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1564 Words
“We are saved… Daas and his men broke through their defenses,” Orren exclaimed, his voice filled with breathless relief.
Amariel’s arms tightened around herself as she eyed him with doubt. “How can you be so sure?”
“The knocking,” he said, almost giddy. “It’s his rhythm. Daas uses it as a signal.”
Running to her, Orren swept Amariel off her feet and spun her in a dizzying circle, kissing her joyfully. “He’s come for us!”
They both stilled, straining to hear. For a moment, there was only silence. Then—softly—a rhythmic knock. Gentle. Familiar. Lulling. It almost sounded like a lullaby, like safety.
Orren leaned toward the door, hope written across every inch of him. Amariel, however, listened with more than her ears—she listened with her soul. And something… something felt wrong.
Her heart clenched.
How could Daas have made it through the courtyard?
Had the Panthers joined after all?
Why would he not save my mother first?
A tremor of guilt passed through her. If it was truly Daas, he would’ve moved the heavens to get to her mother. Her gut told her this wasn’t him. Her gut screamed it.
But Orren didn’t hesitate. He pulled from her grip and ran to the door, ignoring her whispered, desperate protest.
“Orren—wait!”
One by one, he unraveled the enchantments and locks they had layered on the door, throwing it open with reckless hope—arms wide in relief.
And then—steel.
It pierced him in an instant, an elvish blade sinking into his side with merciless precision.
Amariel screamed. “Orren!”
The room exploded into chaos. Elves flooded inside in gleaming armor, the golden stag with white antlers emblazoned on their chests—sigil of the High Elf King and Queen.
Amariel lunged for her mate, but hands grabbed her by her silver curls, yanking her back. Pain bloomed hot and sharp across her scalp.
“Let her go!” Orren roared.
His body trembled, rage coiling in every muscle. The blade at his throat was forgotten as he turned toward Amariel. All he could see was her. All he could feel was her pain.
The beast inside him snarled and clawed its way forward. His fingers contorted into claws. His body thickened with fur and power.
Soldiers shouted, scrambling to restrain him. Amariel, despite her terror, felt a flicker of dark amusement—he looked so ridiculous in his fury. Her wolf. Her mad, beautiful wolf.
Then the mood shifted.
An elvish soldier elbowed his way forward, his expression hidden behind the slits of a silver-etched helmet. He whistled once, sharp and commanding. The room froze.
He slowly drew a blade, deliberately. And with icy precision, he pressed it to Amariel’s throat.
A single bead of blood slid down her skin. Gabriele whimpered.
“Still, dog,” the elf said coldly, “or I’ll slit her from ear to ear.”
Orren dropped.
His knees hit the floor with a thud. The beast fell silent, crushed beneath the weight of helplessness. Chains coiled around his wrists, dragging him backward.
Amariel’s hands were tied gently in comparison—leather, not iron. But the push behind her wasn’t gentle. She stumbled forward.
Orren’s eyes avoided hers, though she knew he could feel the tether straining between them.
“I was betrayed,” he growled, low and savage. His teeth clenched so tightly the sound echoed like bone snapping.
The elf chuckled, a hollow, distorted sound inside his helmet. “Brighter than the average mutt. It seems not all of your father’s Alphas agreed to your little coup.”
Orren sagged. Pride crushed.
“Take him to the General,” the soldier ordered.
Two bulky elves hauled him to his feet and dragged him away. Orren still wouldn’t look at Amariel. He couldn’t.
Not when he’d failed her. Failed them.
Twenty-four elven soldiers filed behind him. The elf with the dagger still pressed tight to Amariel’s throat began counting aloud.
When the last soldier passed, he shoved Amariel forward. She didn’t move. Her body sagged like a marionette with its strings cut.
He yanked her. Still, she didn’t cry out. He stopped, checking to make sure she was still breathing.
She was.
She simply didn’t see the point in screaming anymore.
The farther they walked, the more unrecognizable her home became. Blood. Fire. Death.
The air was thick with the stench of charred flesh and old magic. Her stomach turned. The taste of blood clung to the back of her throat.
She tried not to look. She told herself not to look. But her eyes betrayed her. As Princess, she owed them that much.
Bodies. So many bodies. Each face she recognized made her chest tighten. Each lifeless form another silent promise.
You will be avenged.
That vow burned inside her, white-hot and wild.
Then she was thrown forward. Her knees struck the floor. Her palms slid in blood.
Her vision blurred with fury.
“This used to be the Great Fae Hall,” Amariel spat. “You elves will rue this day.”
The room shivered. Even the soldiers flinched.
Orren’s voice was hoarse, pleading. “Amariel…”
A whistle. A pop.
Then pain.
He cried out—raw and broken.
Amariel flinched as if the crop had struck her too.
“No talking, dog,” the crop-wielding elf barked.
My love… she thought, throat tight. I’m sorry.
They dragged them into the Grand Hall. The golden doors opened with ceremony, though the inside was just as desecrated—blood-stained walls, ruined marble, shattered glass.
They were thrown to the floor before the Ethereal Throne—her father’s throne.
But it was no longer his.
Now, it belonged to Cirdan.
He sat like a vulture, smug and sharp-eyed.
The High Elf General looked down at the High King and Queen's biggest 'threat' with undisguised delight.
He had done what none before him had achieved.
He had captured them.
For centuries, the High Elves and the wolf shifters warred over land and magic. The Fae had always stayed neutral. But this union… it tipped the scales.
And neutrality was no longer an option.
Unless the pair could stand before the Council of Clans and prove their bond true.
Which, Cirdan believed, would never happen. Not if the High King and Queen had anything to say about it.
“Princess Amariel,” he said smoothly, his tone all silk and venom. “A shame this is our first meeting—but a pleasure, nonetheless.”
Amariel’s lips curled in disgust. “Oh, the pleasure is all mine, General. After all, it’s only my home you’ve destroyed. My people you’ve butchered.”
Cirdan laughed.
He nodded.
Whistle. Pop.
Orren screamed again.
Amariel gasped, her entire body jolting at the sound.
His pain seared through her like fire on skin.
Cirdan’s smile was razor-sharp. He wanted her rage.
But she wouldn’t give it to him.
Not now.
She inhaled deeply, curling her lips into a cold, practiced smile.
“General,” she said with saccharine venom, “to what do we owe the pleasure?”
*
For the second time that night, Evanna shot up in bed, heart pounding, her skin damp with sweat.
Her breath came in shallow gasps as her eyes darted across the dark bedroom. Sunlight poured through the cracked windowpane, casting fragmented light across the worn comforter wrapped around her legs.
Her throat was dry. Her chest ached.
She reached for the side table, fumbling until her fingers brushed the glass of water she’d left there. It trembled slightly in her grip, the remnants of her dream still clinging to her like a second skin.
A dream.
The same dream...
It had to be a dream.
Elves? Wolves? Magic?
She let out a short, nervous laugh. “What the hell was that?”
She pressed her hand to her chest. Her heartbeat was still erratic. There was no denying how real it had all felt. She could still feel the phantom tug of the leather cords around her wrists. She could still taste ash in her mouth and hear the wet c***k of the whip against skin.
And that name… Amariel.
It echoed in her mind like a song she’d never heard but somehow knew.
Evanna swung her legs over the edge of the bed, standing on shaky feet. She crossed the room to the mirror and flicked on the light.
Nothing.
Just her own reflection. Bare shoulders. Messy auburn curls. Pale blue eyes wide and uncertain.
No silver curls. No golden armor. No blood. No throne.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the vanity, knuckles white.
It was just a dream.
Of course, it was. Magic didn’t exist. Neither did fairies nor werewolves or ancient kingdoms or talking generals with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.
She exhaled slowly and whispered aloud, as if saying it would make it real: “It was just a dream.”
But somewhere, buried beneath the rational voice of her mind, something deeper stirred. A whisper inside her bones. A flicker of recognition in her blood.
And as she gathered her toiletries and headed to the bathroom, that same name ghosted through her mind again.
Amariel…
Who was she and why was Evanna dreaming of her?
- Writer
