Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Zane
The Howling Ceremony was set for the full moon, and the entire Moonhowl Kingdom was electric.
I stood at the highest tower of the castle, looking down at the square packed with people—at least three times more than any previous year.
Some had traveled three days from border towns, some brought their newly-of-age children, some even came all the way from neighboring kingdoms. They held torches, faces lit with that mix of anticipation and nervous excitement, like they were waiting for a miracle.
And me? I stood in the shadows, palms slick with sweat.
My wolf paced restlessly inside. It knew what tonight meant.
For the first time in five years, we had a chance to become a true Alpha again.
But at the same time, it was afraid—afraid of failing, afraid of humiliating ourselves in front of everyone again, afraid of seeing disappointment in her eyes.
Speaking of her—
Mia stood on the temporary stage in the center of the square, wearing a silvery-white gown. Moonlight bathed her, making her look like a goddess descended from the moon itself. Lily sat nearby with Aila, waving a bouquet of flowers in her little hands, her face flushed with excitement.
Ethan stood at the wing of the stage, arms crossed, his expression as complex as an abstract painting. He clearly didn't trust leaving Mia here alone, but couldn't find a reason to stop her.
"Your Majesty." Edmund's voice came from behind. "It's time."
I took a deep breath and turned to descend the tower.
The torches in the square danced in the night wind, stretching every shadow long. I walked through the crowd toward the Ancestor Stone—that massive rock carved with generations of Alpha claw marks. With each step, I felt those gazes pierce my back like needles.
Anticipation. Doubt. Fear. Hope.
Every emotion hung thick in the air like honey.
I reached the stone, turned, and faced them all.
The moonlight was bright—bright enough to see every face. Young ones, old ones, anxious ones, hopeful ones. They'd waited five years. Five years without a Howling Ceremony, five years without new fated mates, five years stumbling in the dark, not knowing where their other half might be.
And all of it was because of me.
"Tonight," I began, my voice echoing across the silent square, "we will restart the Howling Ceremony."
A low cheer erupted from the crowd.
"But—" I raised my hand for silence. "I cannot lead you."
The square went silent. Not ordinary silence, but the kind where everyone holds their breath, hearts suspended mid-air.
"My voice," I paused, throat tightening, "five years ago, I lost it. I cannot howl."
Whispers rippled through the crowd. Some sobbed quietly, some clenched their fists, some watched their hope shatter into disappointment.
"However—" I raised my voice. "The Moon Goddess has not abandoned us."
I turned toward the stage and extended my hand to Mia.
She looked at me, something helpless flickering in those eyes, but she walked forward and stood beside me.
Moonlight poured over her, coating her in a silver-white halo.
"This is Vela," I said, my voice carrying on the night wind. "Her voice will replace my howl and guide you to your fated mates."
The crowd went silent for a beat.
Then—deafening cheers erupted.
Mia ignored the cheers. She just stood there, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. The night wind lifted strands of her hair, her dress swaying gently.
Then she opened her mouth.
That voice—
I don't know how to describe it. It wasn't ordinary singing.
It was something that surged from the depths of the soul, like moonlight crystallized into liquid, flowing from her throat, piercing the night sky, piercing my eardrums, striking directly at some place in my chest I'd thought was long dead.
My wolf surged to its feet inside me.
Not that restless churning, but something else—reverence. It pricked its ears, tail rigid, as if listening to some sacred call.
The song had no lyrics. Just a series of long, undulating syllables, like an ancient spell, like the whisper of wind, like the moon itself speaking. But that voice contained some primal power that vibrated through the air, making everyone hold their breath.
Then the miracle happened.
The werewolves in the square began to shift.
Not forced, ceremonial shifts, but natural, instinctive responses.
The sound of bones breaking and reforming echoed everywhere, fur gleaming in various colors under the moonlight.
Within seconds, the square was filled with wolves—gray, brown, black, white, all sizes.
They raised their heads toward the moon and began to howl.
That sound—
My eyes burned.
Five years. Five years since I'd heard this. Those howls wove together—high-pitched, deep, long, short—like a primal, earth-shaking symphony that shook the entire valley, pierced the clouds, reached straight to the moon.
And Mia's voice, like a silver thread, wove through that tapestry of howls, binding them together, guiding them, keeping them from scattering.
I saw a young wolf and a girl in the crowd stop howling at the same moment and lock eyes. That look—like the whole world disappeared, leaving only each other. They walked toward one another, paws touching, releasing low whimpers.
Fated mates.
They'd found each other.
Then a second pair. A third. A fourth.
The entire square became one massive, living, breathing miracle. Moonlight spilled across the ground, silver-white brilliance spreading like water, drowning everyone.
And me—
I stood beside the Ancestor Stone, watching it all, feeling my heart ready to burst from my chest.
My wolf growled inside, struggling, wanting to join that chorus of howls. I opened my mouth, tried to make a sound—
Nothing.
My throat remained that familiar emptiness, like a dried-up well.
My wolf released a mournful whine and curled up.
But it didn't matter.
Tonight's star wasn't me. It was her.
Mia's song lasted the entire night.
When dawn's first light appeared on the horizon, her voice finally lowered, dissolving into a long sigh that vanished in the morning breeze.
The square fell silent.
Then—applause and cheers erupted like a tsunami.
People surged toward the stage, wanting to touch her, to thank her, to kiss the hem of her dress. My guards had to form a human wall around her to keep the frenzied crowd from swallowing her whole.
She stood on the stage, breathing slightly hard, face somewhat pale, but her eyes shone like two stars in the morning light.
I looked at her, feeling something churn in my chest.
Pride. Regret. Love. Pain. All of it mixed together into an emotion that made my throat tight.
She'd done it.
She'd done what I couldn't.
After the ceremony ended, I found her in the garden.
She sat on a stone bench by the fountain, holding a cup of water, watching koi swim in the pool. Lily chased a butterfly nearby, her laughter echoing in the morning light.
I stopped a few steps away, unsure if I should approach.
"You can come over," she said without turning around. "I won't bite."
I walked over and sat on the bench beside her. About a foot of space between us—a safety buffer she'd deliberately left.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"My throat's a bit hoarse," she said, taking a sip of water. "But I'm fine."
"You—" I paused. "You were incredible. I—"
"Don't say sappy things," she interrupted, tone as flat as if she were slicing bread. "I just did what needed to be done."
"But you did what I couldn't."
She finally turned to look at me. Those eyes held no pride, no smugness, only a calm, assessing gaze.
"That's because you lost your voice," she said. "And I found mine."
The words drove into my chest like a knife.
She was right. She'd found her voice. And me—I'd lost mine with my own hands.
"Mia—" I began, voice hoarse.
"The ceremony was successful," she interrupted, standing up. "My job's done. I'm leaving tomorrow."
My heart lurched.
"Leaving?"
She brushed fallen leaves from her dress. "Lily still has school. I have a tour to prepare for. Things here are finished."
"But—"
"No buts," she looked at me, eyes calm as stagnant water. "We had a deal. I help you restore the Howling Ceremony, then we're even."
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
She was right. That was our agreement. I'd promised. I'd promised with my own mouth.
But I—
Damn it. I couldn't do it.
"If," I began, voice so hoarse I barely recognized it, "if you leave, the Howling Ceremony can't continue."
Her brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"My voice hasn't recovered," I said, every word scraped from my throat. "Your song only temporarily replaced mine. If you leave—"
"Then that's not my problem."
"Mia—"
"Zane," she turned to face me, and finally some emotion flickered in those eyes—not anger, not resentment, but a tired, weary tone, like explaining the same thing to a child who won't listen for the hundredth time.
"I'm not your solution. I'm not your tool.
I'm not a substitute to fill what you lost."
"I know—"
"You don't know," she interrupted. "If you knew, you wouldn't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm your last lifeline."
I froze.
She was right. That's exactly how I was looking at her. Because—she was my last lifeline. Without her, I was nothing. An Alpha who couldn't howl, a king who couldn't lead his people, a man who couldn't even keep his own fated mate.
"Stay," I said, voice so low it was almost begging. "Not for me. For them."
I gestured toward beyond the garden—where people still celebrated. Young werewolves held hands, smiling at each other in the sunlight, eyes sparkling with happiness. They'd found their fated mates because of her voice.
"They need you," I said. "This kingdom needs you."
She watched the celebrating crowd for a long time in silence.
Then she sighed.
"One month," she said. "I'll stay one more month. Help you find a permanent solution. Then I'm leaving."
My heart jumped. "Really?"