Chapter 7
Perock
I walked the winding gravel path through the palace grounds, the cool night breeze brushing against my face, carrying the sharp scent of pine and distant rain.
This was my ritual—when my thoughts tangled into knots too tight to unravel, I’d seek the quiet of the darkness, letting the solitude steady me.
As I wove through a dense cluster of shrubs, I rounded a bend and froze mid-step. My breath caught in my throat.
Here again.
The palace garden stretched before me, their moonlit paths winding through roses and ancient oaks, a place of quiet beauty I’d rarely visited before.
Yet, lately, I found myself drawn here, my feet carrying me to this spot under the guise of a late-night walk.
I told myself it was just a random habit, a need for solitude to untangle the chaos in my mind.
But deep down, I knew better. Her quarters were just beyond the garden’s edge, and the pull to be near her—Viossi, or whoever she truly was—grew stronger with each passing night.
I refused to admit it, even to myself, but my wolf betrayed me, letting out a low, contented rumble that vibrated through my chest. Tonight, though, something was different.
I felt he paced restlessly within, his unease mirroring my own as a faint, familiar scent drifted on the breeze—rain-soaked leaves and warm morning light, delicate yet unmistakable.
Her scent.
My gaze drifted, almost against my will, to the heart of the garden, where an ancient oak stood. There, bathed in a pool of silver moonlight, was a fragile figure I’d come to recognize too well. Viossi.
The realization hit me like a quiet shock: I’d memorized her every movement, her silhouette, the way her presence seemed to anchor the world around her. Even from this distance, shrouded in shadows, I knew it was her.
She knelt beneath the oak, her hands clasped tightly, her dark curls swaying gently in the night breeze.
The moonlight traced the curve of her cheek, casting a soft glow across her face, as if the Moon Goddess herself were listening.
She hadn’t noticed me, lost in a private moment, her head bowed in reverence.
What was she doing here?
“I shouldn’t care,” I muttered, my voice swallowed by the darkness. As I turned to leave, the sound of her prayer reached me, soft and fervent.
“Please let me bear his child. Let me save his life.”
My heart skipped, a jolt of disbelief rooting me to the earth.
“I don’t ask for his love, only to free him from this cruel curse.”
“I’ll give anything—my life, my soul—if it means his salvation.”
Her words trembled with raw, unshakable sincerity, each syllable heavy with sacrifice.
I slowly turned around and saw her tears glistened on her cheeks, catching the moonlight like scattered pearls, their quiet fall a testament to the depth of her plea.
A strange, unfamiliar ache bloomed in my chest, sharp and consuming, as if her pain had somehow become mine.
No one could fake such emotion, such selflessness—not even the most cunning performer from this palace. This was real, and it shook me to my core.
My wolf let out a low, mournful whine, its longing clawing at my restraint.
It yearned to step forward, to close the distance between us, to feel the warmth of her care, her unwavering resolve.
For a fleeting moment, I wanted to believe her—to trust that someone could see me, not as the cursed heir or the monster of rumors, but as a man worth saving.
The thought was intoxicating, dangerous, a crack in the armor I’d forged over years of betrayal and loss.
But I couldn’t. Trust was a luxury I’d learned to forsake long ago.
I clenched my fists, the bite of my nails grounding me, and forced myself to stay still, hidden in the shadows. Her words echoed in my mind, each one a challenge to the walls I’d built.
If this was a performance, the Thornfields had trained a master—a woman who could weave emotion so convincingly yet miss the subtle details of her supposed identity.
But if it was real… I shook my head, refusing to entertain the thought. I couldn’t afford to waver, though a part of me feared I already had.
The next morning, I summoned Orin, my trusted lieutenant, to my study. The room, with its heavy oak desk and shelves lined with leather-bound tomes, was my sanctuary, a place where I could focus on the kingdom’s burdens. But even here, her presence lingered, uninvited.
“Investigate the Thornfield family,” I ordered, my voice clipped. “Discreetly. I want everything—especially about Viossi.”
Orin, ever loyal, nodded without question. “Understood, Your Highness.”
He returned sooner than expected. “Your Highness, there’s nothing out of the ordinary. The Thornfields are as they appear—loyal, ambitious, and proud of their daughter’s marriage to you.”
I frowned, the lack of discrepancies somehow more unsettling than a clear red flag. “Keep digging,” I said, my tone darker than intended. “I need to know their every move.”
In the days that followed, I threw myself into my duties—border reports, council meetings, strategies to counter Jackson’s growing influence.
But in the quiet moments, when the palace slept and the weight of my curse pressed hardest, her image returned unbidden.
The woman kneeling in moonlight, praying for my salvation, her voice raw with a sincerity I couldn’t dismiss.
“I’ll give anything—my life, my soul—if it means his salvation.”
For me?
Sophia had said similar words once, promising to stand by me, to sacrifice everything for me, but in the end, she still abandoned me. The memory stung, a reminder of why I kept my heart locked away.
The full moon arrived, coinciding with a day I’d long buried—my birthday.
Twenty-five years ago, my birth had cost my mother’s life, a sin my father never forgave.
He’d banned any celebration, marking the day instead with grueling training sessions, as if pain could atone for my existence.
For me, the day meant nothing but duty and the relentless tick of my curse’s deadline.
If I didn’t produce an heir by thirty, my life would end.
The thought had never frightened me; death might even be a release.
But now, the image of her praying for me stirred a strange reluctance, a whisper of something I couldn’t name.
As dusk settled, I stood on the terrace overlooking the palace grounds, the sun sinking behind the distant mountains, painting the sky in hues of amber and violet.
Another year gone, another step closer to my end.
My wolf paced within, restless, drawn to the coming night—not just the full moon’s call, but her.
I made my way to her quarters, the long corridor lit by flickering torches. This was duty, I told myself. Nothing more. But when I pushed open the door, the sight before me stopped me cold.
The room glowed with soft candlelight, petals scattered across the floor like a delicate carpet, their faint fragrance mingling with the warm air.
She stood by the window, moonlight tracing the curve of her silhouette, her dark curls cascading over her shoulders.
At the sound of the door, she turned, a warm smile lighting her face—a smile that faltered with nervousness but held steady.
In her hands was a honey cake, its golden surface glistening, the sweet scent of honey and citrus filling the room.
“Your Highness,” she said, her voice soft as a breeze over water, “I hope you don’t mind my presumption.”
I stood frozen, my breath catching in my throat. In twenty-five years, no one had marked this day. No one had cared. And a honey cake—the one treat from my childhood that had brought me joy, a rare moment of warmth in a palace of cold duty. How could she know?
“How…” My voice came out hoarse, barely audible.
She stepped closer, holding the cake with care, her eyes bright with a mix of anxiety and hope. “Please forgive my boldness,” she said, stopping before me, her gaze meeting mine. “I just wanted you to know your birthday hasn’t been forgotten.”
Her words, simple yet heavy with meaning, struck me like a blow.
She’d sought out my birthday, asked questions, cared enough to learn about me.
Part of me wanted to bristle, to see it as an invasion, a breach of my privacy.
But her eyes—those deep, pure eyes shimmering with sincerity—quelled any anger before it could rise.
I found myself reaching for the cake, my fingers brushing hers as I took it, the contact sending a jolt through me.
I cut a small piece, tasting it tentatively.
The flavor was perfect—soft, fluffy, with a hint of orange zest balancing the honey’s sweetness.
Her eyes followed me, alight with anticipation, as if my reaction was all that mattered.
The sight of her, so earnest, so unguarded, stirred something deep within me, a warmth I hadn’t felt in years.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice softer than I intended, almost as tender as the cake itself. “It’s… very good.”
Her smile widened, her eyes crinkling at the corners, revealing faint dimples that caught the candlelight. “I’m so glad you like it,” she said, her voice bubbling with relief. “I’m not much of a baker. The first one was hard as a rock, the second too sweet. It took a few tries to get it right.”
I pictured her in the kitchen, flour dusting her hands, brow furrowed in concentration as she worked to perfect this gift for me.
The image sent a rush of warmth through my chest, unfamiliar and disarming.
In my father’s eyes, I was the sinner who’d taken his beloved wife; to the council, I was the heir to be protected; to the people, I was a monster who devoured his brides.
They feared me, revered me, then kept their distance.
Even Sophia, who’d promised to stay, had fled.