On the eve of the Harvest Festival, Castle Wolfgang was transformed into a sea of gold and crimson.
Garlands woven from wheat sheaves and berries draped the long corridors, while the air was thick with the sweet perfume of roasted honey, cinnamon, and apple cider. Musicians rehearsed dance tunes beneath the arcades; the resonance of strings intertwined with the delicate clinking of silverware as ladies-in-waiting inventoried the table settings, composing the overture to the festivities.
Liliana stood at the center of the dressing chamber, feeling like a sacrificial offering wrapped with exquisite care.
"Hold still, Your Highness," Lady Margaret's voice came from behind her, fingers deftly adjusting the ribbons at her waist. "Tonight, you must be flawless. A single crease, one stray lock of hair, and the nobles will feast on it all evening."
The gown was fashioned from moon-silver silk, tailored so closely it felt like a second skin. Its low neckline bared her pale shoulders and collarbones; the skirt spilled from her waist and trailed three feet behind her in a splendid train, every inch embroidered with dense silver-thread wolf sigils. It was astonishingly heavy—and astonishingly beautiful: a cold, fragile beauty, like a rose encased in frost.
"The jewels," Lady Margaret signaled.
What the velvet tray presented was no ordinary adornment, but a complete set of moonstone ornaments—tiara, necklace, and bracelets. Each gem was carved into a crescent, within which silver mist drifted and coiled. Most striking of all was the necklace's pendant: a teardrop-shaped centerpiece the size of a dove's egg, cradled in a thorn-wrought silver setting.
"This is the 'Tear of the Moon Goddess,'" Lady Margaret said as she fastened it around Liliana's neck, the cold stone resting against her skin. "A relic said to belong to the first priestess of the Moon. His Majesty selected it personally from the royal vault and commanded that you wear it."
Liliana gazed at her reflection. Her golden hair was arranged in an intricate chignon, revealing the elegant line of her neck; silver jewelry shimmered against her pallor. She looked every inch a princess, a queen—everything she was not.
"Why would he do this?" she asked softly.
Lady Margaret paused, her tone uncharacteristically gentle. "Because tonight, you will stand at his side, facing every doubt and every hostility. These jewels are not mere ornaments; they are a declaration—of his protection, and of a status no one may challenge."
A knock sounded at the door, steady and familiar.
"Enter," Liliana said.
Arthas stepped into the chamber. He wore full royal regalia: a black velvet coat embroidered with gold-thread wolves, a silver-gray wolf-fur mantle over his shoulders, a ceremonial sword at his waist. The crown upon his head was not heavy gold but a simple circlet of silver, set at the brow with an amber stone the color of his eyes.
His gaze lingered on Liliana for only a heartbeat—then his pupils tightened.
The air in the room seemed to thin.
Lady Margaret and the attendants withdrew in silence, closing the door behind them.
Arthas approached, his footsteps soundless. He stopped before her, his eyes traveling slowly from her face down to the massive moonstone at her throat, across the exposed skin framed by the gown's neckline, and finally to the slender waist bound by her corset.
"Turn," he said, his voice lower than usual.
Liliana obeyed, rotating slowly. The hem of her skirt whispered against the floor. She could feel his gaze branded upon her back, heavy with a tangible warmth.
When she faced him again, Arthas lifted a hand but did not touch her. His fingers hovered an inch from her cheek, tracing the contour of her profile through empty air.
"Do you dislike it?" Liliana asked, her voice inexplicably tight.
"I like it far too much," Arthas replied, withdrawing his hand. His eyes were dark as a moonless sea. "So much that I want to lock you in a high tower and let no one but myself behold you."
It was not a love confession, but a statement of fact. The wolf's possessiveness flickered in his gaze, locked in fierce combat with human restraint.
Liliana lifted her chin. "I am your queen, not your prisoner."
"You are both." Arthas finally touched her, his fingers brushing the gem at her throat. "And tonight, I need you to play the queen well. Smile. Nod. Accept their flattery with grace. But if anyone touches you—"
His fingers suddenly tightened around the Tear of the Moon Goddess. The stone glowed in his palm, its temperature rising.
"—tell me. I will handle it."
"How?" Liliana met his eyes.
Arthas smiled, revealing the faint point of a canine. "In the way of a wolf king."
The ballroom blazed with the light of a thousand candles, crystal chandeliers fracturing it into shards of rainbow brilliance. Nobles in resplendent attire gathered like exotic birds within a gilded cage. When the horns announced the entrance of the king and queen, every sound ceased.
Arthas placed Liliana's hand upon his arm. His warmth radiated through layers of fabric, steady and searing. They descended the central staircase, every step exposed to hundreds of watching eyes.
Those gazes pierced her like needles—measuring, envious, curious, hostile. Liliana held her smile, chin slightly raised, just as Lady Margaret had trained her. Yet her fingers trembled faintly where they rested on Arthas's arm.
"Do not be afraid," he murmured, his lips barely moving. "They are the ones who should fear."
Before the throne, Duke Reginald stepped forward to bow. He wore deep violet robes; his silver hair was slicked back with meticulous care, revealing a high brow and sharp gray eyes.
"Your Majesty. Your Grace." He inclined himself flawlessly. "A blessed Harvest Festival to you both. May the Moon Goddess favor this kingdom—and your new alliance."
The final words carried a barb of barely concealed irony.
Arthas inclined his head, never releasing Liliana's hand. "Reginald, I hear your lands yielded a fine harvest this year. I trust you remember that one-tenth belongs to the Crown."
The duke's smile stiffened for a heartbeat. "Of course, Your Majesty."
The next two hours were the most exhausting performance Liliana had ever endured. She conversed with dozens of nobles, memorized names and titles, received hollow compliments, and sampled wine cloyingly sweet. Arthas remained no more than half a step away, his hand occasionally resting at her lower back—an apparently casual gesture that was, in truth, silent reassurance and unmistakable claim.
When the musicians struck the first dance, Arthas turned to her and formally extended his hand.
"My queen, will you dance with me?"
It was part of the ritual, yet when his fingers closed around hers, when his other hand settled at her waist, Liliana felt something beyond ceremony crackle in the air.
The dance began—a slow waltz, triple time, turns and gliding steps. Arthas led flawlessly; his arm was steady and sure, each movement placing her precisely where she needed to be.
"You dance beautifully," he murmured during a turn.
"Lady Margaret trained me for three weeks," Liliana replied, concentrating on not stepping on his foot.
"No," Arthas said, his hand tightening slightly at her waist. "Not training. You have rhythm in your blood—like moonlight flowing with the tide."
As they spun, her skirt flared, silver embroidery flashing in the candlelight. She felt the surrounding stares, especially the jealous scrutiny of noblewomen. Arthas Wolfgang was the kingdom's most feared—and most desired—man, and now the woman in his arms was her, a commoner of unknown origin.
"They are talking about me," Liliana whispered.
"Let them." Arthas drew her closer through an intricate turn, so close her chest nearly brushed his. "The night you sang for me beneath the moon, I decided then—you are mine. No curse, no conspiracy, no condemnation of the entire realm will change that."
The music swelled, and their steps quickened. Liliana stopped thinking of the choreography and surrendered to his lead, letting the melody and the motion carry her. The world narrowed to the dance floor alone, to the heat of his embrace, to her reflection shimmering in his amber-gold eyes.
At the crescendo, Arthas suddenly lifted her high. She gasped, instinctively wrapping her arms around his neck. As she spun in the air, the star charts painted across the domed ceiling seemed to revolve in the candlelight.
Then he lowered her, gently, her body sliding down along his until her toes met the floor. On the final beat, he pulled her into his arms, sealing the dance.
Thunderous applause erupted.
Arthas did not release her at once. His forehead rested against hers, breath unsteady, his eyes blazing with something fierce and incandescent.
"Liliana," he murmured, her name meant for her alone. "If I—"
He never finished.
For in that instant, the Moonshadow Vow upon Liliana's wrist flared with searing heat.
She sucked in a sharp breath, instinctively looking at Arthas. His expression shifted from tenderness to a predator's alertness; his pupils constricted into the vertical slits of a beast.
"Lower your head," he commanded, his voice cold as steel.
Liliana obeyed without thought.
A heartbeat later, the air split with a whistling shriek.
Arthas turned with inhuman speed, placing himself fully before her. An arrow—its tip gleaming with ominous silver—shot straight for his chest.
Time seemed to freeze.
Liliana saw the shaft spinning through the air, saw Arthas make no attempt to evade it, saw him even open his arms as though to embrace the fatal blow.
The sound of metal tearing through flesh was dull and horrific.
The arrow pierced his left shoulder, burying itself to the fletching. Arthas staggered but did not fall. He dropped to one knee, one hand braced on the floor, the other still shielding Liliana.
The hall fell into stunned silence—then erupted in screams.
"Assassin!"
"Protect the king!"
Guards rushed toward the arrow's origin—a darkened window along the upper gallery—but Liliana saw only Arthas.
Blood—dark, hot blood—spread rapidly through his black coat, dripping onto the polished marble floor. His breathing grew labored; the muscles of his shoulder spasmed in pain.
"Arthas…" Liliana knelt beside him, her trembling hand reaching for the arrow.
"Don't touch it," he growled, cold sweat beading on his brow. "The tip is pure silver. To a werewolf…it's poison."
Silver. A wave of icy terror swept through her. Silver suppressed a werewolf's regeneration, caused wounds to rot and fester, and would ultimately prove fatal.
Arthas tried to rise, but his body swayed. The curse stirred with his weakness; his eyes flickered between gold and feral amber, his fingers deforming as claws began to emerge.
The nobles recoiled in horror. They had seen their king transform under a full moon—but never lose control while still in human form.
"Everyone step back!" Liliana rose suddenly, her voice startlingly calm. "Guards, seal the hall—no one in or out! Physicians, summon the royal physicians immediately!"
Her commands rang out, crisp and authoritative, brooking no defiance. Even Duke Reginald froze in astonishment.
Arthas looked at her, surprise flashing in his eyes—followed by pride.
But the curse would not wait. His bones began to crack and grind; the threat of a second arrow hung in the air, and silver venom spread through his blood. Liliana knew that if he transformed now, an injured wolf would be even more dangerous—and the guards might be forced to kill him.
She made her choice.
Dropping to her knees, she cupped Arthas's face and forced him to look at her. "Listen to my voice, Arthas. Don't look anywhere else—only listen to me."
His pupils were already unfocused; a low growl rumbled in his throat.
Liliana began to sing.
Not a full song, just a few simple syllables, carried on a melody gentle yet unwavering. Her hand stroked his cheek; her thumb wiped the cold sweat from his brow. The moonstone at her brow began to glow—faintly at first, then brighter and brighter—as silver mist spilled from the gem, coiling around her fingers and seeping into his skin.
"Look at me," she whispered, her song weaving through her words. "You are not a beast. You are a king. You are Arthas Wolfgang—my husband."
The word husband sent a violent shudder through him. His eyes refocused, locking onto her face.
Silver light bled from her fingertips into his veins, battling the silver poison. It was not healing—she did not yet possess such power—but it was soothing, an anchor pulling his slipping consciousness back from the brink of savagery.
"Don't stop…" he rasped, his hand clamping around her wrist with crushing force.
Liliana ignored the pain and kept singing. She did not know the meaning of the melody; she only knew it rose from deep within her blood, from instinct woven into the legacy of the Silver Moon. The light intensified until both of them were enveloped in a cocoon of silver radiance.
The hall watched in breathless silence: the queen kneeling before her wounded king, silver light pouring from her as though moonbeams had taken human form, gently binding the raging wolf king.
At last, Arthas's breathing steadied. Clarity returned to his eyes. He remained weak, the poison still within him, but the curse was temporarily subdued.
Only then did the physicians dare approach.
"Your Majesty, we must remove the arrow—"
"Here," Arthas interrupted, his gaze never leaving Liliana. "The queen will keep singing."
The procedure was carried out in the center of the hall. Arthas refused the infirmary, refused to let Liliana out of his sight. He sat upon the throne while she stood beside him, one hand resting on his uninjured shoulder, her song unbroken.
When the physician cut into flesh and clamped onto the shaft, Arthas made not a sound. His other hand gripped Liliana's, fingers interlaced, so tightly her bones ached. She did not pull away—she held him all the more firmly.
When the arrow was drawn free, blood surged forth, splattering her silver gown like poppies blooming upon moonlight. The wound was deep enough to expose bone; the surrounding flesh had blackened and decayed from silver poison.
"Debride and suture—no silver instruments," the chief physician ordered.
Throughout it all, Arthas never looked away from Liliana. His gaze was dark and layered—pain, gratitude, possession, and something deeper still, something that frightened her.
When the wound was finally bound, when the poison was neutralized by a specially prepared draught, Arthas at last allowed himself to be helped to his feet.
"The assassin?" he asked Captain Gareth, his voice weak but steady.
"Captured, Your Majesty. A killer sworn to a southern lord, but…" Gareth hesitated. "The arrow came from the royal collection. The silver tip bears a forging mark known only to the castle smithy."
A traitor within. A chill ran through Liliana.
Arthas's expression hardened. "Put the assassin in the water dungeon. I will interrogate him myself at dawn. Now—"
He turned to Liliana and, without warning, swept her into his arms, heedless of his wounded shoulder.
"Your Majesty!" the physicians cried out.
"Silence." Arthas carried her toward the doors, his stride steady as though uninjured. "Tonight ends here. The Harvest Festival is suspended until I uncover the truth."
He bore her through the hushed hall, past stunned nobles, up the central staircase. Blood seeped through his bandages, staining her silver gown, yet he did not release her.
Only once they reached the royal bedchamber, only when the heavy oak doors closed behind them and shut out the world, did Arthas set her down.
She faltered, her legs giving way. He caught her, and together they sank onto the edge of the massive four-poster bed.
Silence spread, broken only by the crackle of the hearth and their ragged breathing.
Liliana stared at the blood on her hem, at the crimson seeping through Arthas's bandages—and began to tremble. The delayed terror surged like a tide; she felt close to retching.
"Shh…" Arthas wrapped his uninjured arm around her, drawing her against him. "It's over. You're safe now."
"You almost died," she said, her voice breaking. "That arrow was aimed at my heart. Why did you block it?"
Arthas rested his chin atop her head. "Because you are mine."
"Because of the curse? Because if I die, you die too?"
"No." He drew back just enough for her to see his eyes. "Because you are Liliana. Because you sang for me on the night of the full moon. Because when you stood before me—without fear, with only resolve in your eyes—I knew then that I could trust you with my back, with my life, with everything I am."
His thumb brushed her lips, impossibly gentle.
"Tonight you saw what this court truly is: poison arrows beneath a beautiful veneer, murder hidden behind smiling masks. You may choose to leave. I can send you somewhere safe, give you a new name, let you live out your days in obscurity."
Liliana's heart raced. "And you?"
"I will remain here and continue this war." His gaze dimmed. "But if you stay—if you choose to stand at my side—then I will do more than protect you. I will teach you to fight, to rule, to survive and triumph in a court crawling with vipers. I will make you strong—strong enough that no one can ever harm you, not even me."
"Is this a proposal?" she tried to sound light, and failed.
"The first wedding was politics, a curse, a path with no alternatives." Arthas's hand slid to the nape of her neck, holding her gaze fast. "But if you wish, we can have a second. Under moonlight, with only the two of us, swearing vows as our true selves. Not king and princess, not wolf and silver moon—only Arthas and Liliana."
Tears welled in her eyes. She did not know why she was crying—for this twisted fate, for this blood-soaked romance, or for the scarred yet indomitable man before her.
"Kiss me," she whispered.
Arthas froze.
"If I am to stay, if I am to fight beside you," Liliana lifted her hand, fingertips grazing his cheek, "then I need to know you want me—not because of blood or curse."
Silence stretched between them. Candlelight danced along the walls, their shadows intertwining upon the tapestries in an intimate silhouette.
Then Arthas bent and kissed her.
At first it was tentative, lips brushing lips as if to confirm the moment was real. When Liliana did not retreat but leaned into him, the kiss deepened, urgent and consuming.
This was no courtly peck, no obligation of a contractual marriage. It was a hungry kiss, tinged with blood and truth—the wolf king finally claiming his desire, the silver moon ceasing to flee its pull.
Arthas's hand slid from her nape down her spine, settling at her waist to draw her closer. Liliana felt every line of his body: broad shoulders, solid chest, taut waist. He was larger, stronger, yet his touch was reverent, almost devotional, as though she were the most fragile treasure in existence.
Their mouths entwined, Liliana tasted blood—his and hers, mingled beyond distinction. It recalled the ritual of the blood moon curse, but this time it was a willing exchange, a chosen union.
Arthas gently laid her back upon the bed, hovering above her and carefully sparing his wounded shoulder. His silver hair fell like a curtain beside her face. In the dim light his eyes burned amber-bright, intent, as though etching this moment into eternity.
"I can stop," he rasped, his breath scorching her skin. "If you don't want—"
Her answer was to unfasten the buttons of his coat. Her fingers trembled, not with fear but anticipation. One by one the clasps sprang free, revealing blood-soaked bandages and the unbroken bronze of his skin beneath.
She pressed her palm to his chest, feeling the powerful beat of his heart—such formidable life within such vulnerable flesh.
Arthas released a low sound, like a man freed from long captivity, and kissed her again, deeper, more demanding. His hands found the ties of her gown, deftly undoing the intricate knots.
The whisper of falling silk echoed in the quiet room. When the final layer slipped away and she lay bare beneath his gaze, Liliana instinctively moved to cover herself.
"Don't," Arthas murmured, catching her wrists and resting them at her sides. "Let me see you. You are as if moonlight itself took form."
His eyes traced every inch of her: slender collarbones, pale flushed breasts, smooth belly, long legs. The heat in his gaze was intense yet unthreatening, like an artist revering his masterpiece.
Then his mouth followed where his eyes had gone.
From her brow to her lips, her jaw, her throat. He lingered at the pulse of her neck, teeth grazing skin without biting, savoring the thrum of life beneath. Liliana shuddered, fingers threading into his silver hair.
His kisses traveled lower. He lingered at her chest, lavishing equal attention on each curve, fingers circling, tongue teasing and drawing forth gasps until her body arched, a moan escaping her.
Arthas chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through her. "Sensitive little thing."
His mouth traced the line of her body downward; she nearly jolted, but his hands steadied her hips, firm and gentle.
"Arthas…" she breathed.
"I'm here," he replied, eyes alight with feral promise. "I have been since the moment you stepped into the throne room."
He returned to her lips, kissing her as his hand slipped between her thighs. At first his touch was exploratory, reverent. When her body opened to him with a sigh of invitation, he slowly pressed a finger inside.
Liliana gasped. This was not her first time—but Arthas was different. His touch was unerringly precise, knowing exactly how to move, how to bend, where to press until light flared behind her eyes.
"Relax," he whispered against her ear, adding a second finger. "Open for me, Liliana. Let me be part of you, as you already are part of me."
He took his time, kissing her, distracting her until her body welcomed him, until she moved instinctively to meet his hand, seeking more.
When he judged her ready, he withdrew and positioned himself between her legs. He did not enter at once, instead brushing gently against her most sensitive place, watching her writhe and gasp beneath him.
"Say you want me," he demanded softly, voice rough with need.
"I want you," Liliana answered without hesitation, arms winding around his neck to pull him down. "I want you, Arthas. Now."
The moment he entered stole her breath. He was larger than she expected, the fullness bordering on pain. Arthas stilled, giving her time, his forehead pressed to hers.
"Are you all right?" he asked, concern threading his desire.
She nodded, unable to speak, drawing him closer.
He began to move, slowly at first, almost cautiously. As her body responded—legs wrapping around his waist, nails digging into his back—his rhythm deepened and quickened.
Each thrust was tender yet relentless, driven by lingering fear and newly claimed longing. Every advance went deeper, every retreat left her aching for the next.
Liliana was lost in the whirl of sensation: his weight, the tension of his muscles, the salt of his sweat, her own rising cries. The world shrank to the bed, to the point where their bodies joined.
Arthas seemed to lose himself as well. His wounded shoulder tore open, blood spilling onto her skin, but he did not notice. His kisses grew wild, teeth marking her lips, neck, shoulders—faint brands of possession.
"Look at me," he commanded during a particularly deep thrust. "Look at me while I claim you."
She met his blazing gaze. In those amber depths she saw the curse's shadow, the king's burden, the wolf's savagery—and something else: an intense, exclusive devotion that nearly frightened her.
She understood then: Arthas Wolfgang was incapable of halves. He would either refuse entirely or give himself without reserve. And now, he had chosen her.
The realization sent her over the edge. Her body clenched, white light exploding through her senses. Arthas followed, shuddering as he released, burying his face in her neck with a long, satisfied breath, like a traveler finally home.
They lay entwined, breathless, sweat and blood mingling upon their skin in intimate patterns.
After a while, Arthas propped himself up to inspect his shoulder. The bandages were soaked through, the wound split anew.
"You need treatment," Liliana said, trying to rise.
"Wait." He caught her. "One more thing first."
From the bedside table he took a small knife—not silver—and cut his palm. Then he took her hand and did the same.
Their blood mingled again, without rite or witness, save the moonlight spilling through the window.
"By blood," Arthas murmured, pressing their joined hands to his heart, "I, Arthas Wolfgang, swear: my life, my crown, all that I am, belong to Liliana Green. Not by curse, not by duty, but by choice."
Tears streamed down her face. "I, Liliana Green, accept your oath and return it in kind: my life, my loyalty, my everything belong to Arthas Wolfgang. Not from fear, not from coercion, but from choice."
Their blood seeped into their skin, forging a bond deeper than magic.
Arthas kissed away her tears, then allowed her to rebind his wound. She worked carefully, tender and intent. When she finished, he pulled her onto his lap, bodies meeting once more. Liliana laughed shyly, fingers tracing his chest, his scars, his warmth. He drew a fur blanket around them, and their heat intertwined again.
"Sleep," he whispered against her ear. "I'll keep watch."
"Your wound—"
"A werewolf's healing has already begun," he said, holding her close, her back against his chest. "It will scab by morning. Now close your eyes."
Liliana obeyed, exhausted yet vividly awake, feeling his hand stroke her in a slow, steady rhythm, his breath warm at her neck, the fragile, newborn bond between them pulsing with truth.
As she drifted toward sleep, his voice came again, barely more than a breath.
"Liliana?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you for choosing to stay."
She answered by lacing her fingers with his.
Outside, the moon rose full and bright. Somewhere deep within the castle, a silver mirror rippled, reflecting the two lovers asleep in one another's arms.
Beyond the glass, a gloved hand tightened.
"Too late," a low voice murmured. "The bond is forged. But perhaps… it can be used."
The mirror shifted, revealing an ancient map, a single point glowing upon it—the border town, Liliana's burned homeland, the site of the ruined apothecary.
"There," the voice whispered. "The secret of the Silver Moon awaits. And when it is revealed, Wolf King, what will you choose—your kingdom, or your beloved?"
That night, Liliana dreamed of weeping kin, of forbidden chambers, of a portrait of the lost princess…