The journey to the Stormwind Pack's territory was a tense, silent affair. I took a small, elite retinue of my strongest warriors, including Elias. I told the pack council it was a diplomatic mission, a last-ditch effort to form an alliance against the growing threat of the feral rogues. It was a lie. This was no mission of peace. It was a reconnaissance. A prelude to an invasion if necessary. My sole objective was to confirm the scout's report and, if it was true, to see her with my own eyes.
The landscape shifted as we crossed the border. The blighted, dying trees of my land gave way to the vibrant, disgustingly healthy forests of Lucian's. The very air felt different—cleaner, full of life. The sight of it was a knife twisting in my gut. This was what a pack was supposed to feel like. This was the vitality she, my true mate, had taken with her.
Lucian received us in his Great Hall. He sat on his throne of living wood, the picture of a calm, confident Alpha, while I stood before him, a king of a broken land. His sister, Astrid, stood at his side, her hand never straying far from the hilt of her sword, her eyes boring into me with undisguised hatred.
"Alpha Damien," Lucian greeted, his voice a smooth, even tone that grated on my nerves. "This is an unexpected visit. To what do we owe the honor?"
"The feral rogues," I said, my voice clipped and hard. "They are a threat to us all. I have come to discuss a potential alliance."
Lucian's eyebrow arched. "An alliance? Silvermoon has not sought an alliance with Stormwind in a century. Your father would rather have eaten his own paw. Why the sudden change of heart?"
"My father is dead," I bit out. "I am not him. The world is changing, and our old rivalries are a luxury we can no longer afford."
The lie tasted like ash in my mouth. I couldn't care less about the rogues. My eyes were scanning the hall, searching every shadow, every face, for a glimpse of silver hair.
Our initial negotiations were a tedious dance of politics and veiled threats. He was testing me, trying to gauge the extent of my pack's weakness. I was playing for time, waiting for an opportunity. It came when he announced a formal dinner in our honor that evening. A diplomatic courtesy. A chance for his pack to see mine, and for me to see his.
As evening fell, I stood before the mirror in my guest chambers, adjusting the formal tunic I wore. The face that stared back at me was a stranger's. Harsher, colder, the silver eyes haunted by a grief I had only just begun to understand was a lie. I was not a widower. I was a fool.
The feast was a lavish affair, held in a great outdoor pavilion under the light of the twin moons. The Stormwind wolves were celebrating their recent harvest, their faces full of a joy that felt like a personal insult. I took my seat at the high table, across from Lucian, and endured the polite, meaningless chatter, my senses stretched to their breaking point.
And then, I saw her.
She emerged from a path leading from the healer's dens, walking beside Maeve. She was not the timid, frightened girl I remembered. The two years had transformed her. She was more beautiful than my tormented memory could ever do justice to. Her silver hair was braided with wildflowers, and she wore a simple but elegant gown of deep blue that shimmered in the moonlight. She moved with a quiet confidence, a grace that was both innate and earned.
She was laughing at something Maeve said, her head thrown back, and the sound of it, clear and bright, shot across the pavilion and struck me like a physical blow. It was a sound I had thought I would never hear again.
The world went silent. The chatter, the music, the crackling of the fire—it all faded away. There was only her.
Elara.
She was alive.
The force of it, the sheer, impossible reality of it, was a tidal wave that shattered every defense I had. The mask of the cold Alpha, the grief of the mourning mate, the rage of the vengeful king—it all crumbled into dust. All that was left was Damien. A man staring at the other half of his soul, whom he believed he had sent to her death.
Our eyes met across the pavilion.
Her laughter died in her throat. Her face went bone-white. The smile vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated terror, the look of a prey animal that has just spotted the predator that tried to kill it.
And then I saw the boy.
He ran from a group of pups, a small, dark-haired whirlwind of energy, and threw himself at her legs, burying his face in her dress. He couldn't have been more than two years old.
Elara's hand immediately went to his head, a gesture of fierce, maternal protection.
I couldn't breathe. Black hair. My black hair. Silver eyes. Her silver eyes.
My son.
The knowledge was not a thought; it was an absolute, soul-crushing certainty. He was mine. She had been pregnant when she fled. She had carried my child, my heir, and I had known nothing. I had been mourning her, while she was here, building a life, raising my son. With him.
I didn't know I had moved until I was on my feet, my chair crashing backwards onto the stone floor. The entire pavilion fell silent, all eyes turning to me.
I only had eyes for her.
Ignoring the warning growl that rumbled from Lucian's chest, ignoring the hands of my own guards trying to restrain me, I took a step towards her. And another.
"Elara," I breathed, my voice a raw, broken thing I didn't recognize.
Her reaction was not the reunion I had fantasized about in a thousand tortured dreams. There was no recognition, no shared pain. Only a stark, cold wall of hatred and fear. She snatched Kael up into her arms, holding him like a shield, and took a step back, her body placing her firmly behind the protective wall of Alpha Lucian.
The message was clear. She was not mine. The boy was not mine. They belonged to him.
And that was a reality I would not, could not, ever accept.