indicating an airborne toxin was used to instantly render the two Morvane guards unconscious.
A low, guttural growl tore from Kian’s throat.
Then he saw it—a flicker of dark movement at the edge of the tree line, far past the inner guards, disappearing where the shadows of the ancient forest were thickest. The movement was fleeting, silent, swallowed instantly by the black night.
A second later, his paw kicked something small and delicate in the dirt: Amelia’s wedding gift to Myra, the ring she had crafted. It was the only thing that had slipped from her grasp during the struggle.
Kian looked up at the clearing, which was still alive with deafening, oblivious celebration. Gareth and Myra were laughing. Maeve was toasting. No one saw anything; the kidnapping was completed in absolute silence and shadow, swallowed by the noise and confusion of the celebration.
The Alpha King threw back his head, and a terrifying sound—a sound of pure, unadulterated primal rage and devastating loss—tore through the celebratory music, instantly cutting off the laughter and demanding the terrified attention of every being in the Keep.
Amelia was gone.