Chapter 14 #2
On the third evening, I finished my final rehearsal and exited through the theater's back door, ready to drive back to the hotel.
My guards surrounded me, forming a moving wall—standard procedure, since I was currently the hottest touring singer in all four kingdoms, and fan enthusiasm sometimes exceeded manageable levels.
But that day, things spiraled out of control.
Someone had leaked my location. The back alley was packed with people. At least two or three hundred fans, holding glow signs and banners, chanting my name—"Vela! Vela! Vela!"—loud enough to lift the roof off the whole street.
My guards tensed immediately. They tried to clear a path through the crowd, but there were too many people, and they kept getting more excited. Some started pushing forward, shoving, screaming, camera flashes popping like fireworks.
I was trapped in the middle, back against the wall, facing a surging sea of heads. My guards got scattered by the crowd. I heard them shouting "Back up! Back up!" but their voices drowned in the screaming.
Then a hand grabbed my wrist.
Instinctively, I tried to pull away, but the grip was firm—not painful, but certain, unshakable. I turned my head and saw those gray-blue eyes.
"Come with me," he said.
"Let go—"
"Don't argue." He cut me off, voice edged with urgency I'd never heard before. "You want to get trampled?"
I looked around. The crowd kept surging forward. Someone was already in my face, phone held high, almost touching my nose. My guards were stuck several yards away and couldn't get through.
I bit my lip and nodded at him.
He moved immediately. He pulled me behind him, used his body to block the crowd, then—he shifted.
Right there in that crowded alley, with two hundred fans screaming, he tore through his clothes, bones cracking, and within seconds, a massive silver-gray wolf appeared before me.
The crowd erupted in louder screams—terrified ones this time.
He used his body to ram open a path, then lowered his head, grabbed my collar in his jaws, and tossed me onto his back. Instinctively, I grabbed the fur at his neck, legs clamping his body—
Next second, he bolted.
His speed was incredible. Wind roared past my ears, streets and buildings blurred into streaks flying backward. I heard fans' shouts and running footsteps behind us, but those sounds grew fainter and fainter, finally disappearing into the wind.
He ran for about ten minutes.
When he finally stopped, I found myself in a dense forest. Towering trees surrounded us, branches interlocking, blocking most of the sky. Mist rose from the ground, thick and white, visibility under ten meters.
He shifted back to human form.
That's when I noticed he was wearing nothing—his clothes had torn during the shift. He seemed completely unbothered, but I couldn't pretend I hadn't noticed. I pulled off my jacket and tossed it to him. He caught it, wrapped it around his waist, movements casual like he did this all the time.
"Where are we?" I asked, voice colder than I intended.
He looked around, brow furrowing. "Mist Forest."
"What?"
"Mist Forest." He repeated, tone carrying an uncertainty I rarely heard from him. "A primeval forest on the border between Silverpine Kingdom and Moonhowl Kingdom. Always shrouded in fog. People who go in get lost easily."
I stared at him for three seconds.
"You're saying," I spoke slowly, each word squeezed through my teeth, "you brought me to a famous primeval forest where people get lost?"
"I didn't mean to—"
"You didn't mean to?" I raised my voice. "You're telling me, as a king, you didn't know there was a dangerous forest here, and you're saying you didn't mean to?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it. That expression—a mighty werewolf king standing before me, my jacket around his waist, hair a mess, face carrying the guilt of a kid who'd done something wrong—if the situation weren't so fucked up, I probably would've laughed.
But I didn't laugh.
I took a deep breath, pushing down the rising anger. "Fine. Shift into your wolf, howl for your betas. They'll come find you."
He looked at me.
"Come on," I said impatiently. "Howl. Get your people to pick us up."
He didn't move.
He stood there, looking at me, expression shifting from guilt to something more complex—like shame, like pain, like someone forced to face their greatest deficiency.
"I..." He spoke, voice barely audible. "I can't."
"What?"
He took a deep breath, shifted back into his wolf, then opened his jaws.
I watched him. His chest heaved, veins bulging in his neck, every muscle straining—that effort wasn't faked; it was real, the kind of desperate exertion like trying to squeeze out your lungs.
Then—
Nothing.
Just air leaking from his throat, making a pitiful, barely audible raspy breath. Like a deflating balloon. Like a mute person trying to scream.
I'd been mute for twenty years. I knew what that meant.
My heart lurched.
I looked at him. That massive wolf hung his head, shoulders trembling slightly, like a statue just struck by lightning. The man whose howl had shaken the entire valley at the Howling Ceremony, that alpha whose voice used to sound like war drums—
He'd lost his voice.
"You..." I heard my own voice, softer than I expected. "You can't howl anymore?"
He didn't answer.
Mist swirled around him, blurring his outline. He didn't look like a king, didn't look like an alpha, didn't look like the man who once made my heart race, made me suffer, made me despair.
He looked like something broken.
He shifted back to human form and wrapped my jacket around his waist again.
"Five years." He finally spoke, voice low like he was talking to himself. "Since you left. Since that night. My wolf hasn't made a sound since."
Wind swept through the forest, mist rolling like a white ocean.
I stood across from him, watching him, a complex emotion rising in my chest. Not sympathy. Not heartache. Just a—strange, indescribable feeling. Like watching a once-majestic mountain collapse before you, standing there watching the boulders tumble, dust rising, thinking: so even it can fall.
"So," I said, voice returning to its previous calm. "That's why you came looking for me."
He looked up at me.
"You want me to help restore your voice."
His expression changed in that instant.
"No," he said, voice raspy but firm. "I'm not looking for you because you can restore my voice."
"Then why?"
He looked at me.
Mist flowed between us, moonlight filtering through the leaf gaps, casting shifting shadows on his face. His lips moved like he wanted to say something, but it finally became just a sigh.
"I owe you an explanation." He said. "I owe you so much."
I stared at him for several seconds.
Then I turned around, back to him, and started walking in a direction.
"Where are you going?" He called behind me.
"Finding a way out." I didn't look back. "If you want to stand there being a statue, be my guest. But I'm not spending the night in this damn forest. And I don't want to hear meaningless bullshit."
Footsteps sounded behind me. He followed.
I didn't speed up or slow down. I just kept walking, stepping over wet leaves and moss, pushing through tangled branches and vines. Mist rolled before my eyes, couldn't see the path ahead, but I didn't stop.
Because stopping meant facing him.
And I wasn't ready to face him yet.
At least—not now.