The morning sunlight was soft across the floor, fractured through ivory curtains that moved like breath. Zev still slept—half-buried in furs, head turned to the side, a deep furrow between his brows that hadn't smoothed even in sleep.
Aurora watched him for a moment. Long enough to mark the rise of his chest, the way his jaw remained tense, even unconscious. Then she slipped from the bed.
She didn't know how to handle a drunk Alpha.
She only knew how to obey the next task.
The robe she pulled around herself felt heavier than it had the night before. As she crept through the private corridor, intending to report to her mistress as expected, her breath slowed. The halls were still hushed with post-ceremony silence. Until—
She heard her *name*.
Not loudly. Just a thread of it from the left. Behind a partly opened door in the Queen's eastern chamber wing.
Her instinct was to move faster. Instead… she froze.
Then words followed—clearer. Sharper.
"After what I saw in the inspection... I believe she's his fated mate."
Aurora's body went still. A ripple passed through her spine like cold silk.
"How is that possible?" the Queen's voice demanded, cool but edged now with something she rarely allowed: confusion.
"She's the only one compatible to bear Zev an heir," the inspector said quietly. "No one else responded to the binding checks. Only her."
Aurora leaned closer—just an inch—but the door creaked. Not open. *Wide.*
It swung against the wall with the kind of accusing finality that pulled silence like a blade.
Inside, the Queen turned slowly, her veil untouched but her gaze *razor-sharp* beneath it.
The inspector stiffened. Aurora stood still, mouth parted, unsure if she should speak or kneel or run.
Then the Queen's voice broke the moment.
"So. The rabbit has ears."
She stepped forward—measured, graceful, *dangerous.*
The Queen tilted her head slightly, watching Aurora the way a viper watches a mouse it isn't quite hungry enough to kill.
"His fated mate, huh?" she said with a soft laugh. "Still doesn't make you my future queen, Aurora. Like I said—my sons only marry royal blood."
She turned her back then, as if the discussion bored her.
"Let's not talk about this again."
Aurora's voice was barely audible.
"Yes, Your Grace."
The Queen paused at the door.
"And if Zev hears even a whisper of what you heard today," she said without turning, "you'll be thrown into the dungeon. Just like the girl before you."
Then, slowly—*graceful as ever*—she looked over her shoulder.
"Have I made myself clear?"
Aurora bowed, the movement slow, deliberate.
"Crystal."
Aurora didn't speak. Couldn't.
But her hands, curled tight at her sides, were no longer empty. They carried knowledge now. And that… *was the first shift
—
Zev lounged in the armchair, legs stretched across the bed like he owned the room—and everything in it. His fingers played idly with something small and red.
Her ribbon.
His gaze lifted lazily as she entered, but it lingered—not on her face, but on the absence around her neck.
"What happened last night?"
He asked it without effort. No demand. Just that low, gravel-wrapped calm that made her pulse stutter.
Aurora stood by the door, smiling faintly. Not in amusement. In warning.
"You told me not to remind you."
He sat up straighter. A slow, fluid motion—like a predator choosing to move. As he rose, she instinctively stepped back.
"I haven't touched you," he murmured, stepping closer, his voice all silk and heat. "That's rare."
She swallowed, spine drawn tall.
"Stop acting like I touched you last night," she said, trying for steady. Almost made it.
He didn't blink. Just leaned close enough that his breath brushed her ear, and whispered:
"Because if I did..."
His smirk curled like flame.
"You'd still be tangled in those sheets—too breathless to stand, too marked to forget."
Her breath caught. Just for a second.
Zev didn't look up at first. Just let the words fall, low and lazy.
"Just… stay close. I don't like the silence."
Aurora hesitated.
That was all it took.
In a blink, his hand was at her waist, pulling her forward until she stumbled into his chest. Solid. Warm. Unyielding.
His other hand rose—slow, deliberate—and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.
"I like your scent," he murmured, voice like velvet over steel.
Then came the smile. Not soft. Not kind.
Predatory.
"And guess what…"
He leaned in, his breath grazing the curve of her neck.
"That's what seduces me most."
His teeth grazed her skin—then bit, slow and deliberate. Not hard enough to mark. Just enough to make her *shiver*.
"Why… why did you do that?" she whispered, breath catching.
He pulled back, eyes gleaming with something unreadable.
"I just gave you a clue, little rabbit."
Then, as if nothing had happened, he turned toward the door.
"Don't mess up my room while I'm gone."
A tap to her head.
"Be my good rabbit."
And with that, he was gone—leaving her heart pounding and her skin still burning where his mouth had been.
Aurora stood in the quiet space Zev left behind, the scent of him still thick in the air. Her fingers brushed the place on her neck where his mouth had lingered—an echo she couldn't shake.
"Fated mate," she whispered to herself.
The words felt foreign in her mouth. Too heavy. Too unreal.
She moved toward the mirror, touched the edge of it as if it might offer a reflection of who she was before all this.
"Being his fated mate is already too much…"
Her voice was barely audible.
"Now I'm the only one who can bear him heirs?"
It wasn't just pressure—it was a *sentence*. A destiny written without her consent. And worst of all?
"No one explained this to me."
The inspector's words had been clinical. Empty. She still didn't understand what it meant to be "compatible," only that it bound her more tightly than chains ever could.
Aurora turned from the mirror, exhaling sharply.
"There's only one person who might tell me the truth."
The halls were still quiet with the weight of morning ritual—servants moving like shadows, no one speaking above a whisper. Aurora didn't care. She was already running, slippers slapping softly against the stone as she wound through the narrow staff corridors.
*Her mistress. She had to find her. Now.*
The female teachers' quarters were hidden behind the palace's eastern academic wing, cloistered and dim. Aurora hesitated only once—hand hovering before the carved wooden door—then knocked twice, hard.
A pause.
The door creaked open, revealing warm lamplight and the worn face of a woman who'd once been her whole world.
Her mistress blinked in surprise.
"Aurora? Child, you're not allowed here—"
"I know," Aurora whispered, already stepping inside. "Please… just a moment. I need to understand."
The older woman studied her, gaze sharpening. "What happened?"
Aurora didn't sit. She stood there, arms wrapped around herself like armor.
"They said I'm his fated mate." Her voice caught. "And the only one who can give him an heir."
The words hung in the air like frost.
Her mistress closed the door softly.
"So they told you."
"No. They threatened me. Then left me with nothing." Aurora's fingers clenched. "What does it mean? What am I?"
The woman was silent for a long moment. Then she reached for a small tin on her shelf, uncapping it and handing Aurora a dried blossom.
"Chew. For calm. What I'm about to say… you won't forget."
Aurora took it, eyes wide.
"There have always been rare girls like you, born once in a generation. You're not just fated, Aurora. You're keyed—body, spirit, and blood. But the bond with the Alpha? It's more than biology."
She paused, voice lowering.
"You're prophecy."
"So I'm—what? A vessel?" Her voice cracked.
"You're something more dangerous than that." Her mistress stepped closer, voice barely above breath.
"You're the one thing the Queen can't decide."
Aurora froze.
Something shifted in her again. But this time, it wasn't fear.
It was purpose.
Her mistress watched her closely—saw it. That subtle lift in Aurora's chin. The quiet straightening of her spine. Not defiance exactly, but awakening.
She spoke more softly now, as if truth had its own ears.
"That's why they kept you among the candidates, but never let you out of sight. Why you were trained, dressed, and prepared—but never told why."
Aurora's voice was dry. "Because they never meant for me to choose. Only to obey."
Her mistress nodded.
Then, with a sigh, she walked to an old cedar box on the far shelf. It creaked open, revealing something small—wrapped in a folded cloth, yellowed with age. She handed it to Aurora with care.
Aurora unfolded the cloth. Inside was a single, delicate necklace—plain silver, but etched faintly with a symbol she didn't recognize.
"This was passed to me long ago," her mistress said softly. "It's the old mark tied to the prophecy. A symbol used in early bond testing—before they learned to bury all trace of it."
Aurora traced the symbol with a fingertip. It pulsed faintly in her skin—familiar and unknown.
"What does it mean?"
Her mistress hesitated.
"It means you're… rare. The old texts spoke of one who would be keyed in body, spirit, and blood. The mate who would awaken the Alpha line… and decide its end or its future. That's all I know, Aurora."
But Aurora watched her closely. The slight pause before she spoke. The way her eyes didn't quite meet hers.
She sensed it—that wasn't all she knew.
But the woman said nothing more.
And Aurora, suddenly heavier with silence, folded the cloth over the necklace once more.
"Thank you," she whispered.
And the walls closed around their secret, for now.
As Aurora turned toward the door, cloth-wrapped necklace pressed to her chest, her mistress's voice stopped her.
"One last thing," she said quietly. "Don't speak of this to anyone.... not even the queen."
Aurora paused.
"She doesn't know?"
Her mistress shook her head once.
"No. And that's what's keeping you alive."
A beat.
"If the king ever learns you're part of the prophecy…"
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"He won't be generous. Or gentle. he'll do what he always does with things he can't control."
Aurora looked down at the cloth in her hands, then up at the woman who'd always warned her with kindness, not fear.
Her voice was soft, but clear.
"Then I won't let him find out."
And with that, she turned and stepped into the hall—no fire in her stride, but something steadier. This time she could only trust the queen and her mistress.