Chapter 3
Mia
Leah and I stood in the town square. Vendors barked their wares, kids weaved through the crowd, and the air hung thick with the smell of fresh bread, smoked meat, and crisp apples.
Leah was rehearsing the new song I'd written. She said crowds made her nervous, so I'd brought her the mask I wore to the Howling Ceremony.
This song—I'd spent countless sleepless nights scribbling lyrics by my window at the orphanage, tapping out melodies on scrap wood in the shed out back. Every note was my blood and sweat. I'd given it all to Leah because she had a voice. I didn't.
When she sang, her voice rang clear as a stream. Every word landed perfectly. People stopped in their tracks.
"Your eyes are like the sea beneath the moon,
I waited on the shore all night for you..."
Standing at the edge of the crowd, I felt my palms sweat with excitement. Those were my words. My melody. Coming to life through her throat. The feeling was incredible—like I'd finally found a way out, a way to let everything trapped inside me fly free.
Then I saw him.
The man stood across the crowd in a charcoal coat, collar loose, revealing a sliver of honey-toned skin below his throat.
No mask this time. I saw his full face for the first time—and God help me, I nearly forgot how to breathe.
That face looked like some angel had carved it by hand.
Sharp nose, chiseled jawline, thin lips pressed in natural arrogance.
But his eyes—those gray-blue eyes—I recognized them instantly.
Him. The man from the Howling Ceremony.
My heart hammered like someone was beating a drum inside my chest. He came here. He came for me. He knew it was me that night, he must be here to—
Then I watched his gaze land on Leah.
His expression shifted. Something flashed in those eyes—wonder, like something had struck his soul. He stood frozen, as if Leah's voice had nailed him to the spot.
My smile died on my face.
Wait.
No.
You're supposed to be looking at me! I'm right here!
But my throat felt stuffed. I couldn't make a sound. I could only watch him cut through the crowd, step by step toward Leah, eyes locked on her like she was the only person in the world.
Leah finished the last note. She caught her breath, a perfectly shy smile on her face. Then she looked up, saw the man approaching, and her eyes lit up.
"Did you write this song?" His voice was deep and magnetic, carrying undeniable authority. He stopped in front of Leah, looking down at her with an urgency I'd never heard before.
Leah hesitated. Then—she nodded.
My brain went blank.
"Yes," she said, voice sweet as honey, "I wrote it. I'm Leah."
I stood three steps away with my mouth hanging open like a fish on dry land.
What are you saying? I wrote that. That's MY song! How could you—
I stepped forward instinctively, arm reaching out to grab her and demand answers. But then a voice cut through.
"Your Majesty, wait."
A woman dressed like a witch approached, gripping a silver staff, her face intent and certain. She stared at the glowing silver thread in her hand, brow furrowed. "The Silver Thread isn't pointing to this young lady."
The man's smile froze. "What?"
"It's her." The witch's gaze moved past Leah and landed on me.
Every eye in the square turned my way.
Your Majesty? My lips moved unconsciously, betraying my shock.
Oh God. He's the king.
The man who danced with me under the moon, who'd haunted my dreams—he was the king. All my secret hopes suddenly felt both impossibly real and impossibly distant.
But Leah's face darkened. She looked like she couldn't stand the attention shifting to me, as if I'd stolen something that belonged to her.
I didn't have time to worry about her feelings.
I curtsied clumsily, hands flying in frantic gestures. I didn't know what I was signing—probably "hello" and "sorry" and "I didn't mean for this to happen" all jumbled together. My fingers trembled. My heart was trying to escape my chest.
He watched my wild hand movements, frowning. "What is this?"
"Your Majesty, please forgive her." Leah stepped forward, voice gentle but cutting into me like a knife. "She's mute. She can't speak."
Silence hung in the air.
My king's expression changed—his frown deepened, something complicated flashing in his eyes. Surprise? Disappointment? Disgust? I couldn't tell. I only knew his gaze pressed down on me like a heavy stone, crushing the breath from my lungs.
He looked at me. I looked at him. The air suffocated with awkwardness.
Then he spoke, voice low and tired. "Bring them both to the palace. I need to question this young lady—" He paused, glancing between me and Leah. "Since she's your companion, at least she can figure out what you're trying to say. Bring her too."
He meant Leah.
He didn't even look at me again, as if I'd already become a nuisance.
Two guards stepped forward and gestured for us to follow. I didn't resist. I couldn't process what was happening. He saw me. He finally saw me. Even if his eyes held none of the joy or warmth I'd hoped for—at least he saw me.
I was forced to move forward. I looked back once.
He stood in the sunlight, gray-blue eyes following Leah's retreating figure. That look wasn't for me.
The next three days, I was a bird in a cage.
The palace was absurdly huge, with enough corridors to get lost in ten times over. They put me in a lavishly decorated room—silk sheets, velvet curtains, fresh fruit and delicate pastries on the table. But it all made me restless.
Because I couldn't see him.
Day one, I sat by the window, staring at people moving through the garden below, hoping to spot that familiar figure. I told myself he was just busy. Once he finished his work, he'd come find me. That connection from the Howling Ceremony couldn't be fake.
Day two, anxiety set in. I tried to leave, but the guards at my door stopped me, polite but cold. "Miss, please remain in your room."
I gestured frantically: I need to see the king.
He stared at me blankly. Obviously didn't understand a word.
I wanted to kick him. I didn't.
On day three, I finally saw someone besides the guards.
The witch.
She appeared in my room like smoke slipping through the door crack. She looked ancient, face lined like cracked riverbed, but her eyes burned bright as black obsidian.
"Hello, Mia Turner," she said, voice rough as sandpaper on wood. "I'm Morgana, a witch from the Silverthread Kingdom."
I watched her warily. Didn't speak—of course, I couldn't.
She smiled and sat in the chair by my bed. "No need to be nervous. I'm here to answer your questions."
She raised one gnarled finger and traced a circle in the air. Silver light flowed from her fingertip, forming a thin line that drifted toward me and wrapped around my wrist.
"You and His Majesty are fated mates," she said matter-of-factly. "The Moon Goddess tied the silver thread herself."
I froze.
Fated mates.
The words exploded in my head like fireworks. I'd always known every werewolf had a fated mate—the other half the Moon Goddess chose at birth, your soul's destination, destined love. But I never dared hope I'd have one. A mute who couldn't even howl—why would the Moon Goddess favor me?
But she was telling me I was the king's fated mate.
The man who danced with me in the moonlight, with those gray-blue eyes and that devastating smile, who made my heart race and my breath catch and kept me up all night—he was mine.
The witch seemed to read my thoughts, tracing her bony finger through the air again.
"Usually, werewolves in the Moonhowl Kingdom confirm each other through the Howling Ceremony.
Their voices resonate, their souls form an initial bond.
But you... can't howl. So I suspect that's why you and His Majesty haven't sensed each other's presence, why your wolves don't recognize each other.
But the silver thread doesn't lie. It transcends voice and perception, revealing fate's truth directly. "
I covered my mouth. Tears spilled without warning.
The witch watched me, pity in her eyes.
I didn't care about the pity. I gestured urgently: What about him? Does he know?
"He knows," the witch said. "But he's... not pleased."
My hands stopped moving.
The witch was brutally direct. "After all, you're mute. In the Moonhowl Kingdom, where howling is sacred, a Luna who can't make a sound will be seen as... a desecration of tradition. A public humiliation. This isn't about you personally, child. The rules of this land are too rigid."
I felt like someone had dumped ice water on my heart.
But it's fine. I told myself. I'll show him. I'll prove that even though I can't speak, I have other strengths. I'll prove I'm worthy of him.
I wiped my tears and gave the witch a determined smile.
She looked at me and sighed, standing up. "Good luck, girl. You'll need it."
She left, trailing the smell of sulfur and herbs.
On the morning of the fourth day, the guard finally brought the news I'd been waiting for.
"His Majesty will see you now," he said, respectful but cold. "Follow me."
My heart kicked into overdrive. I quickly fixed my hair, smoothed my plain white dress—the only decent thing I owned—took a deep breath, and followed him out.
The palace corridors stretched endlessly. Huge oil paintings lined the walls—former kings and queens in magnificent clothes and glittering crowns, eyes proud and cold, looking down on me, the intruder. I kept my head down, not daring to look too long, feeling those painted eyes mocking me.
We stopped at a massive wooden door. The guard gestured. I raised my hand to push it open, but voices filtered through.