Snow crunched under Zephran's boots as he led his hunters through the Winterfall forest. Christmas Eve was supposed to be quiet, but the cold air and the frost-laden trees carried an uneasy tension.
Zephran's hand rested lightly on his bow as his eyes scanned the woods. A flicker of movement caught his attention.
"Don't shoot," he told his guards. "Stay alert, but do not fire."
He shifted, trying to steady his aim, but his hand slipped. The arrow flew before he could stop it.
A roar erupted from the forest—painful, wild, animalistic. The sound echoed through the trees and made his stomach twist.
Before he could react, a massive wolf pounced straight at him. Zephran dropped his bow and arrow instinctively as the beast slammed into him, knocking him to the snow. His back hit the frozen ground hard, knocking the breath from his lungs.
"Do not shoot!" he shouted, even as the wolf's claws raked across his arm.
Hot pain tore through him. Blood rushed down his skin and dripped into the snow beneath him, staining it red.
The wolf's hand—the one shot by the arrow—was wounded. Zephran pushed himself up, breath shaky, and stepped forward carefully, heart battering against his ribs. He wanted to help the wolf, to remove the arrow, to end its pain.
But the wolf didn't stay still. It lunged again, pinning him down. Its claws sliced across his shoulder and cheek, and Zephran grit his teeth, refusing to shift. He didn't want a fight—he just wanted to help.
He finally grabbed the arrow lodged in the wolf's hand and yanked it free.
The wolf roared in agony, thrashing violently. Snow sprayed everywhere as Zephran rolled to escape its claws, but the wolf followed him with impossible speed, tearing through his clothes, leaving burning scratches across his body. Every drop of his blood that hit the snow looked like spilled ink on white parchment.
The guards tried to fire arrows, but the wolf moved with unnatural, terrifying speed—faster than any wolf Zephran had ever seen. It struck them down one by one, then spun back toward him, unrelenting.
His lungs burned. His body ached. His vision blurred.
This wolf… this wolf was stronger than any creature that should exist.
He staggered to his feet, hand shaking as he shoved it into his pocket. With no choice left, he gripped the knife and, using the last of his strength, drove it into the wolf's chest. The beast staggered back, collapsing, unmoving.
Zephran stood over it, chest heaving. His palms were bleeding. His clothes were torn.
He thought it was finally over.
But in a blink, the wolf surged upright again—faster than before—eyes blazing, breath ragged, fury radiating off its body. It leapt toward him, claws outstretched.
Zephran barely had time to react before he drove the knife into the same spot in its chest.
The movement stopped.
The wolf transformed into its human self, making Zephran gasp. Before him lay a beautiful, pregnant woman—dead.
His hands trembled, as the knife slipped. He stared at the blood smeared across his palms.
He had… killed a pregnant woman. On Christmas Eve.
A sickness rose in his stomach as realization hit. He didn't know who she was, but he sensed immediately: she was no ordinary woman. She carried power—immense power.
Little did he know that, she was the mate of the most powerful and ruthless alpha. She was the strongest luna alive. And now, she was dead.
There was going to be War. Bloodshed. Revenge.
Far away, in the Andhra Kingdom…
The Alpha stood before the tall window of his grand hall, his hands clasped behind his back.
His mate had left without his permission, despite his warnings. He had told his guards to search for her and bring her ba…
Then it hit.
A sharp, tearing pain shot through his arm—so sudden and violent he staggered. Blood began dripping down his forearm, staining the marble floor.
He inhaled sharply, bewildered.
But before he could process it, a second pain ripped through him—straight through his chest. He gasped, clutching himself as warm blood seeped through his fingers.
The bond.
The sacred, unbreakable mate bond.
It was dying.
The scream that tore from him shook the palace walls. He fell to his knees, head thrown back, roaring in agony—a sound every wolf in the kingdom felt in their bones.
Meanwhile, in Winterfall…
Soraya hummed softly as she hung silver ribbons across the tall Christmas tree in the main hall, her maids—stood beside her, smiling faintly as she fussed over the ornaments.
But then—
A sharp pain sliced through her arm.
She gasped, dropping the ribbon, clutching her arm as blood trickled down her wrist.
"Princess!" her mates rushed to her at once. "What happened?"
Soraya tried to breathe through it, but then—
A second pain struck.
Right in her chest.
As if invisible claws had stabbed her twice. The force knocked her balance away and she collapsed to the floor, screaming.
This wasn't her pain.
This wasn't her wound.
Something else had awakened.
Something forbidden.
Something older than the two kingdoms.
And in the silent space between her screams—
the triasal soul-bond snapped awake.