The Lycan Mate's Souls

Celeste Point of View Seated within the gentle sway of my carriage, I journeyed toward the estate of my chosen mate after visiting my sisters estate, Aldreda—she who had long endured the sacred vows of a chosen marriage and now guided me through its unseen truths. As the wheels murmured against the frostbitten road, I kept my gaze lowered upon the pages of my most cherished book. It was no ordinary tome, but one I had painstakingly drawn by hand, for my skill with written words faltered where my heart still longed to speak. With a soft breath, I brushed a stray curl of fiery red from my cheek, its warmth a contrast to the pale, vanilla hue of my skin. A chill wind slipped through the carriage window, grazing my face as snow blanketed the world beyond in silent white. Clad in my royal Victorian gown of deep emerald, I found my thoughts drifting—troubled by the shadows that lingered too near our path. Creatures of the wild crept along the edges of our journey, bold despite the presence of my two uncles—Lycans of formidable strength—who ran alongside the carriage as guardians through the forest’s breath. Drawing in a steady breath, I forced the unease from my mind and returned to my tale. Yet, I could not help but wonder… why did so many souls dismiss such stories? This simple tale of two lovers, bound by fate and devotion—why was it so easily forgotten? For I had never known such love. No man had ever claimed my heart, nor had I shared a life beside one as the stories so often whispered. I had my father, and I had men sworn to protect me… yet none stirred within me the longing those pages promised. As I neared the end of my chapter, a soft yawn broke the stillness. My little sister, Beatrice, shifted beside me, her pink boot brushing against my own green boots. “Reading that book again?” she murmured, her voice laced with gentle irritation. “Has Father not told you that tales do not define the truth of a man’s heart?” Her words carried the weight of our father’s teachings—the King of the North himself. King George of the Werewolves I offered her a polite smile, for she held her beliefs as firmly as he did. And who was I to deny the will of a king… or the blood that bound us? We were daughters of two sacred lineages—descendants of the Moon herself. Selene My grandmother. The divine force who, through dream and destiny, had gifted me that which I must guard beyond the span of my mortal breath. The Tear Crystal of Souls. Each of my elder sisters had received their sacred gift upon the month of their union, and now… it was my turn. Mine had come to me not by hand, but through a vision woven in slumber. Soon, I too would depart. Soon, I too would be wed. Through the ancient Oak Tree. For it is said that those who wield magic draw their strength from the darkened woods—that no soul dares wander near those cursed groves, nor approach the great oaks that stand like silent sentinels… …unless they seek death itself. And then there was our mother— Queen Meredith of the Lycanthropes. The last living grandchild of the ancient Lycans, her blood carrying the final echo of their dominion. Through her, I had been granted a blessing few were destined to receive. For my great-grandfather, in his wisdom—or perhaps his cruelty—had chosen not to gift all of his descendants with a Lycan companion upon the sacred age of our first shift. Yet I had been chosen. And she was mine. Her name was simple… yet carried a beauty that no courtly title could rival. Flower. As our carriage pressed onward toward the ancient Oak, she lay curled in peaceful slumber beside us, her breath slow and steady. I knew, without question, that Beatrice cherished her just as deeply as I did. Yet the moment would not pass without answer. My sister’s question lingered still, waiting to be met—or to return later as sharpened criticism, as it so often did. I closed my book gently, pressing my fingers against its worn edges as though it were something sacred. “It is in all honesty,” I began softly, my voice touched with quiet conviction, “that these pages spare me from the despair of wondering what a man might be.” My gaze lowered briefly before rising once more. “Though our father speaks with a truth as cold and unyielding as steel… I find solace in stories. And I have grown… quite fond of the man who dwells within these pages.” Beatrice’s eyes rolled with familiar impatience, though it only coaxed a small, knowing smile from my lips. At last, she leaned forward, curiosity betraying her disapproval. “And what is the name of this perfect man you cling to so dearly?” I marked my place within the book, setting it aside as my thoughts began to drift into the images I so often drew from memory and imagination alike. A soft smile touched my lips. “Mario,” I answered, the name falling from my tongue like a quiet secret. “A name born of the South… much like my betrothed.” For a fleeting moment, I allowed myself the comfort of the thought. “It eases my heart to believe that perhaps the men of the South are not forged of ice and stone… as those our sisters were forced to endure before fate, at last, showed them mercy.” Beatrice’s lips pressed into a small pout, her gaze drifting away from me and toward the frost-laced window. Beyond it, the snowfall had begun once more—soft, endless, and silent. “Mario sounds… imagined,” Beatrice scoffed, her tone laced with quiet disdain. “A name too light to bear meaning. Tell me, then—what does he say that has ensnared your thoughts so deeply?” Her words reached me as my hand completed the final stroke of his likeness—the man I had come to cherish within ink and silence. For a moment, I did not answer. The desire to defend him faded gently, for I knew the truth of it. She did not seek to understand. She merely found fault in the small joys I allowed myself. Daydreaming was not a luxury my sisters ever embraced. Yet for me… it had been a sanctuary. All my life. As the fourth daughter of the royal house of the North—the House of Gothel—I was not afforded the freedom of idle longing. I was a piece upon a greater board, placed with purpose, moved for power. My role was not my own. Our father’s will loomed over us all—a quiet, relentless force. He sought not merely to rule… but to end the age of monarchs entirely. One by one, the bloodlines of royalty were being unraveled beneath his hand. And I— I was the final thread. My marriage would seal it. With that union, he would claim the last dominion needed to bring all crowns to ruin. Closing my sketchbook, I lifted my gaze to Beatrice, meeting her impatience with a calm that surprised even me. “He is a man of words,” I began, my voice softer now, yet filled with something deeper than simple affection. “A man of actions, with the courage to place his beloved’s desires above all else… even above the weight of her past.” I paused, my fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the book. “He would lead her away from the cruelty of her people… from the tragedies woven into her family’s name… and offer her peace in a world that asks nothing of her in return.” My breath stilled for a moment. “Mario does not seek to possess her… only to love her. To grant her a life so gentle, so unwavering in its devotion, that it stirs within me a longing I have never known.” My gaze drifted briefly, distant. “To one day bear a child… who would love his mate with such tenderness.” The words lingered in the air between us. Beatrice arched a brow, her expression caught between disbelief and something quieter—something she would never name. And I— I could not help but laugh softly. A sound light and fleeting. Just as the carriage lurched to a sudden halt. “It seems we shall soon meet the one you are to be bound to,” Beatrice spoke, her voice carrying a sharp certainty that unsettled my heart. “And I shall at last return to claim my rightful place when our father’s time comes to its end. Tell me—have you all that is required?” Her question lingered between us, but my answer did not come as swiftly as she might have wished. For though my body remained within that carriage, my spirit trembled elsewhere. I wished to go… and yet, I feared it. I feared the leaving. I feared the change. I feared the unknown man to whom I would soon belong. My thoughts wandered, as they often did, to my eldest sister. Aldreda. She had been given in marriage to King Bennu—a union forged not from love, but from necessity. She bore him three sons, heirs to his name and throne… yet he treated her not as a queen, but as something far lesser. As though she were bound in chains unseen. It was only through the quiet fury of her Lycan that balance was ever restored—her companion forcing his wolf into submission when cruelty grew too bold. Yet fate, as it so often does, had not left her untouched. A year past, amidst the ruin of war—a war her chosen husband had waged in his greed for dominion—she found what had always been destined for her. Her true mate. And in a moment that would echo through kingdoms, she chose him. She allowed defeat to claim her crown, only to rise again… not as Bennu’s queen, but as something far more powerful. Beloved. Daniel, Prince of the Lycanthropes of the Eastern Lands—her fated one. The truth of their bond had been revealed by the Grand Wizard himself, named Brandon, keeper of ancient laws, who was tasked to witness Daniel’s rightful claim. It was he who accused Bennu of dark transgressions—for no king bearing a wolf had reason to call upon black magic. In our world, the mingling of creatures was not forbidden… but it was feared. Rare. Unnatural in the eyes of many. Yet there existed one law that none dared break. To slay one’s own companion. If I, blessed with a Lycan at my side, were to destroy her in pursuit of another power—be it that of a witch or any darker force— I would not be seen as noble. Nor desperate. But as a traitor. An abomination. Condemned to death for the murder of an innocent soul… …and the betrayal of my own blood. Daniel, however, had once been promised elsewhere. Long before the war between Bennu and Daniel had ever begun, he had been bound in marriage to my second sister. Johanne. By some mercy of fate, no children had come of their union—no life forged within a bond that had never truly belonged to them. When the tides of war and truth began to shift, Johanne departed from that life, leaving behind crown and title alike. She sought refuge beside the Grand Wizard Brandon, a man who served no one, only strength in the laws of the witches and wizards, but also teach the fragile realm of humans who lived without magic, in the lands of the West. Yet destiny is never still. Brandon returned, not as a wanderer… but as a servant once more—to his king. Alexander. The very king who had taken my third sister, Eda, as his queen. But no crown had ever shielded her. For years, she endured his cruelty in silence, her suffering hidden behind gilded walls. No children were born of their union—only pain, festering in the quiet spaces of her existence. Until at last… that silence was broken. In a moment of unbridled fury, the Grand Wizard Brandon struck down King Alexander, ending his reign with a single, irreversible act. And in that same breath of fate, Johanne discovered the truth of her own heart. She was mated. Not to a king… nor to a prince. But to James— The enslaved lover once bound to Alexander himself. A truth as dangerous as it was undeniable. Such was the weight of our family’s stories. A burden we carried not in open lament, but in silence. We endured it together, bound not only by blood, but by the unspoken vow to protect one another from the world—and perhaps, from ourselves. Johanne remains at Eda’s side, offering her what comfort she could in the wake of ruin. And when I came to learn of all that had passed… it broke something within me. To leave them behind was a sorrow I had not been prepared to bear. Just as it had wounded me deeply to learn of what Bennu had done to Aldreda during my travels. Yet to Beatrice… It only strengthened her resolve. She did not wish to be wed. Not now. Not ever. But I— I did not have that choice. She would once my marriage was consumed. Freeing her from the same fate’s we carried. I drew in a quiet breath, steadying the storm within my chest. I would set these thoughts aside. I would carry them in silence, as my sisters had before me. And I would step forward into the path laid before me… trusting, or perhaps merely hoping, that fate—cruel as it had been—still held within it a fragment of kindness meant for me. That somewhere, beyond duty and fear… There awaited a happiness I had yet to know. “I have no choice now Beatrice, I have come with what I have, and learn to live in the life that awaits me.” She didn’t speak, she remained silent but I saw how she felt the sting of my words. Once I was wed, Beatrice would return to our parents’ estate, where she would remain until the day destiny called her to rise. Not as a Queen. But as a Luna. For such was the future bestowed upon her—our gift, our legacy, and the path she was born to walk. My sisters before me had each been entrusted with gifts—powers unlike any known within our realm. Aldreda bore the Earrings of Time, relics as ancient as the first breath of magic itself. Once each year, they granted her dominion over time… bending its flow to her will alone, if only for a fleeting moment. Johanne was gifted with the power of Fate. With each passing month, she could reach into the unseen threads that bound all souls and twist them—reshaping destiny itself according to her desire. Eda held the Book of Spells, a sacred tome that defied the oldest of laws. Through it, she alone possessed the right to wield both her wolf and her magic in harmony… without the need to sacrifice her companion, as others would be forced to do. And then— There was me. The Tear Crystal. A gift unlike the others… for it did not simply grant power. It entrusted me with judgment. Within my keeping lay the ability to seek wandering souls and offer them what none other could— A second life. Through the union of beast, soul, and magic, I could guide them into rebirth… restoring what had once been lost to time, to sorrow, or to death itself. It held within it the echoes of all that my sisters could do—time, fate, and magic intertwined— Yet it stood apart. For it required no command. No certainty. No permission. It acted with a will of its own… And it never knew failure. Together, Beatrice and I gathered our belongings in quiet understanding, the stillness between us heavier than words could ever carry. The soft rustle of fabric and the closing of cases felt… final. Then came the knock. Firm. Measured. Uncle Leonard. “It is time, Princesses,” he called from beyond the carriage door, his voice steady, yet touched with something gentler beneath its strength. “Your mother has joined us. She awaits to see you depart.” At once, Beatrice’s expression softened into a smile—bright, knowing. She had always found comfort in certainty. And she knew. Our mother would be waiting. One last time. Before the moment of our leaving became something no hand could undo. As I stepped from the carriage, the frost beneath my boots whispered softly, and there—waiting as though she had never moved from that place—stood our mother. Her smile bloomed the moment her gaze found us. Beatrice, ever fearless, leapt forward without hesitation, throwing herself into our mother’s arms with a joy I envied. As I followed more slowly, I could not help but overhear their exchange. “You must behave, my little warrior,” our mother murmured, her voice both gentle and firm as she held her close. “For Celeste must see her duty fulfilled… and only then may you return to me.” A low growl rumbled from Beatrice’s chest, defiant even in affection, causing our mother to tighten her embrace just enough to draw from her a desperate reply. “I shall, Mother—I shall!” A soft laugh escaped her, warm yet fleeting, as she released Beatrice and allowed her to step aside. Then it was my turn. I moved into her arms, and the moment she held me, the world seemed to still. Gone was the queen who ruled beside our father. In her place… was only my mother. And in her embrace, she spoke—not with strength, but with a fragility I had never known from her before. “Write to me,” she whispered, her voice trembling against my ear. “Have your sister send word… have anyone carry it, I care not how—but send me letters of your days.” Her hold tightened, as though she feared I might slip from her grasp that very moment. “I cannot bear more pain where my daughters are concerned,” she continued, her voice breaking in a way that struck deep within my chest. “I resent your father for what he has set upon us… for what he asks of you all.” Her plea settled into my heart like a quiet wound. And in that instant, I would have given her anything she asked of me. For I knew this was not how it had been for my sisters. They had not been escorted away from home. They had not been parted so… carefully. So painfully. This was different. This was mine. “My dearest Mother,” I murmured softly, though my voice held a steadiness I forced upon it, “I shall write, I promise you.” I drew a slow breath before continuing. “But harbor no bitterness toward Father. He does not act from cruelty… only from his desire to bring peace, as we all do.” Even as the words left me, I felt the weight of them. Gently, I pulled back from her embrace— And there, within her eyes, I saw it. Pain. Unhidden. Unyielding. Tears that spoke far louder than any crown she bore. “We shall not allow our words to wither into sorrow, Mother,” I whispered gently, my voice steady despite the ache within me. “Trust… and have faith in all that is yet good.” She drew in a slow, heavy breath, her chest rising beneath the weight of all she could not say. I knew she understood my heart—that I spoke not to dismiss her pain, but to soothe it with what little light I could offer. And yet… Before another word could pass between us, the air itself seemed to shift. A sound rose—low, haunting, and ancient. My uncles. Their howls broke through the stillness, echoing across the frost-laden woods like a call from another realm. It was not the cry of beasts… but something older, something bound to the very roots of magic itself. Then— My mother joined them. Her voice lifted into the same sacred call, her howl weaving with theirs until the sound became one—a chorus that trembled through the earth beneath our feet. For this was no mere ritual. This was a summons. For none may pass through the Oaks of Magic without the blessing of the one who guards them. The Fairy Warden of the ancient tree. The wind stilled. The snow seemed to hang suspended in the air, as though time itself bowed to the call. I felt it then— A presence. Watching. Waiting. My mother stood firm, her gaze fixed upon the towering oak that loomed ahead, its branches stretching wide like the arms of an eternal sentinel. With her call, she beckoned the guardian forth… seeking permission for our passage. For beyond that sacred threshold lay the Southern Isles— And the man I was destined to wed.