Zephyrine
In a blur, my fingers hooked beneath it before it touched the ground. The weight should have dragged me down, but I spun my wrist, momentum flowing with me instead of against me, and in the next breath, the vessel was cradled back in the crook of my arm, steady and unharmed.
The air shifted with the speed of my movement, rattling the ssmp above.
A guard muttered under his breath,
“I didn’t even see her bend. She was so fast.”
It was over in a heartbeat, but the silence that followed was heavier than stone.
Pam’s eyes flickered with confusion, then unease. Wolves weren’t supposed to move like that. Not without years of training.
I straightened slowly, meeting their stares, my voice low and cold.
“Touch this vessel again, and you will answer to me.”
Without waiting for a response, I clutched the vessel tighter, turned on my heel, and walked out into the rain. Into the dark. Alone.
A funeral for fallen Ashmere is sacred. Until the rite can be held, I rented a niche in the Memorial Hall, the Moonstone Vessel ced in a sealed alcove.
My hair dripped, clothes damp, cheeks salted by rain and tears. I knelt to pay my respects; when I straightened, I whispered a
VOW.
“I promise you, Mom, Dad. I will find Varyn, and when I do, we’ll both return to honor you. Only then will a funeral be held for you both.”
I lingered over the vessel, then locked the chamber and headed for the exit, my heart heavier than stone.
The corridor’s draft drags me into memory.
Five years ago, a new portal yawned open, demons pouring through. Warriors and Ashmere blood was summoned. My parents answered; my brother, Varyn too.
They’d danced the night before for their twenty–fifth anniversary. The next dawn they donned armor, kissed me goodbye, and promised letters when the war was done.
My brother kissed me farewell, and promised a new medal when the war finished.<fn0f12> The rightful source is Find[?]ovel</fn0f12>
However, Three weekster a stamped death scrolly on my doorstep.
Warlord Vale gone. Commander Seraphine gone. Varyn missing.
That was when my whole world shattered but Grief is a luxury an Ashmere cannot afford.
An imperialmand arrived. Onest assault to seal the portal. A newmander was needed. I took the mantle, led the charge, and by Moon–goddess grace, I won. The portal closed, but something in me never reopened.
I grieved my family. My loved ones.
During that period of time, beneath full moonlight, I met my mate, Nyroth Hue. He wiped my tears. Proposed and Promised. That had clouded me.
I decided to honor my parent greatest wish and that is for me to get married.
I hung up my armor, stamped the retirement scroll and leave everything behind, as well as my old home, which reminded
me of a happiness I could never feel again.
I left for Hue Pack, where I backed up Nyroth’s campaign to be Alpha.
Hue Pack was dying when I got there, poor, broken, weak. What did I do?
I poured my parents‘ bloodpensation into reviving Hue Pack.
Now it thrives but yet Nyroth dares call me curse, and my parents‘ ashes bad luck?
The thought made the hallway tilt. I sagged against the wall, sliding to the floor, breath hitching as my wolf whined. Maybe it’s time to quit. All of it.
We tried. We loved. We supported. We ved. And in the end, we were cast out.
I stared at the nk space ahead for a long time. Then, slowly, I rose to my feet, surprised at the new strength unfurling in my chest,
I took a step forward–then froze.
A hiss of wind slithered through the corridor, strange and deliberate.
What is that?
My wolf stirred, the hair along my arms rising. My gaze dropped to my hands. My fingers had begun to curl into paws. Only one thing could provoke that reaction. A formidable threat was near.
My legs carried me to the window, where I peered out over the Memorial courtyard. Luxury carriages clustered beneath ck umbres. New mourners, wealthy and somber. Whose death could draw such opulence?
Just then, a midnight–ck warhorse glided in, its breath clouding in the storm. My wolf growled low. Power, ancient and ruthless, poured from the rider.
He dismounted. ck cloak, storm–slick leather boots. Long charcoal hair knotted high, loose strands framing a face carved like a de. Ancient runes coiled up his throat; two rings through one brow caught themplight. Even from here, his pale- gold eyes sliced the night. A raven, pitch–ck and sleek, nestledfortably on his right shoulder. A creature of which the entire empire spoke only in hushed whispers.
Handsome was too small a word. Apex is dangerous artistry, a weapon sculpted to walk.
I recognized him from rare sketches and whispered histories. Not fully wolf, something older. No birth name known. The world called him Apex Blood, heir to the Lycan throne.
Werewolves splintered into packs<b>, </b>each ruled by an Alpha. But Lycans bowed to one king. That king was infamous for brutality, and his heir… cursed, rumor imed. The heir who never left the obsidian castle and its ck tower, yet here he was tonight.
My gaze caught on his, and impossibly, his head lifted. Pale eyes locked on mine across the courtyard. For one suspended heartbeat, the storm held its breath.
Then a mourner’s whisper shattered the spell.
“My goodness… it’s the Lycan prince!”
“Poor soul. His father died this evening. He’s here to cremate the king.”
“Poor soul? Did he look like someone who is mourning? Please.”
Cold shivers raced my spine. The Lycan King dead? That meant Apex Blood would ascend the throne. A cursed, ruthless monarch.
My heart thudded. I watched Apex stride into themplight shadows before closing my eyes against the sudden pulse of a mind link. Nyroth. Self–centered. As always.
Where are you, Zeph? Come home. Don’t make it a scandal just because of a little issue. I have something important to tell
you.
I opened my eyes and stared into the nk space ahead with a sigh.
Perhaps I, too, had something important to discuss about a five–year mate bond. About us.
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