THE WOLF KING’S BRIDE

Elara POV If anyone had told me months ago that I would marry a monster to save a kingdom, I would have laughed. I would have called it a dark fairy tale, a campfire story meant to frighten children into obedience. But laughter is a sound that has long since died in the kingdom of Vareth. Here I am now, sitting in a carriage that smells of stale lavender and fear, wearing a wedding gown that feels less like a celebration and more like a silk-lined burial coffin. Each layer of lace feels heavy, pressing against my chest until I can barely draw air. My name is Princess Elara Vance. I am the only daughter of King Alder, the ruler of the human realm. My life has always been defined by the circumstances of my birth I was born under a blood moon, an omen that the palace priests whispered about for years. They called me a cursed child, a girl who would bring either eternal ruin or a fragile peace, depending entirely on whom she loved. Now, my father calls my exile "fate." I have a simpler word for it: betrayal. He has traded my life for a border that doesn't bleed, selling me to the one creature every human is taught to fear from the cradle. The wheels of the carriage groan and protest as we cross the dark border that divides the world of men from the world of wolves. The transition is visceral. The air turns cold and sharp, smelling of ancient frost and something wild. The night here is silver and endless, a place where the sun feels like a distant memory. Every time the horses snort or a twig snaps in the woods, my heart hammers against my ribs. I imagine claws scraping against the wood of the carriage, yellow eyes watching from the thickets. I press my palm against the cold glass of the window, trying to steady my shaking hands, but the frost only seeps into my skin. "Almost there, Your Highness," a voice murmurs from the shadows of the carriage. It is Captain Riven. He is a man of iron and scars, a loyal soldier who has been more like a brother to me than a protector. He raised me in the training yards, teaching me that a princess’s greatest weapon is her resolve. But today, his resolve is crumbling. I look at him and see a ghost. His face is pale, his jaw so tight I fear it might snap, and his sword hand the hand that has felled dozens of enemies is trembling. He shouldn't be afraid. He is the bravest man I know. But everyone is afraid of the Wolf King. The stories haunt my mind like a fever dream. They say Kael Fenrir killed his first queen and drank the blood of her heart to sate a hunger that can never be filled. They say his kingdom is cursed, that the very moon turned against him for his sins. And yet, here I am, being sent to him with a bouquet in my hand and a target on my back. A peace treaty, the diplomats called it. But I know the truth. Peace is just another word for sacrifice when you are the one being given away. The carriage jolts to a final, bone-shaking stop. I look through the window and feel my breath catch. We have reached the gates of Moonspire Castle. It is an enormous structure, built of black stone that glitters under the moonlight like frozen tears. The towers pierce the dark sky like jagged needles, and the walls seem to pulse with a low, rhythmic thrumming. It feels like the castle isn't made of stone at all, but of something living, something that is currently watching me. A low, haunting howl rises from somewhere deep within the surrounding forest. It is a sound of pure, unbridled sorrow, and it makes every hair on my body stand up. "Stay behind me, Princess," Riven says, his voice cracking as he opens the carriage door. I don't listen. I cannot afford to be the fragile girl they want me to be. I step out first, my white train trailing in the dirt and frost. The air hits me like a physical slap cold, sharp, and heavy with a wild energy that makes my skin prickle with electricity. My eyes widen as I see the guards posted at the gates. They are not men. They are massive, upright wolves, creatures of fur and muscle clad in dark steel armor. Their golden eyes glow faintly through their helms, tracking my every movement with predatory precision. One of them steps forward, his voice a rumbling thunder that vibrates in my chest. "The King awaits his bride." My heart twists at that word. Bride. It sounds wrong, like a lie spoken in a holy place. I follow the creatures into the courtyard, my footsteps echoing too loudly against the stones. Blue torches flicker along the walls, casting a ghostly, sapphire light over intricate carvings of wolves and crescent moons. It feels as though the castle itself is listening to the rhythm of my pulse, judging the speed of my fear. Then, I see him at the end of the Great Hall. He stands under a silver chandelier, a tall, imposing figure draped in dark armor and a black cloak lined with thick fur. His hair is as dark as the midnight sky, his skin deathly pale against the flickering torchlight. But it is his eyes that hold me frozen in place. They are a cold, sharp silver, like moonlight trapped in ice. This is King Kael Fenrir. Power radiates off him in heavy waves, a suffocating presence that demands submission. But as I look closer, past the terrifying aura of the Wolf King, I sense something else. Under the power, there is a deep, quiet kind of grief a sorrow that doesn't fade no matter how many wars he has won or how many enemies he has crushed. When he begins to move toward me, my heart simply forgets how to beat. "Princess Elara of Vance," he says. His voice is deep, smooth, and dangerously calm. "You have come far." "I had no choice," I answer, the words out of my mouth before I can stop my tongue. My heart hammers against my ribs. I expect him to strike me for my insolence, or perhaps growl. Instead, something flashes in Kael’s eyes. Surprise? Or perhaps a dark amusement. His lips curve slightly, the ghost of a smile. "Honesty… I wasn't expecting that from a daughter of Alder." He stretches out his hand, palm up. "Then let us at least pretend this is a choice, Elara." The moment our palms touch, a jolt of energy runs through me like a strike of lightning. The blue torches hiss and flare, the air in the hall trembles, and the moon outside seems to burn brighter, turning a shade of bruised silver. Suddenly, a blinding pain sears across my wrist. I cry out, the sound echoing off the high ceilings, and I try to pull back. But Kael’s grip is like iron; he grabs my hand tightly, his eyes locked on mine. "What's happening?" I gasp, my breath hitching in terror. The wolf-guards around us exchange uneasy glances, their golden eyes wide. Kael’s voice drops to a whisper that only I can hear. “The moon has chosen,” he says softly. “You bear the mark.” “The mark of what?” I demand, but the pain is fading into a dull, pulsing heat. He doesn’t answer. Instead, his expression shutters, and the brief warmth I thought I saw in his silver eyes vanishes like fog in the wind. “You should rest, Princess. The ceremony will be at dawn.” And just like that, he turns his back on me and leaves the hall. A woman steps forward from the shadows. She is small and nervous, with soft brown hair and quiet, downcast eyes. "I am Liora, my lady," she says, her voice trembling. "I will take you to your chambers." Her voice is calm, but as she gathers the heavy train of my gown, I see her hands shaking. She keeps glancing toward the ceiling, her eyes darting as if she expects the stones to fall on us. As we walk through the labyrinthine corridors, I try to find my voice. I want to ask about the mark, about the King, about why the torches burn blue. But Liora only speaks once. “The castle doesn’t like new blood, my lady.” “What does that mean?” I ask, my heart sinking. She gives me a tight, pained smile that doesn't reach her eyes. “You’ll see soon enough.” We walk in silence through corridors lit by that weird, cold blue fire. The walls are covered in tapestries and paintings of wolves hunting under red moons, their eyes following me as I pass. Finally, she stops at a pair of massive oak doors and pushes them open. The room is beautiful in a cold, tragic way silver drapes, crystal mirrors, and a bed carved with intricate wolves. But it is freezing, a chill that no fire could ever warm. "Tell me about the King," I say as she prepares the bed. Liora hesitates, her back to me. "He is not what he seems, my lady," she says carefully. "And neither was his queen." "What was she like?" "Queen Seraphina was beautiful and powerful," Liora’s voice drops to a bare whisper. "The King loved her desperately. But she wanted something he couldn't give. She wanted the moon's power for herself." "What happened to her?" I press. “She died,” Liora says, her voice shaking now. “But some say she never left.” Before I can ask another question, Liora bows and slips out of the room, closing the door with a soft, final thud. I fall onto the bed, the exhaustion of the journey finally pressing down on me like lead. My wrist still burns, the mark glowing faintly in the darkness of the room. I tell myself it’s just nerves. I tell myself this is all a dream I will wake from. But as I drift toward sleep, a voice calls out. It is low, beautiful, and filled with a grief so profound it makes my chest ache. “Elara…” I stay still, thinking it is just Liora calling from the hall. But when I open my eyes, I am no longer in my room. I am standing in the middle of a moonlit forest. The trees around me are screaming, burning with white fire, and a woman stands ahead in a clearing. her gown is dripping with thick, dark blood. Her face is pale, her eyes sharp silver exactly like Kael’s. She looks at me, her lips curling into a smile that is both beautiful and terrifying, and whispers: “He belongs to me.” I blink, and she is gone. I wake up gasping, my heart hammering so hard against my ribs it feels like it might break. My room is freezing, the candles have all been blown out by a phantom wind, and my wedding veil lies torn on the floor as if something with claws had ripped it apart. I look across the room at the large, ornate mirror. The glass is fogged over from the inside, as if someone had just breathed on it. And there, written in the condensation, are three words: WELCOME HOME, QUEEN.