POV: Soraya
The palace of Saren rises like a mirage of polished obsidian, towering above the dunes with sharp, cruel angles.
It feels nothing like Zehrael, nothing like home. Where Zehrael glows with ancient magic and quiet warmth, Saren is carved from shadow—harsh, silent, suffocating.
Even the air feels wrong here, too still and heavy, thick with memories I would rather forget.
Yet I ride beside Baltimus through the gates, chin high, shoulders square, the picture of a Luna on official business.
The Zehrael guards flank us in disciplined formation, their silver armor gleaming under the sun.
Every pair of Saren eyes follows me—some hungry, some wary, some hateful. I feel each stare like a claw dragging along my skin. Baltimus rides at my side, expression unreadable but aura steady, protective. That steadiness is the only thing keeping my wolf from ripping out of me.
This is the empire where everything began to crumble.
The place where Zarek first laid claim on me.
The place where my mother died.
And now I’m forced to return here as a diplomat, when every instinct screams at me to run.
Zarek meets us outside the grand hall, draped in red and gold robes meant to make him look regal. To me, he looks like a viper dressed for ceremony. His smile is polished, too white, too sharp.
“Soraya,” he purrs, voice dripping with false delight. “Radiant as ever.”
My stomach tightens, but I bow my head slightly.
“Zarek.”
His gaze drags over me, slow and assessing. He turns to Baltimus with a thin smile.
“Zehrael truly has taken good care of her. Though I must admit, I never imagined Soraya would choose to hide in your forgotten kingdom.”
Baltimus doesn’t bristle, doesn’t shift—he simply stands with calm authority. His voice is mild, but steel hides beneath it.
“Zehrael does not hide. We protect what is ours.”
Zarek’s smile twitches.
“Shall we?”
He leads us into the hall, carved from black stone and lit with torches that burn with eerie blue flames. The nobles line the walls behind sheer veils, whispering behind their hands. I hear the names they give me—cursed wolf, defected blood, Zehrael bride. I keep my face blank, but inside my wolf prowls with restless anger.
Baltimus rests his hand briefly at the small of my back—light, grounding. It tells me: You’re safe. You’re not alone.
We sit at a polished obsidian table. Zarek lounges across from us, the picture of composure.
“I invited you to discuss peace,” he begins smoothly. “Saren desires stability.”
Baltimus raises a brow.
“Your men have moved along our borders.”
“Routine patrols,” Zarek lies with an effortless smile. “Ashra, however, is unstable. Raevan’s… deterioration concerns us all.”
My breath tightens.
“Raevan is still an Alpha.”
Zarek’s gaze sharpens. “An Alpha barely holding control. Do not defend him, Soraya. His recklessness nearly killed you.”
Pain flares in my chest, sharp and unwanted. Baltimus answers before I can.
“And you locked her in a palace like a prized object. Speak carefully.”
Zarek leans forward.
“Let us speak plainly. Soraya’s bloodline is the key to restoring balance in the desert. Her mother belonged to Saren. Her powers belong to Saren. She belongs with us.”
I stand so fast my chair scrapes against the stone.
“I belong to no one.”
Gasps fill the room. Baltimus doesn’t move, but his aura darkens, ready to strike if needed.
Zarek’s gaze flicks between us. He smiles again, slow and poisonous.
“Zehrael has grown bold. But you cannot deny what must be done. If Soraya were to bear children—”
Baltimus rises.
“There will be no talk of children.”
Zarek’s eyes glitter. “Then Saren has no incentive for peace.”
Baltimus stands fully now, a towering force of calm fury.
“Respect is the foundation of any negotiation. And Saren has shown none. We are leaving.”
Zarek’s voice echoes across the hall. “War will come, little wolf. And the desert will remember you started it.”
I do not look back as we turn to leave. My heart pounds with a mix of rage and fear and something colder—the realization that there is no version of this world where Zarek stops hunting me.
Outside the palace, Baltimus finally speaks, voice low.
“Never again will you stand before him unshielded.”
“Baltimus…” I murmur, emotion tightening my throat.
He shakes his head. “You do not apologize for surviving.”
We stand ourside the Saren palace as the desert wind rises behind us, carrying Zarek’s threat across the dunes like a warning. But I breathe easier the more time passes. Saren’s shadow slips behind us. Zehrael’s magic waits ahead.
And beside me, steady and unshaken, stands the Alpha who chose to protect me—not for power, not for lineage, not for legacy… but because he sees me.
Not a weapon. Not a prize. Just Soraya.
And that, more than anything Zarek could threaten, fills me with strength.