Mate To The Feral King

Chapter 3- Sanctuary of Thorns

The rogues give up after an hour.

I know because I count every second, pressed against the library door with my heart hammering so hard I'm certain it'll burst through my ribs. The scratching at the palace walls gradually fades. The howls grow distant, then disappear entirely into the mist-shrouded forest.

Silence settles like a held breath.

I don't move. Can't move. My legs have turned to water, and the adrenaline that kept me running is draining away, leaving only exhaustion and the shakes.

"They're gone."

I nearly jump out of my skin. Ash stands at the window, human still, miraculously wrapped in what looks like an old curtain he's torn from somewhere. It covers him from waist to knee, preserving some modesty. Blood still streaks his arms and chest, and he's favoring his left side badly, but he's upright. Alert.

"For how long?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

"Until they regroup. Report back to whoever sent them." He turns from the window, and those gold eyes assess me with uncomfortable intensity. "You're hurt."

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding."

I look down. He's right, my arms are covered in scratches from the thorns and branches, and there's a gash on my calf I don't remember getting. Nothing serious, but enough that I'm dripping on the ancient carpet.

"It's nothing," I say.

"It's an infection risk." He moves toward me, and I instinctively step back. He stops immediately, something flickering across his face. Hurt? "I won't harm you, Mira."

"I know. I just…" I don't know how to explain it.

"You were a wolf an hour ago. Now you're a man. My brain is having trouble reconciling"

"I understand." His voice softens. "Sit. Let me see the wounds."

It's not a request, exactly, but not quite a command either. I find myself sinking into the massive chair by the cold fireplace, his chair, I realize, the leather worn in the shape of his body. He kneels beside me with a grace that seems impossible for someone his size, and I'm suddenly, acutely aware that he's barely dressed and very, very close.

"This will sting," he warns, producing a small bottle from somewhere. "Old whiskey. Found it in the kitchen stores. Not ideal for wound care, but better than nothing."

"You raided your own kitchen while being attacked?"

The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "The rogues were focused on you. I had time." He pours the amber liquid on a relatively clean cloth. "Besides, I know this palace. Every hidden passage, every shortcut.

They're intruders here. I'm home."

The word home carries such weight, such loneliness, that something in my chest aches.

He presses the cloth to the gash on my calf, and I hiss through my teeth. He's right, it stings like hellfire.

"Sorry," he murmurs, but he doesn't stop, cleaning each wound with clinical efficiency.

His hands are large, scarred, but surprisingly gentle. "You ran well. Most humans would have frozen or gotten lost in the mist."

"I had help." I glance at the corner where Kael and the small pack have curled up, watching us with intelligent amber eyes. "The grey wolf – Kael, you called him? He led me here."

Ash's expression darkens. "He was my Beta.

My best friend. We grew up together, trained together, ruled together." His hands still on my arm. "Seraphina cursed him three days before she died or before I thought she died.

Trapped him in wolf form permanently. I didn't understand why at the time. Now..." He trails off, jaw clenching.

"Now you think she was eliminating anyone who might interfere with her plans," I finish quietly.

His eyes snap to mine, sharp and assessing. "You read my journals."

It's not a question. Heat creeps up my neck anyway. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have, but they were right there, and I needed to understand"

"What you're dealing with. Who I was." He sits back on his heels, studying me. "It's alright.

They're just paper and ink now. The man who wrote them..." He looks away. "He's been gone a long time."

"Has he?" I lean forward despite myself.

"Because you're sitting here, human, tending my wounds and speaking in full sentences. That seems pretty human to me."

"For now." His voice turns bitter. "In an hour, maybe less, I'll lose control. The beast will take over again, and I'll be lucky if I remember this conversation. That's been my existence for fifteen years, moments of clarity drowning in an ocean of madness."

"Then we use the moments." I don't know where the words come from, but they feel right. "However many we get. We use them."

He stares at me like I've said something profound instead of obvious. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you care?" He gestures at himself, at the ruined palace, at everything. "You were sent here to die. You should be trying to escape, not... this." His hand waves vaguely between us. "Not trying to help me."

I consider lying. Consider saying something noble about all lives having value or some other pretty sentiment. But something about those gold eyes demands honesty.

"Because I've spent twenty-two years being the strange one," I say quietly. "The foundling no one wanted. The girl who was too clever, too odd, too other to truly belong anywhere.

And then I walk into your territory expecting death, and instead I find..." I struggle for words. "Someone who understands what it's like to be trapped. To be something you didn't choose, something everyone fears."

His expression shifts, something raw and vulnerable crossing his features. "You're not afraid of me."

"Oh, I'm terrified of you," I correct. "But I'm more interested than afraid. There's a difference."

For a long moment, we just look at each other.

The moonlight streaming through the cracked dome above paints everything silver and shadow. His gold eyes catch the light like coins, ancient and precious.

Then his body shudders violently.

"No," he grits out, bracing himself against the chair. "Not yet. Not…"

But I can see it happening. His bones rippling beneath skin, hair beginning to sprout along his arms, his face elongating. The shift is trying to reclaim him.

"Ash," I say sharply. He looks at me, and I do the only thing I can think of. I grab his hand, his very human hand and hold tight. "Stay with me. Just a bit longer."

"Can't," he growls, and his voice is already roughening, losing its human quality. "Too hard. Too much"

"Then tell me something," I interrupt desperately. "About before. About who you were. Give me something to remember when you're..." I can't finish that sentence.

He struggles visibly, muscles trembling with effort. When he speaks, the words come slow and broken, like he's pulling them from deep water: "I loved... poetry. Late at night... reading by fire. Philosophy. History. All the ways... humans and wolves... tried to understand... the world."

"What was your favorite?" I squeeze his hand tighter, as if I can anchor him to humanity through sheer will.

"Byron," he manages. "'She walks in beauty, like the night... of cloudless climes and starry skies...'" His voice cracks. "Used to read it... to Seraphina. She hated it. Said poetry... was weakness."

The shift recedes slightly. Not much, but enough that his face returns almost fully to human.

"It's not weakness," I say firmly. "Poetry is how we make sense of things too big for plain words. Love. Loss. Everything that matters."

His eyes focus on me with sudden intensity.

"Read to me. From your book. The one you brought."

I'd forgotten I was still clutching it, my slim volume of Old World poetry, somehow still intact after everything. With my free hand, I open it to a random page and begin reading:

"'I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light...'"

Ash's breathing slows. The tension in his muscles eases. His hand, still gripping mine, loosens slightly but doesn't let go.

I keep reading, poem after poem, my voice steady in the silent library. The small pack in the corner lifts their heads, listening. Even Kael seems transfixed, his amber eyes fixed on my face.

Somewhere during the third poem, Ash closes his eyes. The shift stops trying to claim him.

And though his body still trembles occasionally with the effort of maintaining human form, he stays.

He stays.

When I finish the last poem on the page, silence settles again. But it's different now. Comfortable, almost.

"Thank you," Ash says quietly, eyes still closed. "That's the longest I've held human form in... I don't remember. Years, maybe."

"The poetry helps?"

"You help." He opens his eyes, and there's something in them that makes my breath catch. "Your voice. Your presence. Something about you quiets the chaos in my head. I don't understand it, but…" He stops abruptly, frowning. "Your scent. It's stronger now that we're close. You smell like..." His brow furrows. "Like old magic. Like Silverblood, but not wolf. Something else. Something I can't identify."

My hand moves automatically to my pendant. "I don't know what that means."

"Neither do I." He finally releases my hand, and I'm surprised by how much I miss the contact. "But someone does. Those rogues weren't random. They were too organized, too focused. Someone sent them specifically to this territory, and I'd wager they were looking for you."

Ice floods my veins. "That's impossible. No one knows I'm here except…."

"Except everyone involved in the tribute." He pulls himself to his feet with visible effort. "The king who ordered it. The magistrate who ran the lottery. Elder Torvald and the Border Pack who delivered you." His expression hardens.

"Someone in that chain wanted you here. The question is why."

"To tame you," I say, but it sounds weak even to my own ears. "Torvald said…"

"Torvald said what he was told to say." Ash moves to the window again, scanning the darkness. "But think about it. They've been sending tributes for years. Seven at a time, twice a year. None lasted more than minutes.

Then you arrive, and suddenly I can shift back? Suddenly I have moments of clarity?"

He looks back at me. "That's not coincidence.

That's design."

My mind races, trying to make sense of it. "So someone knew I would affect you this way? But how? I didn't even know I was anything other than human until a few hours ago."

"Maybe you were never supposed to know."

He turns fully to face me. "Maybe that was the point. Hide you away in the Archives, raise you as human, keep you ignorant of whatever you really are. Then, when the time was right, send you here."

"To do what? Why would anyone want you sane again?"

His smile is sharp and humorless. "Because a feral wolf king is a problem. But a sane wolf king who owes his restoration to a specific person? That's a weapon. One that can be controlled."

The implications make my head spin. "You think someone's trying to manipulate you through me."

"I think someone's playing a game we don't understand yet." He crosses his arms, and I notice him swaying slightly. The effort of staying human is taking its toll. "But until we know who and why, we assume everyone is a potential enemy."

"Even Torvald?"

"Especially Torvald. He's Border Pack, his loyalty is to maintaining the balance between territories. If someone convinced him that using you to restore me serves that balance..." He shrugs. "He'd do it without hesitation."

A howl cuts through the night, distant but clear. Ash's entire body goes rigid.

"They're back," he says quietly. "Circling the perimeter, testing the defenses."

"Will the roses hold?"

"For tonight. Maybe tomorrow." He doesn't look at me. "But if they keep coming, if they're determined enough..." He doesn't need to finish.

I stand on shaking legs, moving to join him at the window. Below, I can see shapes moving through the mist – wolves, dozens of them, more than before. Red eyes gleam in the darkness.

"Why do they want in so badly?" I whisper. "If they're after me, why not just wait us out? We can't stay here forever."

"Because they're not just after you." Ash's voice is grim. "Look at how they're positioned.

They're not trying to breach the palace.

They're surrounding it. Trapping us inside."

His jaw clenches. "Someone wants us contained. Wants to know exactly where we are."

"For what?"

He finally looks at me, and what I see in his eyes makes my blood run cold. "For whatever comes next."

As if summoned by his words, a new sound rises above the howls. Footsteps. Heavy, measured, coming up the spiral staircase toward the library.

Ash shifts instantly, placing himself between me and the door. His body begins to ripple, the shift trying to take him again, but he fights it with visible effort.

"Stay behind me," he orders.

The footsteps stop just outside the library doors.

Then a voice…. rough, familiar: "It's me. Lower your hackles, Ash."

Elder Torvald pushes through the doors, alone this time, his weathered face grave. He takes in the scene, Ash barely dressed and barely human, me pressed against the window with terror and confusion warring on my face.

"We need to talk," Torvald says quietly. "All of us. Because what's happening here is bigger than any of us realized." His amber eyes find mine. "And it starts with answering one simple question: Mira Thorne, do you know who your parents were?"

The room spins. My hand clutches the pendant so hard the metal digs into my palm.

"No," I whisper. "I was found on the Archives' steps. No note. No explanation. Just this." I pull the pendant free, and even in the dim light, it gleams silver.

Torvald's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. Recognition? Fear?

"That's what I was afraid of," he says. "Because I've seen that crest before.

Twenty-two years ago, when I helped someone hide a newborn infant from a very dangerous woman." His gaze holds mine.

"And if I'm right about who you are, then we're all in more danger than I thought."

"Who?" Ash demands, his voice roughening as the shift tries again to claim him. "Who is she?"

Torvald looks between us, and I see the weight of secrets in his eyes. Secrets he's carried for decades.

"I can't tell you," he says finally. "Not yet. Not until I'm certain. But if the rogues are already here, if someone's already moved against you..." He moves to the window, looking out at the besieging wolves. "Then they know too. And they're not here to kill you, Mira."

"Then what do they want?"

He turns back, and his expression is bleak.

"To take you. Before you figure out what you are and what you can do." His eyes shift to Ash. "Because if my suspicions are correct, she's not just your salvation, Ash Blackthorn."

"Then what?" Ash's voice is barely human now, his control slipping.

"She's the key to everything." Torvald heads for the door, then pauses. "The rogues will retreat at dawn, they always do. Use that time. Talk to her. Help her understand what's at stake. Because in three days, the Council meets to decide whether to exterminate you or give you a chance at redemption." He looks at me. "And the only way you both survive is if you figure out who's really pulling the strings before they do."

He's gone before I can ask what he means.

Ash sways, and I move instinctively to support him. His skin burns with fever or whatever the shifter equivalent is. The partial shift ripples across his features, and I know he can't hold human form much longer.

"Ash," I say urgently. "What did he mean? What am I the key to?"

He looks at me, and his eyes are already more wolf than man. When he speaks, his voice is a growl shaped into words: "Don't know. But tomorrow... we find out. Tonight..."

He pulls away from me, heading for the door.

"Tonight I run. Have to. Can't... stay human.

Can't be near you... when I lose control."

"Wait…."

But he's already shifting, bones cracking and reforming, his body flowing into the massive black wolf. He pauses at the doorway, looking back with those burning gold eyes. Then he's gone, racing down the stairs and out into the night.

Leaving me alone in the library with more questions than answers and the certainty that nothing about m

y life has been what I thought.

I sink into the chair, my poetry book clutched in trembling hands, and stare at the pendant that might hold all the answers.

Outside, the howls resume. But now they sound different.

Not like hunting calls.

Like a warning.