Chapter 2
Zane
"Your Majesty, the Howling Ceremony is around the corner." My beta Edmund was recycling the same line he'd been feeding me for six straight years. "You need to prepare."
"I know." I slouched against the throne, drumming my fingers on the armrest. "Not exactly my first rodeo."
"But Your Majesty—"
"Edmund, if the next words out of your mouth are 'your power is fading,' I swear I'll ship you to the border to count sheep."
He shut up. Good.
I took a deep breath, irritation crawling under my skin. Six Howling Ceremonies. Six years. And still no fated mate. Same cycle every year—hope, ceremony, disappointment.
My wolf stirred restlessly inside me. It wanted our mate even more than I did. Every full moon, it went crazy, pacing back and forth in my chest, claws scraping against my ribs like it was filing a complaint. Why? Why haven't we found her yet?
Hell if I knew. Maybe the Moon Goddess had it out for me.
Either way, this year's Howling Ceremony rolled around right on schedule. I put on the formal wear, strapped on the silver mask—as king, I had to lead the pack's howl.
Moon Valley looked spectacular as always. Hundreds of people gathered here, wearing all kinds of masks, talking and dancing to music around bonfires. The air smelled of wine and perfume mixed with that raw, wild scent unique to werewolves.
I stood in the corner nursing a whiskey, watching the spinning skirts and tangled footsteps, calculating how much longer this circus had to run.
"Your Majesty, won't you dance?" Edmund had somehow slithered up beside me, voice low.
"No."
"But—"
"Edmund, one more word and I'm turning you into a frog."
He shut up again.
The music shifted to a slow waltz. The cello's deep melody floated through the night air like some ancient summons. I watched the people on the dance floor, suddenly feeling disconnected. They looked so happy, so absorbed, believing they'd find their other half tonight.
Sure, they could. But not me. For me, not finding a fated mate didn't just mean loneliness—it meant the king's power draining away. Belief wasn't enough. I needed certainty. I needed a perfect fated mate.
I was about to order another drink when something caught my eye.
A figure stood at the edge of the crowd, wearing a deep blue dress that glowed softly in the firelight. A silver mask covered most of her face, leaving only her eyes visible—eyes that shone like stars under the moonlight.
She held a glass of juice, looking somewhat out of place, like she didn't know where to stand. Her gaze swept across the dance floor, then quickly away, as if seeing something she shouldn't.
My wolf suddenly moved.
Not its usual restless churning—this was excitement. It pricked up its ears, tail stiff, like it was tracking a scent. I felt its attention lock completely onto that woman, focused like a hunting dog spotting prey.
Instinct drove me to set down my glass and cut through the crowd toward her. Edmund shouted something behind me. I didn't catch it. Didn't care.
Just as I reached her, she stumbled on her hem and fell backward. I grabbed her wrist and yanked her back. She crashed into my chest. Hard enough to jar me.
Then I looked down and saw her eyes.
Up close, they blazed even brighter. She had long lashes that fluttered like butterfly wings. Her lips parted slightly in surprise. My gaze dropped to her mouth—thin upper lip, full lower lip, touched with pale lipstick. For some reason, I suddenly wanted to know what it tasted like.
The thought startled me. Maybe I was going crazy.
My wolf started howling, though I had no idea why it was so excited.
"You okay?" I asked.
She didn't answer. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
I figured she was just nervous, so I smiled, trying to put her at ease. "Relax."
Still no words. She just stared at me, those eyes flashing with complex emotions—surprise, confusion.
I cleared my throat, released her wrist, and rested my hand on her waist instead. "Want to dance?"
She didn't nod or shake her head. She just looked at me, those eyes threatening to pull me in completely.
I took that as a yes.
I swept her onto the dance floor. She felt light, her waist slender in my palm like a butterfly ready to fly away any second. Her steps were clumsy—clearly not much of a dancer—but she worked to match my rhythm, every turn perfectly coordinated.
The distance between us wasn't exactly proper. I could feel her chest rise and fall with each breath, could smell the faint fragrance in her hair—jasmine, maybe, or grass after rain.
I bent down, lips almost touching her ear. "You know, your eyes are beautiful. Like moonlight on a lake."
Her ears instantly flushed red. The color spread from the tips down her neck like a slowly blooming flower. She buried her face in my chest, curling into herself. I could feel the heat of her cheeks burning through my shirt.
My wolf rolled over in my chest, letting out a satisfied rumble.
We spun to the music as it built toward a crescendo.
Her breathing grew rapid, chest heaving. I felt her grip tighten on my shoulder, fingertips trembling slightly.
Then—
The bell rang.
Time for the Howling Ceremony.
People around us backed away, shifting into wolves. The sound of bones breaking and reforming echoed everywhere, the air thick with magic and fur. I released her, stepped back, and began my shift. Silver-gray fur sprouted from my skin. Within seconds, I'd become a massive silver wolf.
She shifted too. Silver-white fur covered her body as she transformed into a beautiful white wolf. I moved closer, lowered my head, and nuzzled her neck with my nose, letting out a low whine—come on, howl with me.
She opened her mouth.
Nothing.
A hoarse wheeze squeezed from her throat, weak as a mosquito's buzz, instantly swallowed by the surrounding howls.
My ears twitched, hoping she was my fated mate, waiting for our howls to harmonize.
She tried again. This time she strained so hard her whole body shook, veins bulging, but—nothing.
I froze.
The pack kept howling around us, voices rising and falling, weaving into a primal, earth-shaking symphony. Moonlight spilled across the ground, spreading like flowing water.
I moved closer again, lowered my head, nuzzled her neck, and let out a low whine.
What's wrong? Why can't you make a sound?
She backed up a step.
I followed.
She backed up again.
I followed again.
Then she turned and ran.
I chased her on instinct.
Wait! I howled after her.
She didn't stop. Her figure grew smaller, blurrier, like a drop of ink dissolving into the night, gone in an instant.
I wanted to keep chasing. My muscles tensed, adrenaline surging through my veins, every stride wanting to cover ten meters. But then commotion erupted behind me—the pack stopped howling, all eyes fixed on me.
The Howling Ceremony had three parts. The first howl was a warm-up, awakening the wildness in our blood. The second was the actual call and response. The third sealed the bond. What just happened was only the prelude.
They were waiting for me. I was the Alpha, the pack leader. The second howl needed me to lead it, needed me to be the first voice, to guide the entire pack through this sacred tradition.
If I ran, the ceremony was ruined.
I stood frozen. Ahead, darkness had swallowed her. Behind, hundreds of waiting eyes. My wolf raged in my chest, desperate to break free and chase her, but I had to hold it down. We'll find her. Whatever it takes.
I turned back.
I walked to the center of the crowd, lifted my head, and opened my mouth to the moon.
The howl tore from my throat—loud, long, carrying all my fury and helplessness. The pack howled with me, voices rising and falling, shaking the entire valley. Moonlight poured over me, cold as ice.
My howl rang louder than ever before. Because it held the words I couldn't shout.
Come back.
But she didn't come back.
My wolf whimpered low in my chest, like it was crying.
Three days later, I sat in the palace study with documents piled in front of me. Border tax reports, diplomatic letters from neighboring kingdoms, an assessment of this year's harvest—I couldn't focus on a single word.
Because all I could see were those eyes.
Those eyes that shone like stars in the moonlight.
I slammed my quill on the desk. "Edmund."
"Your Majesty?" Edmund pushed the door open.
"Find her. Whatever it takes." I stared at him. "I heard Silverthread Kingdom has the Silver Thread Ritual for finding fated mates. Send someone to bring back a witch skilled in the ritual. Spare no expense."
Edmund hesitated, then bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty."
Two days later, the witch arrived at the palace. She looked ancient, hair white, face lined with wrinkles, but her eyes blazed bright as burning coals. She carried a silver staff topped with a blue gem.
"Your Majesty." She bowed. "The Moon Goddess guided me here to help you. The Silver Thread Ritual can locate your fated mate."
I nodded, hope flickering in my chest.
The silver thread began to glow.
It moved like a living snake, twisting through the air, then flew toward the door. The witch followed. So did I.
The silver thread wound through corridors, through gardens, through the palace side gate, stretching toward town.
My heart started racing.
Where would it lead? What kind of person would I find?
Would it be the woman from that night?
The silver thread stopped in the town square.
Two people stood there.
A woman had her back to me, singing. Her voice wasn't stunning—just clean and clear, with an odd kind of penetrating quality. What really stopped me were the lyrics—
"Moonlight falls on me like clothes that can't keep me warm. I've walked a thousand roads but can't walk out of my own shadow..."
I stopped in my tracks and listened to the whole song in silence.
About loneliness, about freedom... I felt my soul drifting with her words. My throat tightened. My eyes burned. My soul was resonating with these verses.
The silver thread circled behind her, glowing.
I walked forward, heart pounding like a drum. She heard footsteps and turned around.
She wore a silver mask—identical to the one the woman wore that night.
My brain went blank.
It's her. It's her. The woman from the Howling Ceremony.
The words tumbled out. "That song... did you write it?"
When she saw me, delight flashed in her eyes. But hearing my question, she froze. The pause was brief, like something rolled on her tongue and got swallowed back. Then she nodded, a sweet smile spreading across her face. "Yes, I wrote it."
She had a beautiful smile—delicate, radiant, like a carefully cultivated rose. Her voice was lovely too, clear as her singing. Everything was perfect—too perfect.
This was exactly the perfect fated mate I'd been expecting.
"What's your name?"
"Leah."
I repeated the name, a strange feeling washing over me. She was beautiful, voice sweet, smile polished, everything just right—like a romance novel written to formula. This was exactly what I'd been hoping for. The perfect fated mate.
But my wolf just lay there. Motionless.
No excitement, no joy, didn't even wag its tail. It just yawned lazily, like saying, "Oh, that's it?"
I pushed down that vague sense of wrongness and told myself this was normal. Maybe it was just tired.
"So this is my fated mate..." I said quietly, not even convinced by my own tone.
Then the witch spoke up. "Your Majesty, wait."
I turned to her. "What?"
The witch looked focused, staring at the Silver Thread, brow furrowed. "The silver thread isn't pointing to this young lady."
"What?"
"It's pointing to someone else." The witch's gaze moved past Leah to another person behind her.
A girl in a plain dress. Her hair was dark brown, casually tied in a ponytail, completely unremarkable. But when she looked up and nervously curtsied toward us—
My heart slammed in my chest.
Those eyes.
Eyes that shone like stars under moonlight. Lashes fluttering like butterfly wings. It was her. The woman from the Howling Ceremony who crashed into my arms that night.
My wolf jumped to its feet instantly. It spun wildly in my chest, tail high, letting out excited low growls. It recognized her. It had been waiting for her.
I stared at her, stunned. She wore the plainest cotton dress, hair messy, no makeup, but to me, she outshone everyone around her. Her face had an indefinable vitality, like moonlight spilling across a stream—clear and gentle.
Then she curtsied nervously, hands gesturing rapidly.
I frowned.
"What's she doing?"
"Your Majesty, please understand." Leah stepped forward to explain. "She's mute. She can't speak."
Mute.
The word hit my chest like a hammer.
The witch said firmly beside me, "That's right, Your Majesty. This is your true fated mate."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
I watched her gesture frantically, lips moving silently, those bright eyes full of panic and apology. In that moment, the hazy affection I'd felt cracked and shattered.
Me. The king of Moonhowl Kingdom. My fated mate was a mute?