"THE LYCAN KING'S SCENTLESS MATE"

LOUISE SAGE POV --- I came to Sage Estate to hide. Three weeks ago, my own board looked me in the eye in London and tried to erase my name from Sage Dynamics. My Father's company. My inheritance. They called me too emotional, too young, too female to lead an empire worth half of Edinburgh. So they exiled me here. Near Fort William. Behind high stone walls where our family has hidden for generations. The ancient forest behind the estate has been calling me for days. I told myself it was stress. Hallucination. Grief. Until today. Today the silence inside this massive, empty house is louder than any boardroom screaming. I need to breathe. So I hiked. "Miss Sage, the old ruins near Sgurr na Ciche are not for tourists," Sage Estate's head groundskeeper warned yesterday, his eyes narrowing at my polished boots and sleek watch. "The weather shifts in minutes. It is dangerous. Do not wander too far from the marked path." I laughed then. At 24, sole heir to Sage Dynamics, I did not believe in old warnings or superstitions tied to stones and mist. Now the wind is trying to tear the breath from my lungs. Rain slashes sideways, stinging my face. Hair clings wet to my cheeks. My phone is dead — no map, no signal. I am lost in the Scottish Highlands in late October, alone, wearing a coat that costs more than his house and is completely useless. And then I see it. Through rain and fog, a round stone arch. Smooth. Perfect. Frost covers everything around it. But the arch is warm. Stone does not hold heat like this. Stone does not hum with a low, thrumming vibration that travels up my arm and settles deep in my chest. Mist rolls in faster than should be possible, thick and blinding white. Within the fog, flecks of light swirl like stardust. Aether. The word rises in my mind unbidden, foreign and strange. I reach out, my neatly manicured fingers brushing the warm stone. The arch pushes me. One moment I stand on Highland soil, hand pressed to ancient stone, and the next the structure pulses with blinding light and shoves me forward. I stumble through the archway and land hard on my hands and knees in deep snow. My cream wool coat is dusted white. My black leggings are soaked through. My boots are scuffed and icy. My scarf hangs loose. I brush snow away and stand up, shivering hard. "All right. That is strange," I whisper, my voice trembling. The arch stands behind me, but here its stone is jet black, scored deep with fresh, jagged claw marks. The warm, glowing light within its frame fades fast, shrinking to a tiny spark then winking out entirely. The air turns deadly cold. I turn and walk. This forest feels wrong. Trunks are black, leaves shimmering silver. No markers, no birds, no sound. An hour later, I realize I have circled the same twisted root three times. I am walking in circles. My feet ache. My knees feel numb. I sink onto a flat boulder and sip the last of my water. The sky darkens fast, shifting from grey to bruised purple. Night is coming, and I remain lost. A twig snaps close by. "Hello? Is anyone there?" I stand quickly, scanning the shadowed trees. Panic rises in my throat. Silence. "Hello!" I call louder, my voice cracking. "Please, I am lost. I need help." No reply. Cold fear crawls up my spine, sharp and icy. Three large wolves step out from behind the trees. They are massive, their grey fur tipped with gleaming silver, standing as tall as my chest. Their eyes reflect light like amber glass. "Wolves?" I shake my head in disbelief. "Three wolves. Ninety kilos each. No collars. No fear. Statistically impossible — not within miles of Fort William." One wolf lets out a short, sharp bark. The other two begin to circle me, moving closer with slow, deliberate steps, heads lowered. Terror takes over. I forget my sore feet and freezing limbs. I turn and run, my cream coat flapping behind me. "Stay back! Get away from me!" My boot catches on a snow-covered root. I fall hard, knees scraping raw. Blood seeps warm through my leggings as the wolves close in, cutting off every escape. I curl tight, cover my head, and scream. "Help! Someone please help me!" A shadow falls over me. A man clad in armor made of black fur steps forward, his face set in hard lines, a thin pale scar cutting across the left side of his lip. His eyes are bright and unnatural, almost glowing. He reaches down, grips my arm in an iron hold, and hauls me roughly to my feet. He leans in and inhales deeply, scenting my skin like an animal. His nose brushes my neck. "Hmm. Smell human," he says, his voice low and rough. "What are you doing here? How did you cross the border? No human has entered this realm in a thousand years. The South Border Arch has been sealed since the ancient wars. You are a trespasser." "I am not trespassing anywhere," I gasp, struggling against his grip as pain flares through my bleeding knees. "My name is Louise Sage. Louise Sage. I came from London. I was hiking near Fort William, I touched the arch —" "Trespasser," he repeats, as if my name means nothing at all. He drags me forward without another word, the three massive wolves falling into step behind him like obedient hounds. He throws me into an iron cage fixed to the back of a wooden cart. I land hard on my shoulder, sharp pain shooting through my bones. "Where are you taking me?" I grip the cold iron bars, wincing. "To Obsidian Prison. The King will decide your fate. He returns from the northern lands tonight." The cart rumbles forward over uneven ground. Through the bars, I catch glimpses of a massive castle rising from mist, towers sharp and black against the darkening sky. No such structure existed on any map. "Am I still in Scotland?" I whisper, clutching the bars until my knuckles turn white. My coat is torn at the shoulder, my knees bleeding freely, my face streaked with tears and melting snow. Guards drag me from the cart, through a narrow side door, and down winding stone steps. The air grows colder, smelling of damp stone and old dried blood. They throw me into a small cell and I hit the hard floor, scraping my palms raw. The heavy iron door slams shut with a deafening clang. I am alone. The walls are rough cold stone. No bed, no blanket, only a narrow slit high up. I pull my torn coat tighter, draw my knees to my chest, and finally break down crying. Then the entire prison shakes. A howl rises from far outside. Deep, resonant, so powerful that dust drifts down from the stone ceiling of my cell. Moments later, hundreds of other voices answer it, rising in a unified roar that seems to shake the very foundation of the castle. Wolves. Hundreds of them, howling in unison. I press both hands over my ears, curl tighter on the cold floor, and shake violently. "Stop it. Please, stop." Beyond the cell door, heavy footsteps halt. Guards drop to their knees, armor clanging. "The King has returned. The Lycan King is back early from the North." "Bring the trespasser to the throne hall. Now. He wants to see her." My blood runs cold. Keys clang. The door is wrenched open. Rough hands grab my bleeding arms and drag me up endless flights of stairs. My knees scream in protest. I am shoved forward into a vast throne hall. The floor is polished black obsidian gleaming like glass. The hall is almost empty. Only four guards stand by the great iron doors, and the scarred man stands beside a massive throne of black wood and carved bone. "Kneel before the King!" I fall to my knees. My hands are bound behind my back. My coat is ruined, my hair tangled and wet, my face streaked with dirt and tears. At the far end, the man on the throne slowly turns to face me. Thick curls of golden-brown hair fall to his shoulders. A heavy cloak of dark fur is draped over his broad shoulders. A crown of black iron set with small carved fangs rests upon his brow. His eyes are pale ice-blue, glowing faintly. The four guards dropped heavily to their knees, heads bowed so low their foreheads nearly touched the cold stone. Not one dared lift their gaze. They stared fixed at the floor, shoulders hunched, bodies trembling. Like wolves that had been caught staring directly into a Lycan's eyes — terrified, submissive, and afraid to die. He looks at my torn coat. At my bleeding knees. At my tear-streaked face. Then he inhales, slow and deep, just as the scarred guard did in the forest. He freezes. His eyes widen for the fraction of a second. His hands grip the carved arms of the throne so hard I hear the solid wood creak. For a heartbeat, I swear his fingernails lengthen and sharpen into curved black claws. Blood wells up where the claws dig into his own palms. "My King," the scarred guard says. "We found her near the South Border Arch. A human woman. It should not be possible." He pulls a short black blade, his face twisted with pure disgust. "My King, we should kill her now. No human has crossed in a thousand years. The seal was made to keep disease out. She could bring plague." "What? No! I am not sick! I am just lost! I do not have plague!" He leans close, sniffing my face. "She reeks of fear and human sickness. Better she dies as a trespasser." He raises the blade. I see my own terrified reflection in it. "Please," I whisper, my voice breaking. "Please, I do not have any disease. I swear." Sorin moves. He stands up so fast his cloak snaps behind him. The whole hall turns cold. "Enough, Rhydor. You do not decide who dies in my castle." Rhydor bows low. "Forgive me, My King." "She will not die tonight. Take her to the East Tower. Lock her away. Tomorrow the full Council will gather. They will decide if she is plague or just a stupid, lost human rat that dared cross into my realm." Rhydor yanks me to my feet. "You heard the King. East Tower. If you carry plague, you will rot there before dawn." "Let go of me! I am not sick! I have done nothing wrong!" Over my shoulder, Sorin's eyes stay locked on mine. His hands are clenched into fists, blood dripping down his wrists, drop by drop onto the black obsidian. Red against black. The iron doors slam shut. Darkness swallows me. The lock clicks. I slump onto the cold stone floor — alone, bleeding, terrified. Tomorrow, the Council will decide how I die.