The war room had gone cold. The fire still burned in the hearth, but Celine barely felt it. Her skin prickled with something far deeper than temperature—something ancient, foreboding, and far too focused on her.
The King looked at her as if she were a blade he’d seen once before.
“There is a prophecy,” he said quietly, the words thick with history. “One that predates this kingdom. It speaks of a White Wolf born in blood and moonlight. A wolf whose line will bring ruin from another world…”
Celine’s breath caught.
“… and then salvation.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
The ministers around the table looked anywhere but at her, but she could feel it—their fear. Not awe. Not reverence.
Fear.
Leon turned his head sharply toward the King. “What are you saying?”
The King didn’t flinch. “I’m saying she may be the beginning of something we can’t control.”
“That’s not a prophecy,” Leon snapped. “That’s superstition.”
But a woman in deep violet robes leaned forward from the King’s right. “It’s recorded in the oldest texts, Alpha. The White Wolf carries two fates: devastation or rebirth. And no one can say which one comes first—or which one lasts.”
“I’m standing right here,” Celine said, her voice rising. “You’re talking about me like I’m not even in the room.”
A second minister spoke, an older man with a voice like cracking stone. “That’s because this is bigger than you. Bigger than love. Bigger than this little ceremony you’re clinging to.”
Leon growled—a low, rumbling sound that turned every head in the room.
“Watch your tone,” he warned.
But the violet-robed woman didn’t back down. “There are those who believe we should stop the prophecy before it begins.”
Celine’s stomach dropped. “You mean—kill me?”
“You wouldn’t be the first born under a cursed sign,” another muttered.
Leon stepped in front of her instinctively, his body between hers and the table, his voice steel. “If you even suggest harm again—”
“Alpha,” the King cut in, calm but firm. “Control yourself.”
Leon’s teeth were bared. His shoulders were trembling with the effort of holding himself back.
Celine reached for his arm, her hand light against his sleeve, her heart still racing. “I didn’t ask for this,” she said softly.
“No one ever does,” the King replied.
“But I’m not a threat,” she continued. “I’m not your ruin. I’m not your salvation either. I’m just—me.”
The King tilted his head slightly. “That may be true, dear Luna. But it may not matter.”