Chapter 135

Chapter 135: Chapter 135

The Palace City rose from the plains like a crown of gold and ivory, its towers gleaming in the late afternoon sun. The walls were draped in crimson banners, and the gates were crowded with travelers from every corner of the realm. Merchants hawked their wares from colorful stalls. Musicians played in the streets. Children chased each other through the crowds, laughing and shouting. The festival was still a week away, but the city was already alive with celebration.

Nyra stood at the edge of the forest, her hood pulled low over her face, her silver hair hidden beneath a dark scarf. The others gathered around her Corvin at her side, Ragnar and Finn behind her, Marek and Jasper and Maureen and Roderic and Darian and Valeria. They had traveled for days, avoiding patrols and sleeping in ditches, and now they were finally here.

"It’s beautiful," Maureen breathed.

"It’s dangerous," Darian corrected. "Every guard in the realm will be watching the gates. We need to be careful."

"We’ll enter in small groups," Nyra said. "Different gates, different times. We’ll meet at the safe house—a tavern called the Silver Stag, near the old market district. Roderic knows the way."

Roderic nodded. "I’ll guide the first group. Ragnar, you take the second. Darian, the third."

"And me?" Nyra asked.

"You’ll go with Corvin. The two of you are the most recognizable. We’ll wait until dark, when the crowds are thickest."

Nyra nodded slowly. She looked toward the city again—toward the palace that rose at its center, its towers gleaming gold in the dying light. Soren was in there. Somewhere behind those walls, the man she loved was alive.

You don’t know that, Luna said softly. He might come to us. The bond—

The bond is still there. I can feel it. But it’s different now. Stretched. Uncertain. Something has changed in him.

Then we’ll change it back. We’ll make him see us.

Nyra took a deep breath. "Let’s move."

The palace was a hive of activity as the final preparations for the festival began.

Soren walked through the corridors with Freya at his side, his golden eyes taking in the servants rushing past, the guards standing at attention, the banners being hung from every rafter. The palace had been transformed since his return the somber mood of the past month replaced by a frantic, almost desperate joy.

"Everyone’s so happy," Freya observed. "It’s like the whole city is holding its breath, waiting for the festival."

"They’re not happy," Soren said quietly. "They’re hopeful. There’s a difference."

"Is there?"

"Hope is what people cling to when they’re afraid. And the realm is afraid, Freya. They’re afraid of the Moonblood heir. They’re afraid of Varek. They’re afraid of the war that’s coming." He paused. "They’re looking for something to believe in. Someone to lead them."

"And that someone is you."

"So it would seem."

Freya slipped her hand into his. "Then give them hope, brother. That’s what you’re good at."

Soren almost smiled. "Since when did you become so wise?"

"I’ve always been wise. You just never listened."

They walked in comfortable silence, making their way toward the royal gardens. The evening air was cool and fragrant with the scent of night-blooming flowers. Servants were lighting lanterns along the pathways, their golden glow reflecting off the polished stone.

And then Soren saw her.

She was standing near the fountain, her back to him, her silver hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of moonlight. Her gown was pale gold, shimmering in the lantern light. She turned, and for one heart-stopping moment, Soren saw—

Silver hair. Moonlight eyes. A voice calling him "my wolf."

The fragments surged to the surface, crashing against the walls of his memory. He staggered, his hand flying to his head. The pain was sudden and blinding—a spike of agony that made his vision blur and his knees buckle.

"Soren?" Freya’s voice was sharp with alarm. "Soren, what’s wrong?"

He blinked, forcing his eyes to focus. The woman by the fountain was walking toward him now, and as she drew closer, the illusion shattered.

Her hair was silver. Yes. But her eyes were amber, not moonlight. Her face was familiar, but not in the way the fragments suggested. She was beautiful, elegant, composed.

"Selene," he breathed.

She stopped before him, her amber eyes searching his face. "Soren. I came as soon as I heard. I had to see you."

"Selene." He straightened, the pain in his head receding to a dull ache. "You’re... you’re here."

"Of course I’m here. You’re my betrothed. I’ve been grieving you for weeks." Her voice cracked slightly. "I thought I’d lost you."

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. Soren stood rigid for a moment, his body tense, his mind still reeling from the false memory. Then, slowly, he returned the embrace.

"I’m sorry," he said quietly. "I’m still... adjusting."

Selene pulled back, her amber eyes glistening. "They told me about the poison. About the memory loss. They said you might not remember everything."

"Did they tell you what I can’t remember?"

She hesitated. "Some of it."

"Then you know about the fragments. The woman with silver hair." He looked at her hair—the way it caught the lantern light. "For a moment, when I saw you standing there, I thought you were her."

Something flickered in Selene’s eyes—hurt, anger, jealousy, all warring for dominance. But she mastered it quickly, her expression smoothing into something more controlled.

"I don’t know her" she said quietly. "But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m the one you have always loved."

Freya watched the exchange with wary eyes, her hand still gripping her brother’s arm. "We should get inside," she said. "Soren needs to rest."

"Of course." Selene fell into step beside them. "We have so much to discuss. The festival. The announcement. Our future."

Soren didn’t answer. He was still thinking about the woman by the fountain—the silver hair, the moonlight eyes, the voice that called him "my wolf." Selene had silver hair now, but she hadn’t before. Had she changed it to look like someone else? Or was he imagining things? Or is she the one he is looking for, she’s my bethroded. I think I will just ask her, she should be able to give me an answer.

The hole in his chest ached with renewed intensity.

Who is she? he thought. Who is the woman I can’t remember?

And why did Selene’s transformation look real?

Has she always looked like that and I have forgotten?

The Silver Stag was a modest tavern tucked into a narrow alley in the old market district. Its windows were grimy, its sign faded, but the ale was cheap and the patrons minded their own business. It was the perfect place for fugitives to hide.

Nyra and Corvin arrived after dark, slipping through the back entrance with their hoods pulled low. The others were already there—Ragnar and Finn at a corner table, Marek and Jasper near the window, Maureen and Roderic at the bar, Darian and Valeria in a shadowed booth. They had all made it.

Nyra slid into the booth beside Darian. "Any news?"

"The city is crawling with Varek’s soldiers," Darian said grimly. "He’s been here for a week already, positioning himself for the festival. He’s meeting with the other pack leaders, spreading lies about you, building alliances."

"And the prince?"

"He’s been seen in the palace gardens. Walking with his sister. He looks... different. Changed." Darian paused. "The official story is that the poison nearly killed him, but he’s recovering. No one knows about anything else except the royal family."

Nyra’s heart ached. "I need to see him. I need to find a way to talk to him."

"That’s not going to be easy. The palace is locked down. No one gets in without an invitation."

"Then we get an invitation," Corvin said. "The festival has events open to the public. Ceremonies. Performances. If we can get close to the royal procession—"

"It’s too dangerous," Ragnar cut in. "Nyra’s face is known. Even with the hood and the scarf, someone might recognize her."

"Then I won’t go as Nyra." She looked around the table. "I need to see him, Ragnar. I need to talk to him. If there’s any chance—" Her voice broke. "If there’s any chance at all, I have to take it."

The group exchanged glances. Finally, Ragnar nodded. "We’ll find a way. But we do it carefully. No reckless moves."

"Agreed," Nyra said. "Now let’s figure out how."

In the Shadowwood, Morgath completed the final preparations for the ritual.

The altar was ready. The runes were carved. The blood of the Moonblood heir—collected from the battlefield at the mill—was stored in a crystal vial, pulsing with faint silver light.

"The ritual will be performed at the festival," she told Varek. "Under the full moon, when the veil between worlds is thinnest. I will strip the princess of her power, and then I will kill her."

Varek smiled coldly. "And the prince? The Lycan heir?"

"He is weakened. His memories are fractured. He won’t be able to protect her." Morgath’s dark eyes glittered. "And if he tries—well, I have ways of dealing with Lycans too."

"Good." Varek rose from his chair. "The festival begins in a week. The realm will gather to celebrate the prince’s miraculous return. And by the time it’s over, the Moonblood heir will be dead, the throne will be mine, and no one will be able to stop me."

They stood together in the dark chamber, the candlelight flickering across their faces. Two monsters, united in their hatred of the girl with silver hair.

"One week," Morgath said. "One week, and the Moonblood line will be no more."