They say the forest still remembers the scream that shattered the sky.
It happened long ago—before the cities, before the clans began to name themselves with pride. When wolves still ruled by blood, and the Moon watched closely from above, offering fated bonds like silver threads between hearts.
In a kingdom veiled behind mountain fog and ancient trees, the Alpha King ruled with strength unmatched. His will was law, his voice thunder. None defied him—not his pack, not his enemies, and certainly not his son.
But the prince, barely twenty, with wild eyes and a heart far too soft for war, did not want the life carved for him. And perhaps that was the beginning of the end.
His name is lost now, buried beneath years of silence. Yet whispers speak of a boy who loved recklessly—not the she-wolf chosen for him by the Moon, not the alliance mate whose mark had glowed faintly on his skin since his first shift.
No.
He loved a witch.
A girl of the wilds, untouched by pack law or tradition. Magic in her breath. Dirt under her nails. She was everything the Alpha King feared—a woman bound by nothing but her own will.
And still, the prince returned to her.
In hidden places, between hunts and council meetings, he would find her. They spoke in half-lies and laughter. Her magic never touched him, and yet she changed everything.
He did not speak of fate when he kissed her.
She did not promise forever when she held him.
But the forest knew.
The Moon knew.
And so, in time, his father came to know.
There are two versions of what happened next.
Some say the King offered his son a choice—leave the witch or be stripped of his title. Others say the prince never got the chance to choose.
That the King watched from the shadows one night, as his son held her in the clearing where the stars looked close enough to touch.
That he saw the love in his heir's eyes, and something in him snapped.
Not rage.
Not shame.
Something colder.
When the prince was dragged back to the castle in chains, the witch was nowhere to be found. Rumors say she was taken, too, but no one could find her after that night—not even her bones.
The King declared that his son had been corrupted. That his mind had been twisted by sorcery.
And before the next full moon rose, the prince was executed by his own father's hand.
A swift blow. A broken neck. The sound echoed across the packlands.
No trial. No mercy.
The kingdom mourned quietly. Out of fear, not grief.
But the Moon?
The Moon mourned with fire.
They say that night, the winds died, and a strange, heavy silence took the world in its grip.
Then a voice, not loud but deep enough to shake stone, whispered through the trees:
"You tore him from me. For your pride. For your laws. For the sacred bond you worship more than love itself. You chose your legacy over his life, and now you will carry that weight in every breath your bloodline dares to draw."
And the curse fell.
A curse without smoke or symbols. A curse of grief and blood and shattered soulbonds.
"May the bond you cherish so deeply become the chain that strangles you. May your sons and daughters find their destined ones and taste only ash on their tongues. May their chests burn with longing, their hearts split with hope, only to find nothing waiting on the other end. May the moon turn away her face, and the stars fall silent in their agony.
Let love rot in your veins. Let your heirs grow up dreaming of laughter they'll never hear, arms they'll never hold, names they'll never speak aloud. Let them live long enough to feel it all—every fleeting flicker of joy, every unbearable ache of loss—until madness is all they have left.
This curse will not kill them. No. That would be a mercy. They will live, haunted by what they'll never have. And every time their hearts cry out for what fate promised and stole, they will remember him. And they will remember me.
This is not vengeance.
This is love, buried beneath centuries of sorrow.
And you will suffer it."
No one knows where the witch went.
Some say she walked into the river and let it take her.
Others say she burned her own name from existence and waits to be reborn when the time is right.
But the curse remains.
And even now, centuries later, wolves tremble when the bond forms too easily.
They speak of eyes meeting across rooms, of sparks and soul ties—and wonder if it is love, or the beginning of ruin.
Because once, long ago, a prince chose the wrong mate.
And the world never forgave the blood that killed him for it.