The years in Leila’s dreams did not move as slowly as they did in her waking world. By the time she turned fourteen, she had already witnessed countless days and nights of his suffering.

The boy she had first met — thin, bruised, clinging to survival — was changing. His shoulders broadened, his steps grew heavier, his fists harder. The golden fire in his eyes burned hotter with every fight. But the cruelty he endured did not lessen.

One night she found him in a pit, his arms bound behind his back. A crowd stood above, jeering, while another boy was thrown down into the dirt with him. A match. A fight for their entertainment.

The other boy lunged, teeth bared, fists swinging. Levi caught the blow to his jaw, stumbled, then struck back. His movements were raw, desperate, untrained, but the strength in him was frightening.

The fight dragged on until both were bloodied, gasping for breath. The crowd screamed for more. Leila stood at the edge, frantic. “Please, stop this!” she cried, but no one heard.

When Levi faltered, his body sagging under the weight of bruises, she leapt into the pit, though no one could see. She wrapped her arms around him, clinging to his back. Her cheek pressed to his spine, her tears sliding down.

“Don’t give up,” she begged, her voice cracking. “Please, not like this.”

Heat bloomed beneath her touch. The gash on his brow sealed. His broken breath steadied. With a snarl that echoed through the pit, Levi surged forward and slammed his opponent into the dirt. The crowd roared. He did not look up at them. He only staggered to his feet, blood dripping, chest heaving — alive.

And once again, he survived.

Another night she found him tied to a stake in the rain. Soldiers lashed his back, strip after strip of skin torn raw. He did not scream. He only clenched his teeth until blood stained his lips. Leila threw herself against him, her small hands pressed to his wounds, her tears mingling with the rain. The more she sobbed, the faster his flesh knit together, leaving scars instead of mortal gashes.

Another night, he lay in a trench after battle, arrows jutting from his body. His comrades were dead, the field painted with blood. Leila crawled through the mud to reach him, cradling his head in her lap. She brushed damp hair from his eyes, kissing the dirt-streaked skin. “You’re not alone,” she whispered, rocking him as her tears fell. “You’ll never be alone, not while I’m here.”

And every time, he rose again.

Levi was no longer the boy she first found. He was becoming something else — something unbreakable. A weapon sharpened by cruelty, tempered by pain. But through every nightmare, she was there. Her arms around him, her tears on his skin, her warmth in his bones.

Leila no longer asked herself if the dreams were real. She no longer doubted her place in them. She belonged there. She was the shadow that never left him, the secret thread binding his soul to survival.

It was in her fifteenth year that the dream shifted.

This time, she did not find him beaten or chained. She found herself in a vast hall of stone, lit by torches. Hundreds of werewolves stood in ranks, their heads bowed, their fists pressed to their chests in salute. At the far end of the hall, a throne loomed upon a dais.

And there he was.

Levi.

No longer the ragged boy she had cradled, but a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, his presence so fierce it silenced the crowd. His golden eyes swept the hall with a fire that burned through shadow.

He knelt before the throne. A crown was lifted, forged of black metal and gold, gleaming with power.

Leila’s breath caught in her chest as the crown was lowered onto his head.

The hall erupted with howls, hundreds of voices raised in loyalty, in triumph. The sound rattled her bones. Levi rose to his feet, his chin high, his gaze unflinching. No longer the child beaten with stones, no longer the boy in chains. He was Emperor now. Emperor of Werewolves.

Leila stood frozen, her heart hammering. Her eyes burned with tears — not of sorrow, but of awe. She had seen him in every moment of weakness, every humiliation, every wound. She had wept with him, bled with him, healed him. And now she saw what he had become.

Her lips trembled into a smile.

“He’s… he’s my husband,” she whispered into the air.

The words left her before she could think, before she could question. She just knew. She felt it in her bones, in the thread that had tied her soul to his all these years. This was the man she would stand beside. This was the man she had been made to love.

The hall blurred. The torches faded. The howls echoed into silence.

When Leila woke in her chamber, her cheeks were damp, but her lips still curved into that small, trembling smile. For once, she didn’t feel the crushing weight of loneliness pressing down on her chest.

Instead, she felt hope.

It was foolish, perhaps. She was still a princess locked away in a forgotten tower, invisible to the world. He was the Emperor of Werewolves, crowned in glory.

But she had been with him every step of his suffering. She had been the arms that held him, the tears that healed him, the whisper that steadied him. Even if he never knew, even if he never saw, she belonged to him already.

And she believed — with all the fragile courage of a fifteen-year-old girl — that one day he would belong to her too.