The throne room was deathly silent, save for the rhythmic tapping of Callan’s fingers on the armrest of his massive stone chair. The Alpha King stared ahead, his golden eyes sharp but rimmed with exhaustion. His shoulders, once the very symbol of unyielding strength, sagged slightly under the weight of invisible burdens.
“Your Majesty,” Elder Rokan said hesitantly, stepping forward. His thin frame trembled, but his voice carried the authority of years. “This… weakness cannot continue. The kingdom is vulnerable. You must act.”
Callan’s eyes flickered toward the elder, his lips curling in disdain. “Weakness?” His voice was low, dangerous. “You forget who you’re speaking to, Rokan.”
The elder took a cautious step back, but he did not relent. “I mean no disrespect, my King. But you cannot deny the truth. The Moon Goddess is speaking through your pain. You must find your mate—”
Callan stood abruptly, his towering figure casting a long shadow over the council. “Enough,” he growled, his voice reverberating off the stone walls. “I don’t need a mate. I built this kingdom with my own power. I will not rely on someone else to rule.”
“Mates aren’t just about love,” another elder interjected, his voice quieter but firm. “They are balance. Strength. The Moon Goddess pairs us for a reason. Ignoring her will only bring more suffering.”
Callan’s golden eyes narrowed. He could feel his wolf stirring, restless and agitated, but he pushed it down. He didn’t need anyone. Mates were for the weak.
“The Goddess can keep her plans to herself,” Callan said coldly, stepping down from his throne. “I rule alone. That will never change.”
Later that night, Callan tossed and turned in his massive bed, his skin damp with sweat. The pain that had plagued him for weeks now surged through his body like fire, spreading from his chest to his limbs. No healer had been able to explain it, let alone cure it.
In the haze of his torment, a dream took hold.
The world around him was dark, but in the distance, he saw her—a she-wolf standing in a meadow bathed in silver moonlight. Her dark skin shimmered like polished onyx, and her green eyes glowed like emeralds. She looked at him with a calm intensity that soothed and challenged him all at once.
She extended her hand, and the moment her fingertips brushed his, the fire inside him dimmed. He felt peace for the first time in weeks.
“Who are you?” Callan asked, his voice rough but softer than usual.
She didn’t answer. She just smiled faintly, and then she was gone, disappearing into the mist.
Callan woke with a start, his chest heaving as he sat up in bed. His heart pounded, not from pain this time, but from something else. Something he didn’t want to name.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “It’s just a dream.”
But as he tried to shake it off, his wolf growled low in his mind.
She’s real. She’s ours.
By dawn, Callan’s council had gathered again. The elders looked grim as they stood in the throne room, their heads bowed.
“The healers from the north have arrived,” Elder Rokan said. “But they insist your ailment is beyond their skill.”
Callan gritted his teeth, gripping the armrest of his throne. “So bring in more healers. Scour the packs if you have to.”
The elder hesitated. “We’ve already sent word to every corner of the kingdom. The best healers are on their way. They will be here within days.”
“Good,” Callan said, leaning back. His voice was calm, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him.
Meanwhile, far from the palace, Abigail was hard at work in Elder Miriam’s hut. She had just finished preparing a poultice when a messenger burst through the door, breathless and wide-eyed.
“Are you Abigail?” the man asked.
Abigail frowned, wiping her hands on her apron. “I am. What’s this about?”
“You’ve been summoned to the royal palace,” he said quickly, holding out a scroll sealed with the King’s crest.
Her brow furrowed as she broke the seal and read the summons. It was formal, commanding her presence to assist in healing the Alpha King himself.
“I’m not going,” she said flatly, handing the scroll back to the messenger.
“You don’t understand,” he insisted. “This isn’t a request. The council demands it. The King’s life might depend on you.”
Abigail crossed her arms, her expression hard. “There are plenty of healers more experienced than me. I’m sure they’ll manage.”
Miriam, who had been listening from the corner, finally spoke up. “Abigail, you should go.”
Abigail turned to her, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Why? You know I don’t want anything to do with their politics. I’m fine here.”
“This isn’t about politics,” Miriam said gently. “This is about proving yourself. If you succeed, no one can question your skills. Not even the pack.”
Abigail hesitated, her mind racing. She didn’t care about the palace, or the King, or proving anything to the pack. But deep down, there was a part of her—a small, stubborn part—that wanted to show them she wasn’t weak. That she didn’t need a mate or anyone else to define her.
“Fine,” she said at last, her voice firm. “I’ll go.”