The Hall of Echoes was no sanctuary; it was a tomb. The air, thick with mistrust, was a physical weight on Connall's shoulders. Before him, the five members of his father's council sat like stone effigies, their faces carved with a decade of loss and suspicion. Their gazes were knives, aimed not at him, but at the woman standing a step behind him.
"A Bloodfang," one elder spat, his voice laced with venom. "You bring a Bloodfang into this sacred place, my prince?"
"Her name is Althea," Connall bit out, his patience already fraying. "She is my fated mate."
A wave of ugly murmurs swept the room. A warrior with a face like a knotted root slammed his fist on the table. This was Lorcan, his old combat trainer, a man whose loyalty had once been as reliable as the sunrise. Now, his eyes were full of betrayal.
"Fated mate?" Lorcan's voice was a low growl of disbelief. "Or a convenient lie? Has the wild addled your mind, boy? She is the daughter of the butcher who feasted on our kin."
Before Althea could speak, a sharp, invisible spike drove through Connall's chest. The bond. It reacted to their hostility, a serpent of agony coiling in his gut. He gritted his teeth, fighting a groan. The pain shattered his control, and his temper flared—a feral fire he couldn't bank.
"She is here because Guntram Volkov hunts her as he hunts me," he snarled, the words sharper than he intended.
Althea stepped forward, her chin high, her voice a cool counterpoint to his heat. "Lorcan. Your grief makes you blind. Guntram murdered my father and framed me for it. Your enemy holds my father's throne."
Her pride, her refusal to be cowed, only hardened their expressions. They saw Bloodfang arrogance, not a potential ally. The pain in Connall's soul intensified, a nauseating throb that echoed Althea's own rigid tension. Her pulse hammered against his senses, a frantic bird against its cage.
"Enough lies!" Lorcan roared, rising to his feet. "We survived ten years without a mad prince and his pet assassin. We will not throw away our lives for your delusion." He turned to the others, his voice ringing with grim authority. "I call for a vote. We cast the she-wolf out. Let the wild claim her. We will see then if our prince's loyalties lie with his blood, or with his enemy."
A grim consensus was forming on their faces. Hope died in Connall's chest. They were about to lose everything before they had even begun. Just as the first elder raised his hand to affirm the vote, the heavy stone doors at the far end of the chamber swung inward with a low groan.
***
All eyes turned. The figure who entered was ancient, her back stooped with the weight of years, her face a roadmap of wrinkles. She leaned heavily on a twisted staff of silver birch, but her eyes were as sharp and clear as a winter sky. The air in the room changed instantly. Lorcan's fury evaporated, replaced by a look of profound, startled reverence. The other council members rose slowly to their feet, their heads bowed in deference.
Connall's breath caught in his throat. *Ceridwen.*
He hadn't seen her since he was a boy. She had been his mother's closest advisor, a keeper of lore and secrets, her wisdom a pillar of their court. He had assumed she was dead, another ghost from the massacre.
Ceridwen ignored the council entirely. Her gaze swept past them, locking onto Connall and Althea. She didn't walk so much as glide across the stone floor, her old bones moving with an unnatural grace. Her focus wasn't on their faces, but on the crackling, invisible space between them. She saw it—the raw, chaotic energy of their bond.
She stopped a few feet away, her expression a strange, unsettling mixture of awe and deep concern. The pain of the bond quieted in her presence, receding from a roaring fire to a dull, nervous thrum.
Ceridwen finally lifted her gaze to the stunned council members. Her voice, though frail with age, rang with an undeniable authority that filled the chamber.
"Fools," she stated, the word a quiet condemnation that cut deeper than Lorcan's roar. "You waste your breath on talk of packs and petty politics." She raised a thin, wrinkled hand, pointing a finger at the shimmering air between Connall and Althea. "Can you not see what stands before you? This is not some common mating. This is the Great Bond, the Fated Union of the Silvermoon line. A power not seen since the Age of Heroes."
Her pronouncement fell into a dead, absolute silence. The debate was over. The question of political risk had just been dwarfed by a matter of earth-shattering destiny.
***
"Leave us," Ceridwen commanded, not looking at the council. Without a word, Lorcan and the others bowed their heads and filed out of the chamber, their earlier hostility replaced by stunned obedience. The heavy doors closed, leaving the three of them alone in the echoing silence.
The moment the doors shut, Ceridwen's authoritative mask crumbled, revealing a grave, profound worry that chilled Connall to the bone.
"The pain is great, is it not?" she asked, her voice now soft and laced with sympathy.
Connall nodded, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach. "It grows worse. We don't understand what it is."
"It is not a gift, little prince. Not yet." Her ancient eyes held a deep sadness. "This is no simple Mating Moon bond. What you share is a volatile, untamed magic, an echo of the power our ancestors once wielded. The agony you feel is the chaos of your bloodlines at war. Silvermoon and Bloodfang. Fire and Ice. The bond is trying to merge what should not be merged, and the power it unleashes is tearing you apart from the inside out."
The words landed like stones in the pit of his stomach. This wasn't just pain. It was a symptom of their own self-destruction. His own dawning horror was mirrored in Althea's wide, haunted eyes. For the first time, the walls between them—pride, mistrust, hatred—vanished, replaced by a single, shared thread of pure terror. Their assassins, the usurper, the fight for a throne—all of it became secondary to the enemy that lived inside them.
"What will happen to us?" Althea whispered, her voice barely audible.
Ceridwen's expression was grim. "If this power is not anchored, not mastered… it will not unite you. It will shatter your minds. It will drive you into a feral madness from which there is no return. And then, it will burn out your very life force, leaving nothing but husks."
Desperation clawed at Connall's throat. "How do we master it? What must we do?"
Ceridwen's gaze was heavy, moving between them with a look of profound pity. "The bond must be stabilized through a deep, physical union. It demands a level of intimacy you are not ready for and a degree of trust you do not possess. And you must achieve it before the next full moon, or it will consume you both."