POV: Zarek
The seer’s chamber reeks of incense, fear, and old magic—none of which impress me. I step inside with the confidence of a man who never hears “no.” My guards remain at the door, steel sharpened, eyes sharp.
Lysander, the court seer, kneels before a sand circle etched with ancient Zehrael runes. His thin hands tremble slightly as he lifts his gaze.
“My lord Zarek,” he murmurs. “You come seeking truth.”
“I come seeking power,” I correct. “Truth is only useful when it serves me.”
He swallows. “You wish to know of the girl.”
“Girl?” I hiss. “Say her name.”
He hesitates. “Soraya.”
The sound of it sends a pulse of anger through me. She should have been mine—politically, physically, entirely. Instead she fled into the dunes with that cursed Ashra wolf. I tighten my jaw.
“Begin,” I order.
The seer sprinkles silver dust onto the sand circle. Runes flare blue. Wind swirls despite the sealed room.
“Blood of moon… born of storm… marked by Zehrael,” he chants. “The girl carries power unseen for generations. A rare gift. A dangerous force.”
“Be clear, Lysander.”
“She is moon-marked,” he whispers. “One of the Zehrael line. Not the weak remnants we hunted. She carries the full spark.”
My breath slows.
The full spark.
“What does that mean for me?”
The seer meets my eyes—then quickly looks away. “If she bears heirs, they would be stronger than any wolf in the desert realms. With proper guidance… or control… they could bind armies with mind and bone.”
A thrill shoots down my spine. “Meaning?”
“You could unify the desert provinces. Perhaps more.” He hesitates. “If she is mated properly.”
My mood darkens. “Properly?”
“She must bond. Her wolf will only fully awaken through mating rites.”
“And if the mating is… forced?”
His voice shakes. “Then the bond fails. The children weaken. Her power might destroy her.”
I grit my teeth. “And if the mate is someone else?”
“Then her loyalty—and her strength—belong to him.”
Rage explodes through me. Images flash—Soraya in my palace, trembling under my hand. Soraya in a dungeon, chained but useful. Soraya in Ashra now, protected by a king who should be dead.
“Raevan,” I spit. “The mutt stole what was mine.”
The seer stays silent, which is wise.
I pace the chamber, fury building with every heartbeat. “She should have given me heirs. She should have sealed my rule.”
“Your father promised her,” Lysander whispers. “As a political bond.”
“Yes,” I snap. “And my father died before he could deliver her. Darron never intended to honor the contract. He hid her, concealed her bloodline, hoped she would shift weak.”
The seer nods nervously. “But her shift revealed the truth.”
“And Darron killed his own wife to hide it,” I finish. “Coward.”
Lysander’s gaze flickers up. “He now claims Soraya murdered her mother.”
I smile coldly. “He bought himself time. But he will pay for stealing what was mine.”
The runes in the circle flicker. Wind rises again.
“Do you wish to see her future?” Lysander whispers.
“Yes.”
He chants, voice trembling. The dust swirls, forming shapes—dunes, storms, shadows of wolves. And then—
Soraya.
Her hair streaked white. Her eyes glowing blue. Power rippling under her skin.
She stands beside Raevan, the dread wolf himself. Their silhouettes burn like twin flames.
I slam my fist against the table. “Enough!”
The vision shatters.
“She must be reclaimed,” I say through clenched teeth.
Lysander bows. “Raevan will not give her up.”
“He doesn’t own her. She is mine by lineage, by right, by prophecy.”
“My lord—”
“Silence.” I step closer. “Tell me the fastest way to break the bond between her and Raevan.”
Terror flashes in his eyes. “Bonds of that kind cannot be broken by force—only by betrayal… or death.”
A slow, dark smile spreads across my lips. “Then we will create betrayal.”
“My lord?”
“Send spies into Ashra. Spread rumors. Sow doubt. Make the girl fear Raevan. Make the wolf doubt her. And while they tear each other apart—”
I lean in, voice turning to steel.
“—we prepare for war.”
The seer begins to tremble.
“You intend to attack Ashra?” he whispers.
“I intend to take what is mine,” I say calmly. “And if Ashra falls in the process, so be it.”
“But Raevan—”
“Raevan bleeds like any man,” I hiss. “He is not a god. And if he stands between me and the girl—he dies.”
Silence fills the chamber.
I straighten, smoothing my cloak. “Send word to my generals. We march as soon as the moon turns.”
“And the girl?” the seer asks softly.
I smile again. “Bring her back to me alive. Untouched. Unbroken.”
A pause.
“Angry, if possible. Anger makes bonds weak.”
The seer kneels, trembling. “Yes, my lord.”
I turn toward the exit, cloak sweeping behind me like the shadow of war.
“Prepare Ashra for fire,” I murmur. “Because I am coming for her.”
And nothing—wolf, king, or prophecy—will stop me.