The Regal Wolf
1475 Words
Princess Moon
Like a missing piece I had not known belonged to me.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Seventeen.” Her chin lifted. “Eighteen tomorrow.”
“That is important.”
“It is everything.”
The words came too fast.
She seemed to realize it and looked down.
I crouched to pick up one of the fallen books before she could protest. “Do you like school?”
Her eyes softened. “Yes.”
“Good. I always liked libraries better than ballrooms.”
Nara looked at me like I had just admitted to something scandalous. “Really?”
“Ballrooms involve too many people staring while you try not to step on anyone’s feet.”
“My brother would agree with that.”
My breath caught.
Brother.
I kept my voice light. “You have a brother?”
“Yes.” Her face changed when she said it.
Not embarrassed.
Not annoyed.
Loved.
Protected.
“My older brother. He is nineteen.”
Nineteen.
Storm went still.
I looked at Nara more closely.
Dark hair. Pale skin. A softness around the mouth that reminded me of someone laughing nervously in a moonlit courtyard.
“Is he kind?” I asked.
Her eyes sharpened with immediate loyalty. “The kindest person in this pack.”
The answer was a shield.
I respected it.
“Then he is rare.”
She stared at me.
For one moment, the suspicion faded.
Then, as if she had been holding the words too long, she whispered, “We are leaving.”
I did not move.
“When?”
“Tomorrow,” she said. “After I turn eighteen. We only had to wait until I was old enough.”
My pulse slowed.
“Where will you go?”
She stiffened.
I asked the next question because I had to, even though I knew it would cost me.
“Will you become rogues?”
Nara’s face closed.
Completely.
Just like that, the girl who had almost trusted me vanished behind the girl who had learned better.
“I should not have said anything.”
“I will not tell.”
“People say that.”
“I mean it.”
She backed away, books hugged to her chest. “I have chores. And homework. If I do not finish, my brother will be angry.”
Something about that did not ring true.
Not angry.
Worried, maybe.
Protective.
But not angry.
Still, I let her go.
For now.
She hurried toward the back entrance of the packhouse.
I watched her until she reached the door.
Why did she feel familiar?
Not like a stranger.
Not like a subject.
Like family waiting ahead of time.
The door opened.
Warm kitchen air spilled out, carrying smoke, bread, and—
Frost.
Winter roses.
Old magic.
Nara leaned inside.
“Ashen?”
The name struck me so hard I almost stepped forward without meaning to.
Ashen.
The missing son.
The sickly boy.
The one supposedly visiting relatives.
The one who should have been at the ball.
I moved toward the kitchen.
A hand stepped into my path.
Cael.
Not touching me.
Blocking me all the same.
“Princess,” he said quickly.
Did he know, or had he guessed why I was here?
My gaze flicked past him to the kitchen door.
It was already closing.
“What is it?” I asked.
“There is a small gathering this evening,” he said. “For the nineteen-year-olds in the pack. A welcome, since you honored us with your visit. My mother thought you might enjoy meeting wolves your own age.”
“Your mother thought that?”
His jaw tightened.
“No,” he admitted. “Callan did.”
That was honest enough to interest me.
Behind him, Solan had finished tormenting Callan and was now watching us both with narrowed eyes.
“A gathering,” I said.
Cael nodded. “Food. Music. Nothing formal.”
“Will all nineteen-year-olds attend?”
He hesitated.
There.
That hesitation mattered.
“Most,” he said.
Most.
I smiled.
“Then I would be happy to attend.”
Cael did not look relieved.
He looked sorry.
My mother’s tour lasted nearly an hour.
Later, she told me Lady Seraphine had shown her every polished hall, every new training room, every beautifully arranged chamber that proved nothing at all.
And each time my mother mentioned Ashen, Seraphine’s smile sharpened.
“He has been sickly since birth,” Seraphine said as they passed the healing wing.
“How unfortunate,” my mother replied.
“Yes. Poor boy. Never quite strong enough for courtly things.”
“Yet he is the Alpha’s son.”
“Blood does not make a wolf capable, Your Majesty.”
“No,” my mother said. “But it does make excuses more noticeable.”
Seraphine had laughed then.
Too brightly.
Too loudly.
Too late.
She gave my mother nothing useful.
But sometimes nothing was a confession wearing gloves.
The gathering took place in a smaller hall near the west side of the packhouse.
It was meant to appear casual.
It did not.
Every table had been arranged too carefully. Every tray overfilled. Every young wolf dressed as if they had been warned that one loose thread might embarrass the pack before royalty.
The nineteen-year-olds gathered in clusters, laughing too loudly and watching me when they thought I would not notice.
Callan stayed near me, charming and unbearable.
Cael lingered farther back.
Solan leaned against a pillar with a cup in his hand, looking bored enough to be dangerous.
I searched the room.
No Ashen.
No boy with frost in his scent.
No nervous smile.
No hidden wolf.
Callan offered me a pastry. “SilvaFrost honey cakes are better than palace ones.”
“Bold claim.”
“I stand by it.”
I took one to be polite and did not eat it.
The room was warm.
Too warm.
The fire burned high, the music played lightly, and laughter scattered around me like glass beads.
Then the scent returned.
Not faint.
Not hidden in the walls.
Strong.
Frost.
Winter roses.
Old magic.
My fingers tightened around the ring beneath my sleeve.
The side door opened.
A server stepped in carrying a silver tray.
His hood was drawn low, sleeves pulled over his hands. He moved quietly, head bowed, like someone trained to pass through rooms without disturbing the air.
But he disturbed everything.
Storm rose inside me.
The tray lowered onto the table.
Callan turned, irritation flashing across his face.
“Took you long enough,” he snapped.
The server did not answer.
My pulse began to pound.
Callan picked up the ice bowl and shook it. Empty.
“The ice is gone,” he said, loud enough for nearby wolves to hear. “Do you need instructions for that too? Go get more.”
The server bowed.
Just a little.
Just enough.
Then he turned.
The firelight caught beneath his hood.
Ash-blond hair.
My breath stopped.
His face was not fully visible, but I saw enough.
More than enough.
A beautiful boy with pale skin and a mouth softer than my dream had remembered. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Muscular in the way of someone built by labor, not vanity. Regal even in servant clothes. Quietly powerful, as if his bones had been carved for a throne and the world had forced him into shadow instead.
He was more beautiful than the masked boy.
More beautiful than the dream.
Then he lifted his eyes for one fraction of a second.
And Storm saw.
Not an absent wolf.
Not a shy wolf.
A huge white wolf stood inside him, ancient and furious, bound in chains of dark magic and old pain.
The vision hit so hard I gripped the table.
The white wolf turned its head.
Its eyes met mine.
Help him, Storm whispered.
The server lowered his gaze and left through the side door.
I moved after him.
“Princess?” Callan said.
I ignored him.
The cold air outside struck my face as I stepped into the yard behind the hall.
The server walked toward the woods with an empty ice bucket in one hand.
I followed.
I did not know his name.
Not for certain.
So I could not call it.
Ashen sat on my tongue like a prayer I had not earned the right to speak.
He reached the tree line.
A branch snapped behind me.
I turned.
Only darkness.
Only the packhouse lights glowing behind the windows.
Only my own breath fogging in the air.
When I faced forward again, the path was empty.
The boy was gone.
But his scent remained.
Frost.
Winter roses.
Old magic.
And this time, I knew.
The masked wolf had not vanished from SilvaFrost.
They had hidden him in plain sight.
- Writer
