My Mate Is The Prince of Hell

The Ashthorne Pack believed twenty-two was the age destiny finally remembered your name. Every wolf found their purpose before then. A mate. A rank. A future. Lyra Ashthorne had none. The first rays of sunlight slipped through the cracked window of her tiny cabin, landing on her face. She blinked awake before the alarm beside her bed could ring. Today was her birthday. Twenty-two. She stared at the wooden ceiling for a long moment before letting out a quiet sigh. “Happy birthday to me.” The words echoed through the empty room. No balloons. No gifts. No family waiting outside her door. Just silence. It had been that way for as long as she could remember. Her parents had died when she was five. No one ever told her how. The elders always changed the subject whenever she asked, and eventually she stopped asking. She learned that some questions only earned you colder stares. Lyra climbed out of bed and tied her long black hair into a loose braid. The cabin was small, barely large enough for a bed, a table, and a tiny stove, but she had made it feel like home. A few potted herbs lined the windowsill. Bundles of dried lavender hung from the ceiling. Healing was the only thing she had ever been good at. A knock sounded on the door. “Lyra!” an elderly voice called. “Are you awake?” She smiled. “I’m coming, Granny Mira.” She opened the door to find the old woman holding a small basket wrapped in cloth. “I made your favorite honey bread.” Lyra laughed softly. “You remembered?” “Of course I remembered.” Granny Mira pinched her cheek. “You’re twenty-two today.” For a brief moment, Lyra forgot how lonely she was. “Thank you.” The old woman hesitated before speaking again. “The Blood Moon Festival begins tonight.” Lyra’s smile faded. Every year, she told herself not to hope. Every year, hope found her anyway. “You still think I’ll find my mate?” she asked quietly. Granny Mira reached up and brushed a strand of hair from Lyra’s face. “The Moon Goddess is never late.” Lyra wished she believed that. Because the truth was… She had never felt like she belonged. Not in the pack. Not among the warriors. Not even among wolves her own age. Whispers followed her wherever she went. “The orphan.” “The strange girl.” “The one with no wolf.” She had heard them all. As Lyra watched Granny Mira disappear down the path, she pressed a hand over her chest. Her wolf was silent. Too silent. It always had been. And somewhere deep inside… A feeling she couldn’t explain whispered that tonight wouldn’t change her life. It would destroy it. Every wolf dreamed of the Blood Moon Festival. It was the one night every year when the Moon Goddess revealed fated mates. Hearts found their missing halves, destinies intertwined, and lonely souls finally discovered where they belonged. For most wolves, it was the happiest night of their lives. For Lyra Ashthorne… It was a night she had learned to fear. Today was her twenty-second birthday. The age every wolf was expected to meet their mate. Yet instead of celebrating, Lyra woke before dawn, slipped into her worn boots, and quietly left her little cabin with a woven basket hanging from her arm. Birthdays had never meant much to her. No family waited to surprise her. No friends gathered to celebrate. No one even remembered. Perhaps that was for the best. Keeping herself busy was easier than drowning in thoughts she couldn’t escape. The morning air was crisp as she made her way into the forest just beyond the Ashfang Pack. Sunlight filtered through the towering trees, painting golden patterns across the ground. Birds sang cheerfully overhead, completely unaware of the storm brewing inside her heart. She knelt beside a patch of moonleaf herbs, carefully cutting each stem with practiced hands before placing them into her basket. A customer from a neighboring pack had ordered medicine for an elderly wolf suffering from a lung disease. Healing was the one thing Lyra excelled at. If she couldn’t make people care about her, she could at least ease their pain. She moved from one plant to another, gathering silver moss, blue sage, and bloodroot, letting the familiar routine quiet her restless mind. For a while… It worked. Until the question she had spent years trying to bury returned. “Will I ever be accepted by anyone?” Her hands froze. She lowered her gaze to the herbs in her basket and let out a quiet sigh. “Will I ever have someone who chooses me?” Every wolf she knew spoke excitedly about tonight’s festival. Some couldn’t stop talking about what their mates would look like. Others had already planned their futures, convinced destiny would smile upon them. Lyra wished she could share their excitement. But hope was dangerous. She had hoped before. Every birthday. Every Blood Moon. And every year, disappointment found her waiting. She had no parents. No siblings. No family name that carried respect. She was simply Lyra—the quiet healer who lived alone on the edge of the pack and blended into the background like she had never existed. Even her wolf felt… different. Silent. As though it were waiting for something that never came. A cool breeze swept through the forest, rustling the leaves above her. Lyra looked toward the sky. By nightfall, the Blood Moon would rise. Everything was supposed to change. Yet deep in her heart, she couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever awaited her wasn’t the happy ending every wolf dreamed of. It was the beginning of something far darker. With her basket now full of freshly gathered herbs, Lyra made her way back to her little cabin on the outskirts of the Ashfang Pack. The forest was alive with excitement as wolves hurried past her, laughing and talking about the Blood Moon Festival. Some were already guessing who their mates would be, while others couldn’t stop smiling at the thought of finally finding the person destined for them. Lyra smiled politely whenever someone greeted her, but the moment they looked away, her smile faded. As she walked, countless thoughts flooded her mind. What if tonight is different? What if the Moon Goddess has finally remembered me? She had waited twenty-two long years for this moment. Twenty-two years of being overlooked, whispered about, and pitied. She had grown used to hearing people call her the orphan, the lonely healer, the girl no one would ever choose. Reaching her cabin, she placed the basket on the wooden table and slowly looked out the window at the sky, where the sun was beginning its descent. Tonight, the Blood Moon would rise. She clasped her hands together and closed her eyes. “Moon Goddess,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “I don’t ask for riches or power. I don’t ask to become the strongest wolf in the pack. All I ask… is to find my mate.” A single tear escaped the corner of her eye. “Please… let someone choose me. Let me have a family of my own. Let me know what it feels like to belong somewhere.” She wiped away the tear before anyone could see it, took a deep breath, and forced herself to prepare for the festival. Deep down, she held onto one fragile hope—that by the end of the night, the mocking would finally stop… and the emptiness in her heart would be replaced by the warmth of a family she had longed for all her life.