Chapter 15
Perock
Five Years Later
“I’m not attending that ridiculous welcome banquet!” The woman in front of me shrieked, hurling her golden goblet to the floor. Red wine splattered across the expensive carpet, staining it like fresh blood. “I’m done with this torment!”
I watched her outburst with cold detachment, unfazed. Over the past five years, scenes like this had become routine—her tantrums, her throwing things, her screamed curses. I simply observed, neither arguing nor soothing her.
Her displays no longer stirred me.
Since ascending the throne, I’d watched Viossi’s emotional stability unravel. My indifference, her semi-confined life in the palace, and my relentless campaign against her family had pushed her to the brink. But I didn’t care.
My only concern was finding her—the woman who was truly meant to be mine. The previous “Viossi”.
“As queen, attending diplomatic events is your duty,” I said calmly, my voice devoid of emotion. “This isn’t a request. It’s an order.”
Viossi’s face contorted with rage, her eyes blazing with near-manic intensity. “Duty? You dare lecture me about duty? For five years, you’ve looked at me like I’m some kind of monster! You ignore me, neglect me, and then expect me to play the perfect queen to prop up your political games?”
I remained unmoved, turning from the window to my desk, picking up a document and scanning it as if her words were nothing more than background noise. My indifference was a weapon, sharper than any retort, and it never failed to enrage her further.
She stormed over, snatching the parchment from my hands and flinging it to the floor. “Look at me! At least have the decency to face me when I’m speaking!”
I raised my eyes slowly, meeting hers with a gaze so cold and empty it seemed to drain the air from the room—no anger, no disdain, just a chilling void.
“What do you want to say?” I asked, my voice as still as a frozen lake.
Her body trembled, a trapped animal caught between fury and fear. “Why? Why have I been caged in this palace for five years while you refuse to even glance at me? My father said—”
“Your father,” I interrupted, my tone icy, “is dead. You have two choices: attend the banquet or remain confined to your chambers until I decide otherwise.”
Viossi’s face paled, the color draining from her cheeks.
Her father had been her anchor, the one thing tethering her to this miserable existence.
But the Thornfield family had crumbled under my calculated pressure—their lands eroded, their allies scattered, leaving Viossi alone in her gilded cage, a queen in name only.
“I hate you,” she whispered, tears glistening in her eyes. “I hate your coldness, your imprisonment, the way you look at me like I’m… some kind of substitute.”
I stared at her, neither confirming nor denying her words.
She was indeed a substitute—for my true mate, the woman who’d married me five years ago.
I could never forget the day my wolf howled in agony, a searing pain that tore through me. A wave of dread had consumed me, as if I’d lost something irreplaceable.
I’d abandoned Sophia, rushing to her chambers, only to find Viossi standing there, smiling. But something was wrong. Her scent wasn’t the familiar blend of rain-soaked leaves and morning sunlight that had always stirred my wolf.
I don’t recall how I left that room. My feet carried me to the garden where she used to linger, rain pelting my face as the truth hit me like a blow: She was gone. My fated mate was gone.
The irony was bitter. Only in her absence did I realize the bond we shared.
My wolf had known all along, its reactions to her a quiet signal I’d ignored.
She was my mate, and I’d driven her away.
Who could I blame but myself? The signs had been there—her presence, her warmth, the way my wolf stirred in her company.
And yet, I’d let her slip through my fingers.
Worse still, I didn’t even know her name.
In the days that followed, I played the part of a dutiful husband, standing beside Viossi as we performed the facade of a perfect royal couple. The kingdom needed an heir, but a piece of my heart had been torn away with her.
When my father died, Jackson launched his rebellion. I crushed it, claimed the throne, and ordered Orin to execute him.
Orin, despite my warning about his extra familiarity with my wife, had returned to his role as my loyal second.
I trusted him still—he’d fought beside me through countless battles, risked his life for mine.
Jackson’s rebellion was quashed, and Orin assured me the traitor was dead, his body burned, his finger presented as proof.
Viossi became queen in title, but the truth hung between us like an invisible wall, a silent reminder of our hollow marriage.
“So,” I said at last, breaking the silence, “will you attend the banquet?”
Her shoulders slumped, the fire in her eyes snuffed out, replaced by exhaustion and despair. “No. I’m… unwell.”
It was our unspoken agreement—she could skip events if she provided a plausible excuse, allowing me to explain her absence to the court. It suited us both: her desire to avoid scrutiny and my preference to keep her out of the spotlight.
“Your lady-in-waiting will stay outside your door to ensure you… rest well,” I said, the subtext clear: she wasn’t to leave her chambers.
Viossi gave a bitter laugh. “Another thinly veiled house arrest? Or are you afraid I’ll say something to your precious guests that I shouldn’t?”
I didn’t answer, bending to retrieve the scattered document from the floor.
“Perock!” she screamed, her voice raw with desperation. “You know I’m not her! I’ve never been her! Why do you keep up this charade? Why won’t you just say it?”
My hand froze midair, a flicker of long-buried emotion stirring in my chest. In five years, this was the first time she’d so directly acknowledged the unspoken truth. But I quickly regained my composure.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said evenly. “Should I summon a healer? You seem… not well.”
Pain flashed in her eyes, followed by a flare of anger. “You’re a coward. You’d rather pretend ignorance than face the truth. Who do you think you’re looking for? She’s dead! Everyone who knew the truth is dead! My father made sure of that!”
Her words struck like a blade, but my expression remained impassive.
She was lying—not about the deaths, perhaps, but about her.
If my mate were truly gone, I’d feel it.
My wolf would sense the final severing of our bond.
Instead, it howled in quiet agony, yearning for her, a sign she was still out there, somewhere.
“If you’re not attending the banquet,” I said, moving toward the door, my voice calm and detached, “I won’t disturb you further. Rest well.”
“You can’t keep pretending forever!” Viossi shouted after me. “One day, the truth will come out, and you’ll regret your choices!”
I closed the door softly, shutting out her cries and despair.
She didn’t need to remind me of the truth’s weight.
For five years, I’d been searching for the missing piece of my soul, the woman I’d pushed away yet couldn’t forget.
Who was she? Where had she come from? Why had she taken Viossi’s place?
These questions haunted me, day and night.
This wasn’t just about politics. Five years ago, I’d claimed the throne, but I cared little whether Viossi bore me an heir.
Sophia and her spineless husband had long since been dispatched to a remote border territory under the guise of “honoring their loyalty”—far from the capital, far from my sight.
I played the role of a diligent king, approaching my thirtieth birthday and the looming curse with a strange indifference.
If I couldn’t find her, the curse could take me for all I cared. The throne, the kingdom, the legacy—it all paled in comparison to the void she’d left behind.
But I knew Viossi wouldn’t reveal the truth unless she was cornered, unless she had no other choice. For now, I needed patience, waiting for fate to guide me to the answers I sought.
I picked up a report from my desk, its contents a jolt to my system. The border patrol’s findings had shocked me—traces of Jackson in the northern forests. Jackson, the enemy who was supposed to have been executed five years ago, his rebellion crushed beneath my heel.
During the chaos of her disappearance and Viossi’s revelation, I’d entrusted Orin with Jackson’s execution.
Despite his feelings for my wife, Orin had fought fiercely against Jackson, proving his loyalty time and again.
He’d presented Jackson’s severed finger, swearing the traitor was beheaded and his body burned to ash, the matter closed.
But now, evidence suggested otherwise. A photograph from the border scouts confirmed my suspicions—Jackson, alive, bearing his distinctive scar over his right eye and missing left ring finger. Worse, Orin was seen speaking with him, their exchange secretive, their postures conspiratorial.
Orin had betrayed me. Not only had he spared Jackson, but he might be colluding with him, plotting against the crown.
I didn’t confront him—not yet. Instead, I kept him close, feigning trust while secretly monitoring his every move.
The less he suspected, the more likely he was to slip, revealing his plans and his allies.
I’d assigned trusted agents to shadow him, their reports feeding me fragments of his movements, his meetings, his secrets.