The Citadel was quiet when Ryan left.
He told no one of his destination, not even his brothers. Only the council and the guard captains knew he was gone — and even then, only by the scent that faded slowly from the stone corridors. His absence left a strange echo in the air, as though the palace itself exhaled for the first time in months.
For Isabella, the silence was both freedom and ache.
She could feel him even when he was far away. The bond pulsed softly beneath her skin — not as painful as before, but constant, like a heartbeat that didn't belong to her. Every time she tried to ignore it, it drew her back, whispering that he was still out there. That somewhere in the wilds, the Alpha King dreamed of her blood and hated himself for it.
But she refused to be defined by his absence.
The Gates of Lycanthra
When the guards finally loosened their vigilance, Isabella took her first steps beyond the Citadel walls.
Calen walked beside her — as always — his armor polished, his eyes scanning every shadow. "If the Alpha returns to find you wandering, he'll have my head," he murmured.
"Then walk faster," Isabella replied. "So we're back before he notices."
They crossed the marble bridge that overlooked the sprawling valley of Lycanthra. From here, the city stretched wide and untamed — its streets alive with wolves in human and beast form, its towers silver-edged beneath the moon. She could smell the smoke of forges, hear the rhythmic pounding of steel, and feel the heartbeat of a kingdom that was both savage and ordered.
At last, they reached the first gate.
The Gate of the Servants stood as it always had — tall, ironbound, and scarred by centuries of labor. Beyond it, life moved with tireless rhythm. Wolves carried sacks of grain, women scrubbed stones clean with silver sand, children darted between stalls like moonlit shadows. The scent of bread, fire, and fur mingled with something more human — the pulse of survival.
Here, Isabella was not seen as a queen. She was simply another face beneath the light.
She helped an old she-wolf gather fallen baskets, ignored the startled whispers, and even laughed when a small pup stared at her fangs in awe.
"Do you always smile at danger?" Calen asked dryly.
"Only when it's charming," she replied.
The Gate of the Fortunate
They reached the second gate by dusk.
Here, the air smelled of iron and oil, and warriors trained beneath banners marked by claw and moon. The Gate of the Fortunate opened into courtyards ringed by blackstone towers — homes of nobles, favored fighters, and the chosen of the Alpha King.
Wolves sparred in pairs, their movements fast and precise. Isabella watched with quiet admiration, her eyes tracing the flow of strength and grace in each motion.
When one of the fighters — a scarred soldier named Thane — noticed her gaze, he grinned, wiping blood from his lip.
"Care to test your luck, Your Majesty?" he called, twirling his dagger.
Calen groaned. "Don't encourage him."
Isabella raised a brow. "I doubt you'd survive it."
Laughter rippled through the courtyard. Thane bowed mockingly. "Then perhaps another day, Princess."
But it wasn't mockery in his eyes. It was respect.
She was winning them — slowly, quietly — the wolves of Lycanthra.
Lyra of the Ashen Wing
The next morning, Isabella returned to the Citadel and found herself drawn once more to the northern wing — to the Library of Silver Ash, where the air always smelled faintly of smoke and moonlit parchment.
This time, she was not alone.
A young woman sat at one of the long tables, her golden-brown hair pulled into a messy braid, ink staining her fingers. When she saw Isabella, she nearly dropped her quill.
"Your Majesty! I didn't expect— I mean— no one told me—"
"Breathe," Isabella said softly, amused. "You are?"
"Lyra," she said quickly. "Apprentice to the scholars. I was told to catalogue the older texts from the upper shelves. The ones nobody reads anymore."
"Then you're the most important person in this room," Isabella said.
Lyra flushed crimson. "I doubt that, Your Majesty."
"Perhaps not yet," Isabella replied.
Her gaze drifted toward the far wall — where, on a marble pedestal, rested a single ancient tome bound in cracked leather and sealed with both vampire and wolf runes.
The Book of the Eclipse Pact.
She had seen it once before, on the day she first stepped into this library. She hadn't dared open it then. But now, something in her chest pulled her closer.
Lyra noticed. "You know of it?"
"I've met its silence," Isabella murmured. "Perhaps it's time I meet its words."
Lyra hesitated. "It's… said to be cursed, My Queen. Written by a witch long before either species drew their first borders. Her name was Seraphine of the Ashen Wing — the last High Seer before the Lunar Wars."
"Cursed," Isabella repeated softly. "Or protected."
Lyra's curiosity overcame her fear. She helped lift the book onto the table. As they turned its pages, ancient ink shimmered faintly like silver dust. The script was strange — half prophecy, half poetry.
And there, in a passage worn thin by time, Isabella read:
"When blood and moon are bound by war and love alike, one shall heal the other — and one shall burn. Yet only together shall they unmake the darkness."
Lyra frowned. "It sounds like a riddle."
"No," Isabella said quietly. "It sounds like a warning."
The Wolf's Distance
Far beyond the walls of Lycanthra, deep in the northern wilds, Ryan hunted.
He thought distance would quiet the pull — the ache that came with her scent, the fever that lived beneath his skin. But no matter how far he ran, he could still feel her through the bond.
Her laughter. Her warmth. Her strength.
And that, more than the bond itself, was what terrified him.
You're running again, his wolf mocked, a low growl rumbling through his mind.She's your mate, Ryan. You can deny it all you want, but you'll come crawling back.
"Silence."
Oh, I'm only saying what you already feel, the beast chuckled. Every time she breathes, you want to taste her. Every time she defies you, you want to break her — or maybe let her break you.
Ryan's hands tightened around his blade. "She's a vampire."
And you're a fool, his wolf replied. We are bound to her. You think bloodlines matter to fate?
He drove his sword into the trunk of a tree, chest heaving. The wolf laughed again, echoing through his head.
Keep running, Alpha. But when she calls — and she will — you'll return.
Ryan closed his eyes, and for the briefest second, he saw her face. Pale. Determined. Luminous beneath the moonlight.
The pull tightened — that invisible tether between them thrumming like a heartbeat shared.
And he knew, deep down, that the wolf was right.
He would return.
Whether he wanted to or not.