Varric frowned when he saw one of his confidants hurrying toward him through the moonlit garden path. The man's boots crunched softly against the gravel, the sound oddly loud in the stillness of midnight.
A faint mist clung to the hedges, curling low around their ankles as the man drew close. Soon, he stood before Varric, his chest rising and falling from the brisk walk, and quickly expressed the purpose of his visit.
"Prime Minister, it is midnight already. I think we should leave now," he said in a hushed tone, casting a quick glance toward the shadows as if wary of unseen listeners.
Varric gave a short nod, the motion sharp, and began to turn on his heel only to stop dead when he noticed Lucian was nowhere in sight. The space where the young alpha had been standing was empty, swallowed by darkness.
A slow, knowing smirk curved Varric's lips. "Young blood," he murmured under his breath, the words laced with equal parts amusement and intrigue.
He shifted his gaze back to his confidant, prepared to move on, but froze when he caught the furrow etched deep into the man's brow. His eyes narrowed slightly. "What happened, Garran? Why do you look like something is bothering you?" Varric asked, his voice steady but probing.
Garran was not just another subordinate, he was the keeper of Varric's secrets, his shadow in the political arena, the man who had stood at his side through countless schemes. If Garran's mind was troubled, it wasn't without reason.
The man exhaled slowly, glancing past Varric's shoulder toward the darkness before answering. "Prime Minister, what if Alpha Lucian tells all this to King Zevryn? How can you trust him so much?" His tone carried both concern and caution, as though speaking the thought aloud might invite danger.
Varric's response came with a low chuckle, his golden eyes glinting. The sound was calm, almost indulgent, as if Garran's fear amused him more than it worried him. "Garran, this is something you don't have to trouble yourself over," he said, straightening his posture with quiet authority. "I chose Lucian for this because I know him enough to know he won't tell this to Zevryn."
His confidence was unwavering, carved into every syllable, and it made Garran's shoulders ease, if only slightly.
"And even if," Varric continued, his voice dropping into a cool, deliberate cadence, "he did decide to tell Zevryn… do you think Zevryn will believe him above me? He has no proof of any of this." His words hung in the air like a blade, sharp and certain.
Garran gave a single, respectful nod, the lines of worry on his face smoothing into reluctant acceptance.
Meanwhile…
Lucian stepped out of the garden, the crisp night air filling his lungs. But something felt… wrong. Or rather, too right.
A strange sensation coiled deep inside him, ancient and primal, threading through his veins like wildfire. His heartbeat quickened, not from fear, but from an instinct he could neither name nor deny.
It was as if an invisible force had hooked into him, pulling him forward with irresistible strength. Every nerve in his body sharpened to its peak, his hearing catching the faint rustle of leaves, his sense of smell sifting through the mingled scents of earth, moonlight, and something far more intoxicating.
He knew this feeling. He had heard of it whispered around fires, passed down through generations. The sacred pull. The call of one's mate.
But why… why was it leading him toward the dining hall? Away from where Rosaline was supposed to be?
Confusion lanced through his thoughts. Rosaline had no reason to be anywhere near that part of the packhouse at this hour. And yet, the pull was relentless, each step dragging him closer, each breath heavy with anticipation he couldn't explain.
His boots echoed faintly against the marble floors as he reached outside the backdoor of dining hall.
The force inside him surged, stronger, hungrier until it was all he could do not to break into a run. His pulse thundered in his ears as he turned a final corner.
And then… he saw her.
He could feel his wolf surging under his skin, a wild, relentless force clawing to get closer to her, touch her, hold her, claim her.
Every beat of his heart pounded with that instinctive need. But the sharpest edge of confusion cut through the haze when his mind registered the truth.
It wasn't Rosaline.
The air in his lungs thickened. That meant… Rosaline had lied. She wasn't his mate, had never been and all this time she'd been playing a role, draping herself in a bond that was never hers to begin with.
His gaze locked on the girl ahead of him, her back turned, her shoulders tense the moment he'd stepped into the clearing.
The moonlight painted a pale outline along her figure, a soft silver halo that only made the pull inside him ache harder.
He couldn't see her face. Didn't matter. He needed to. He needed to feel her skin under his hands, needed to drink in her scent until it drowned out every thought except her.
The urgency was too much. Lucian's body moved before his mind could catch up. In a blur of motion, he closed the distance, his boots crunching against the gravel before his hands caught her.
In one swift, almost desperate motion, he pinned her against the rough bark of a nearby tree, the impact making her gasp.
Her scent hit him full force, warm, intoxicating, and unlike anything he'd ever breathed in before. It curled through him like smoke, wrapping around his senses, making the world outside of her vanish.
Without even giving himself time to see her face, Lucian leaned in until there was no space left between them, his breath brushing the shell of her ear.
His hands found her waist, fingers flexing as if to anchor himself to the reality that she was here, real, and his. The heat of her body seeped into him, grounding and inflaming all at once.
Through the haze, the word came out low, almost a growl.
"Mate."
He felt it, how she froze in his arms. A stillness that wasn't from fear, but from shock. That was when the urge to see her became unbearable. He had to know who had the power to make his wolf bend, to make his blood burn like this.
Lucian pulled back just enough for their eyes to meet. And when they did… the ground might as well have fallen out from under him.
"Elara."
Her name tasted strange on his tongue.
Elara stared at him, the world narrowing to the man standing before her. The man she had grown up believing despised her, who made his disdain so clear that even her name seemed to sour in his mouth.
If someone had told fourteen-year-old Elara that Lucian would one day be revealed as her mate, she would have burst with joy. Back then, the mere thought of him had been enough to make her heart trip over itself.
And even now—gods help her—some fragile part of her was lighting up inside, thrilled at the truth of it. Finally. Finally, she'd found him.
But reality came with teeth. And the hate in Lucian's eyes over the years had been sharp enough to cut deeper than any bond could mend.
She could feel the pull, the undeniable connection the Moon Goddess had woven between them, but deep down she knew, his hate might just be stronger than the bond they shared.