Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Zane
Five years.
One thousand eight hundred and twenty-seven days and nights.
I was fucking counting.
Every morning I woke up, it took me about three seconds to remember—oh, right. She was gone. Dead. I'd sent her down that road myself, hunted, and she'd let go right in front of me, plunged into that goddamn river.
Then those three seconds passed, and a new day of torture officially began.
I had the same dream every night.
In it, I stood at the edge of that cliff, moonlight glinting off the river below. She hung in midair, one hand clutching that branch, looking up at me. Those eyes—the ones that had shone like stars at the Howling Ceremony—held no fear, no plea for help. Only a cold, absolute calm.
Then she spoke. "I reject you, Zane, as my fated mate."
She rejected me in that final moment, then let go.
Her skirt spread in the moonlight like a blooming flower. Her eyes never left mine—until darkness swallowed her.
Then I woke up.
Every time, I lay there on a soaked pillow. I didn't know if it was sweat or tears. Didn't want to know.
Back then, I searched for her for five days and nights.
I ran along the riverbank like a madman, boots sinking into mud, branches lashing my face.
Didn't care about any of it. I dove into that river, icy water flooding my lungs.
I dove to the bottom, groped through the silt with my hands, nails tearing off, fingertips shredded.
My men dragged me back to shore. I broke free and jumped back in.
On the third day, the search team found a scrap of fabric thirty kilometers downstream. Deep blue, edges ragged, torn by rocks and current. I knew that fabric. It was from the dress she'd worn that day.
On the fifth day, the elders banded together and stopped me. They told me she was dead. No body to recover. That river had undercurrents, whirlpools—no one could survive those conditions.
I didn't believe them.
I wanted to search farther myself. I'd comb every corner of this continent, dig up every inch of ground until I found her.
But the kingdom wouldn't let me go.
Neighboring countries circled like vultures. Internal affairs piled up like mountains. I was king, I was Alpha—chained to this throne, unable to move. All I could do was send out search party after search party, then receive the same response over and over—
Nothing.
No clues.
No her.
Every time I got that news, I broke down.
The first time was in the council chamber, in front of all the ministers—I flipped the table, roaring at them to get out.
The second was late one night in my study, alone, where I drank an entire bottle of whiskey and then smashed every decoration on the walls.
The third, fourth, fifth times—I'd lost count.
Breaking down became routine, as normal as eating or drinking.
As for the traitors—I didn't spare a single one.
That woman called Leah—I banished her the day I learned the truth. I didn't kill her. Death would have been too easy. I wanted her alive, living with everyone's contempt, watching herself lose everything.
Those elders who'd been part of the assassination—I dealt with them personally. One by one, before the entire pack, I tore out their throats with my claws. Blood splattered across me, warm and sticky, reeking of iron. I watched the fear and pleading in their eyes and felt nothing.
But I knew the real masterminds went deeper. Others still hiding, evidence I couldn't find. They hid well—so well even a king was powerless.
More importantly, even if I killed them all, what would it change?
She wasn't coming back.
Another full moon arrived.
I hated full moons now. I used to love them—they were my most glorious moments as Alpha, leading my pack in sacred ritual. Now they were just reminders of what I'd lost.
I walked out of the castle alone, through that familiar woodland, toward the valley where we'd completed our howl.
Moonlight pooled on the ground, silver-white, cold as a blade. I'd walked this path for decades and could find it blindfolded. But now every step felt like walking on knife points.
Five years ago, I'd led my pack, howling at the sky. My voice rang out long and powerful, carrying to the far end of the valley, piercing clouds to reach the moon itself. The pack followed, hundreds of voices merging into a deafening chorus that made the earth tremble.
Back then, new fated mates found each other at the ceremony every year. Young couples held hands, gazing at each other in moonlight, eyes shining with happiness. I watched them, envious perhaps, but at least knowing—someday, I'd find mine too.
Then I found her.
Then I destroyed everything myself.
Now I stood in the valley, looking up at that full moon.
Moonlight fell on me, cold as ice.
I could feel my wolf stirring inside. Its claws scraped my ribs, throat releasing low whimpers—urging me on. It craved that howl more than I did. It still remembered the old days, remembered what it felt like to stand in moonlight and unleash all that power.
I took a deep breath and shifted.
Night wind filled my lungs, carrying scents of grass and earth. I closed my eyes, imagining how it used to be—standing here, chest full of strength, throat releasing a piercing howl that split the sky and echoed through the valley—
I opened my jaws.
Tried.
Tried so hard the veins in my neck bulged, so hard my whole body trembled, so hard I felt my vocal cords tearing—
Nothing.
No sound.
Just air escaping my throat like a deflating balloon, making a pitiful, barely audible rasp.
My wolf released a mournful cry inside me. Not anger, not frustration—something I'd never heard before, close to despair. It curled up, burying its head in its paws like a wounded animal.
Since Mia rejected me, my wolf couldn't howl.
I shifted back and dropped to my knees.
Knees slammed hard against the stone platform, but I felt no pain. Hands pressed to the ground, head down, watching moonlight cast my shadow—a kneeling, pathetic shadow.
Rustling sounds came from behind. I turned to see pack members standing not far away, watching me—watching me kneel, watching me bow my head, watching me produce no sound at all.
Their expressions.
Those looks cut sharper than any blade.
Not anger. Not contempt. Something deeper—disappointment. And fear.
Whispers rippled through the crowd. Soft, but in the moonlit silence, every word reached my ears clearly.
"Failed again..."
"Fifth year. Five whole years."
"My brother turned twenty-two this year, still hasn't found his fated mate. He left the pack last year, went north. Said he was done waiting."
"My daughter, too. She asks me every day why the king can't howl anymore. What am I supposed to tell her?"
"Can an Alpha who can't howl still be king?"
"Shh! Keep your voice down!"
These words stabbed into my chest like knives, each one precise.
I kept my head down, staring at my shadow on the ground. Moonlight stretched it long, distorted and shifted, like an ugly stain.
I felt those gazes needling my back. Hundreds of eyes. Hundreds of people who'd waited five years. Their patience was running out grain by grain, like sand through fingers—I couldn't hold it, couldn't keep it.
I looked at them, throat tight with bitterness.
I opened my mouth, wanting to say something—I'm sorry, I failed you, I let you down—
But none of it mattered.
I lowered my head, hands clenched into fists, nails digging into palms until blood seeped out.
Five years.
For five whole years, our Howling Ceremony had been paralyzed.
In those five years, not one new fated mate pair had formed at the ritual.
Young people grew up day by day, waiting and waiting, but that guiding call never came.
Some gave up, left the pack to try their luck in the wider world.
Others grew listless, light fading from their eyes.
And all of it was because of me.
Because I lost her.
Because that day, I chose to believe lies instead of trusting my fated mate's heart.
Pack members left one by one.
Moonlight fell on me, cold as ice.
My wolf released a low whimper inside me, then went quiet.
It had given up.
"Your Majesty."
Edmund's voice came from outside the door, carrying a note of careful testing.
He'd learned to announce himself before entering my study—because you never knew what you'd find.
Maybe me reviewing documents. Maybe me smashing things.
Maybe me sitting on the floor against the bookshelf, surrounded by empty bottles.
Today it was the latter.
"Come in," I said, voice rough as sandpaper on wood.
Edmund pushed open the door, glanced at the bottles on the floor, then professionally chose to ignore them. He approached with a document in hand.
"Your Majesty, there's something you should probably know."
"Speak."
"Vela is preparing a tour."
Vela.
I first heard that name three years ago.
That year, heavy snow blocked the mountain passes near the northern Redclaw Pack border. Supply lines completely collapsed. This had happened before—morale at the garrison would drop so low you could hear rats sighing.
But that year, the soldiers' spirits stayed remarkably stable.
Not because food was plentiful or fuel sufficient—because someone played Vela's recording crystals at the garrison.
Her voice looped through cold winter nights, supposedly calming even the most volatile wolves, keeping homesick recruits from red-rimmed eyes.
I started paying attention to that name.
This spring, when the Silverthread Kingdom envoy visited, he mentioned this singer too. He said, "Your Majesty, if you ever get a chance to hear Vela live, you'll understand what true heavenly voice means. Her singing can smooth out the wrinkles in a soul."
I leaned against the bookshelf, thinking about all this, saying nothing. A singer.
Edmund continued, tone growing more cautious. "They say her voice has a special power—it calms people, soothes wounded hearts."
I glanced up at him. "So?"
"The elders think—just a suggestion—maybe her voice could help with your... situation."