The morning sun crept weakly through the narrow window, but Leila did not rise with it. She lay curled on the bed, her arms still around her stomach, shivering though the air was warm. The dream had branded itself into her skin, refusing to fade.

She forced herself upright hours later. The stone floor was cold against her bare feet. Her body moved slowly, as though every step risked reopening wounds that had never been cut. She padded to the basin, poured water from the pitcher, and washed her face. The icy splash grounded her, but only just.

The kitchen was silent when she entered. Yesterday’s pot sat in the hearth, the scent of soup faint but clinging. She tidied it away, her movements mechanical. From the basket of fruit she chose an apple, biting into it though it tasted of ash.

She remembered mornings when her nanny had brushed her hair by the window, scolding her for squirming. The memory burned. She picked up the comb herself, tugging it through her tangled hair until her scalp stung. No gentle hands, no warm humming. Just her.

By evening she drifted to the rooftop again. The city below glowed with life — voices rising, wolves howling, music weaving through the night air. She sat cross-legged, her arms wrapped tight around herself, watching a world that had no place for her. The stars seemed colder tonight.

When the air grew sharp, she descended back to her chamber. The sheets felt like stone when she slipped beneath them. Her breath shuddered as she closed her eyes. Fear clenched her chest.

Still, sleep claimed her.

The pain began before she could even see.

Her body was on fire, sweat slicking her skin, her hair plastered to her temples. She was on the floor, her back pressed against the bedframe, her legs trembling with the effort to push. Blood spread beneath her, soaking the stone. Her screams clawed at her throat, echoing through the endless halls.

No one came.

Her hands gripped her belly, nails biting into skin. Another contraction tore through her. She sobbed, choking, her cries mixing with the cries of the child forcing its way into the world.

At last, with one final scream that shattered into silence, the weight left her. A small, fragile body slipped into her arms.

The baby wailed — loud, desperate, alive.

Leila’s chest heaved as she clutched it to her breast. She could barely see through the blur of tears. The child’s tiny fists flailed, its cry echoing against the ceiling until it was the only sound in existence.

She rocked it, whispering nonsense words, her lips trembling against its skin. “Shh… shh, my love. Mama’s here. Mama’s here.”

But her voice broke with every syllable.

The castle remained silent. The grand halls and endless chambers had no witness to the miracle, no hand to steady her, no voice to say she was strong, she was not alone.

Just her. Just her and the infant she could hardly hold upright, her body torn and bleeding.

The despair wrapped around her tighter than the pain. She buried her face against the newborn’s damp cheek, sobbing into its fragile skin.

“I can’t do this alone.”

The dream did not answer.

Leila woke with a strangled gasp. Her body arched forward, her hands gripping the sheets as though she were still on the stone floor, still bleeding, still holding a child. Her nightdress clung to her in damp patches.

Her arms wrapped around her chest, rocking. The phantom cry of the infant still rang in her ears, relentless. She pressed her forehead to her knees, trembling.

It had only been a dream. And yet it wasn’t. Every bone in her body told her it wasn’t.

She dragged herself from bed and stumbled to the basin. Water sloshed over her hands as she splashed it onto her face again and again until her skin burned from the cold. She stared into the rippling water, her own reflection fractured.

What cruel fate made her dream such things?

Far away, the King of Werewolves sat restless in his chamber.

The hour was deep, long past midnight, yet Levi could not sleep. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, his golden eyes lit faintly by the dying fire.

His wolf paced inside him, unsettled.

Every time he closed his eyes, he felt it — a presence, faint and fleeting, slipping through his veins like smoke. Not sight, not sound, but warmth. Something pressed against him, only to vanish. Something that had always been his, yet always out of reach.

Mate.

The word rose from the wolf again, low and unrelenting.

Levi’s jaw tightened. He rubbed his face with his hands, dragging them down to his mouth. “Where?” he whispered into the silence. “Who?”

No answer came.

The emptiness clawed at him. For all his power, for all his reign, he felt like a man missing half his soul.

He stood abruptly, pacing the length of the chamber. His bare feet pressed against cold stone. The fire snapped weakly, throwing shadows across the walls.

His wolf growled, restless, circling inside him like a storm waiting to break. Levi clenched his fists, fighting the unease gnawing at his chest.

Something — someone — was out there. And he had no name for it.

The silence of the chamber weighed on him like chains.