Zarek's POV
It had been three days.
Three agonizing, restless, maddening days… and she still hadn't woken.
Zarek sat beside the grand bed — the only sound in the chamber the steady crackle of the hearth fire and the faint, fragile rhythm of her breathing.
Each exhale barely stronger than the last.
The moon-thread garments wrapped around her petite frame shimmered softly beneath the candlelight, embroidered with ancient runes of protection — yet they felt laughably useless when her body remained so still.
His hand hovered near her wrist, watching the faint, inconsistent flutter of her pulse beneath porcelain skin.
Too fragile…
Too mortal.
A defect.
The word grated against his mind — mortal — the way the Elders whispered it like a curse, like filth. Beings born powerless, destined for early graves, discarded by the fates before their lives ever truly began.
Mortals didn't survive into adulthood. Many perished within days of birth. Some made it to toddlerhood before their bodies collapsed — brittle, hollow shells nature couldn't sustain.
And yet — here she was.
A grown female. Breathing. Warm, though far too weak. Alive, against every law their world obeyed.
Zarek's silver eyes darkened as he leaned forward, fingers brushing the soft curls of her wild brown hair off her flushed cheek. Her skin remained warm with fever, a faint sheen of sweat glistening along her temple.
He clenched his jaw.
Three days… and still unconscious.
Still no witch.
His Beta, Nira, had scoured every hidden vale, every ancient den of forbidden knowledge — but Arien, the only witch capable of deciphering this, remained elusive.
Zarek's patience unraveled more with each passing hour.
The massive chamber reeked of protective wards and old magic. Royal physicians had come and gone — their confusion poorly concealed behind professionalism.
They didn't speak the word aloud, but he saw it in their eyes.
Mortal.
Defect.
An impossibility breathing beneath Nyxvalen's roof.
But not just any impossibility — his mate.
His wolf prowled beneath his skin, agitated and restless, teeth bared at fate itself for tangling him in this twisted puzzle.
The heavy doors creaked open.
Zarek didn't look up, his gaze anchored to the faint rise and fall of her chest — but the familiar footsteps drew closer, the soft clinking of royal garments trailing behind.
"Zarek…" His mother's voice, softer now, tempered with worry.
Queen Selya stopped beside him, violet eyes heavy with emotion as they fell upon the unconscious girl.
"She still hasn't woken?"
Zarek's shoulders tensed. "No."
His father, King Daemon, entered next — broad, stern, his presence commanding as ever. Yet even his expression faltered as his gaze swept across the fragile figure wrapped in silk.
"Have the physicians said anything?" Daemon asked, voice low.
"They don't understand her," Zarek replied, the roughness in his voice betraying his fraying control. "They've never seen anything like this."
Selya's hand settled on her son's shoulder, a rare gesture of maternal comfort. "You're sure she's…?"
"Mine." His voice left no room for debate.
The mating mark hummed beneath his skin — dormant, but undeniable. His wolf recognized her on a level beyond comprehension, tethered by a bond ancient and unyielding.
But the language barrier… the impossibility of her existence… the sickness weighing down her small frame — it twisted inside him like a blade.
Daemon exhaled heavily. "The Elders will demand answers."
"They won't see her," Zarek growled, silver eyes flashing.
"You can't hide a mate forever—"
"She isn't ready." His voice cracked, low and protective, fists clenched at his sides. "She's barely breathing… I won't parade her like a curiosity for their amusement."
The Queen nodded, sympathy softening her features. "You've done the right thing… but we can't delay the truth forever."
Zarek's jaw tightened, his eyes never leaving the girl.
Her lashes trembled faintly — not quite waking, but flickering along the edge of consciousness.
His pulse quickened.
But she stilled once more, lost in fevered dreams or whatever storm raged inside her mortal body.
"Find the witch," Zarek muttered, frustration simmering beneath the words. "Before the Elders discover this… or she—"
His voice fractured, unable to finish the thought.
Daemon squeezed his shoulder — rare, silent solidarity.
"We will," his father vowed.
The chamber dimmed as they left, leaving Zarek alone once more with the impossible female fate had cursed him with.
Hours passed. The fire crackled low, moonlight streaking across marble floors, the castle beyond buzzing with whispers.
Mortal.
Defect.
Yet his.
He reached for her hand again, large, calloused fingers tracing the delicate curve of her wrist.
Her pulse weak… but fighting.
Against reason.
Against fate.
Against everything.
And Zarek vowed, then and there — no defect, no sickness, no ancient law would steal her from him.
Not while he still breathed.