San Qi watched helplessly from the shadows of his chamber, the flickering torchlight casting long, broken shapes on the stone walls. His body, once trained to command and conquer, now trembled beneath a mountain of silks and sweat. Fever clung to him like a curse. Every breath was a ragged whisper.
Across the room, laughter drifted from behind the thin veil that separated his bedchamber from the adjoining quarters. A laugh he knew well—soft, melodic, once a comfort. His fiancée. And then, deeper, more assured—the voice of his younger brother, San Lang.
Their silhouettes moved behind the curtain. Intimate. Close. Unforgivable.
San Qi clenched his jaw, but the fury rising in his chest wilted against his weakness. The sickness had taken more than his strength; it had stolen his dignity, his place, his future.
He had been the firstborn of the Mystic Wolves Clan—heir to centuries of bloodline power and sacred duty. Now, he was nothing more than a broken relic tucked away in a darkened corner of the palace, forgotten by the very people who once bowed before him.
A soft cry from behind the veil shattered what little resolve he had left. Tears burned in his eyes, not from pain, but from shame.
He turned his face to the wall.
As he listened, another sound twisted the knife deeper—San Lang's voice, laced with cruelty.
"Look at him now," his brother sneered softly, no longer caring if San Qi heard. "The mighty heir, reduced to a ghost under his own roof. And they still call him the Alpha?"
A hushed giggle followed—his fiancée, complicit in the betrayal.
San Qi's fingers curled weakly into the sheets. He remembered a time, not so long ago, when his presence alone could silence a room. Five years ago, he had stood at the peak of his power—swift, commanding, feared by enemies and revered by allies. The blood of the Mystic Wolves had burned brightly in his veins.
Then the decline began. Subtle at first—fatigue, sleepless nights, fleeting aches. He dismissed them as temporary, the cost of leadership. But the weakness grew, spreading like rot beneath his skin. His strength ebbed, his senses dulled, and no healer in the clan could explain it.
By the time he realized it wasn't just sickness but something far more insidious, it was already too late. His brother had risen in his place, whispering promises, smiling lies. And the woman he loved no longer saw him—only the throne he had failed to hold.
A storm of bitterness surged in his chest, but his limbs were too feeble to even shake.
"Five years…" he murmured, his voice barely audible. "And I still don't know why."