Chapter 2
812 Words
The letter was never meant to cross realms.
Ink still fresh, Mara’s careful words—folded, sealed, and whispered with hope—slipped from the human world not by fate, but by mistake. A tear in the veil, thin as breath on glass, yawned open for a heartbeat too long. And in that heartbeat, the letter fell.
It did not land on a wooden desk or into familiar hands.
It landed on stone.
Cold, ancient stone veined with silver runes, deep within the werewolves’ world—inside the Citadel of Howls.
Paul of House Fenris was sparring when the interruption came.
Steel rang against steel as he disarmed his opponent with a sharp twist of the wrist, sending the practice blade skidding across the training floor. The watching guards erupted into applause, but Paul barely heard them. His senses—sharper than any human’s—had caught something wrong.
A scent.
Not blood. Not fear.
Paper.
He straightened, sweat cooling on his skin, gray eyes lifting toward the high arched windows. That was when it happened: a soft flutter, almost delicate, drifted down through the open air like a pale leaf.
The letter landed at his feet.
The training hall fell silent.
Paul frowned and bent to pick it up. The parchment was unlike any used in the werewolf realm—too smooth, too thin. And the smell… strange. Warm. Human.
“Is that a spell?” one of the guards muttered.
Paul ignored him. His thumb brushed over the seal, already broken by the crossing. There was no immediate magic, no curse flaring to life. Just words. Human words.
Curiosity tugged at him—an emotion he’d learned to keep buried. As the only son of King Alaric, heir to the Lunar Throne, Paul had been raised on discipline, restraint, and duty. Feelings were weaknesses. Questions were dangerous.
Still… the letter was here. And nothing crossed realms without consequence.
He unfolded it.
> *To whoever finds this,*
> *My name is Mara. I don’t know if this letter will ever reach the right hands, but I had to try. I’m running out of time, and I don’t know who else to trust…*
Paul’s breath stilled.
The hall seemed to fade as he read on—about a girl trapped between choices she never asked for, about secrets whispered too late, about a fear that clung like shadow. Her words weren’t elegant, but they were honest. Achingly so.
And woven through the ink was something else.
A pull.
Not magic exactly—something older. A tug low in his chest, where the wolf slept.
Paul clenched the letter in his fist.
“Summon the council,” he said sharply.
The guards exchanged looks. “My prince?”
“Now.”
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The council chamber was carved from the heart of the mountain, moonlight pouring down through the open ceiling. King Alaric sat upon the stone throne, massive and immovable, his silver-streaked hair pulled back, golden eyes sharp as blades.
Paul stood before him, letter in hand.
“This crossed the veil,” Paul said. “From the human world.”
A murmur rippled through the elders.
Alaric’s gaze flicked to the parchment. “And why is this *your* concern?”
Because I felt it, Paul almost said.
Instead, he replied, “Because it came to me.”
Silence.
The king leaned forward. “Read it.”
Paul hesitated only a moment before obeying. As his voice filled the chamber, the elders listened—some skeptical, some uneasy. When he finished, the council sat heavy with thought.
“A human girl,” one elder scoffed. “This is nothing.”
Another shook her head. “The veil does not err without reason.”
King Alaric studied his son. “You felt something when you touched it.”
It wasn’t a question.
Paul met his father’s gaze, jaw tight. “Yes.”
The wolf stirred at the admission.
Alaric exhaled slowly. “Then this is not a mistake. It is an invitation—or a warning.”
Paul’s pulse quickened. “What do you want me to do?”
The king stood, his presence filling the chamber. “You are my heir. One day, every choice you make will echo through both worlds. If the human realm is bleeding into ours…” His eyes hardened. “You will find out why.”
A pause.
“You will go to the border,” Alaric finished. “And you will start with the girl named Mara.”
Paul bowed, the weight of destiny settling onto his shoulders like a familiar cloak.
As he turned to leave, the letter warm in his grasp, the wolf within him lifted its head and howled—soft, eager, awake.
Somewhere in another world, a girl had sent out a plea.
And Paul, heir to the werewolf throne, had heard it.
- Writer
