Chapter 3: The Beginning of It All
The snow had melted by morning, leaving only traces of frost on the tips of the pine needles. Elowen awoke not in a royal bed, nor under the silken curtains of Aurelion, but on a simple blanket laid atop the stone circle. Kael was nowhere in sight, and the wolves had retreated to the tree line, their watchful eyes glimmering even in the weak dawn light.
She rose, brushing snow from her cloak, and gazed out across the forest. Here, the empire felt impossibly distant—its marble halls, its endless etiquette, its carefully calculated politics. Yet she carried it inside her, in the weight of a crown she had not yet claimed and the memory of a childhood that had been both a sanctuary and a prison.
Her mind drifted back, as it often did, to the earliest days she could remember.
She had been six when she first climbed the terrace of the royal palace and saw the empire stretch out like a map beneath her tiny fingers. Her father, Emperor Valerian, had been a distant figure then, more legend than parent, though her mother, Queen Althea, had given her the kind of love that felt like sunlight. Those mornings were golden—her laughter echoing through the halls, the scent of roses from the palace gardens mingling with the ink and parchment of the council chambers.
She had loved those days, and they had loved her.
But even then, shadows lingered at the edges of her life. She remembered the first time she understood fear—not the ordinary fear of scraped knees or lost toys, but a deeper, more insidious terror. She had watched soldiers march from the gates, their armor gleaming in the sun, knowing that one by one, some of those men would not return. The empire demanded sacrifices, and the princess was not exempt from witnessing them.
By the age of ten, she had learned the rules of court: when to bow, when to smile, when to hide tears, and when to conceal thoughts that could make her seem weak. She had also learned the cruelty that power often disguised as justice. Ministers argued over territory as though lives were nothing more than pawns in a game, and her parents' smiles often masked a world of compromise she could not yet understand.
Yet, in that structured world, Elowen had found her own moments of rebellion. She had sneaked into the kitchens to taste honeyed cakes meant only for the court. She had wandered the palace libraries, poring over maps of lands she would never see and stories of heroes who defied kings. She had learned the names of the stars above the palace roof, imagining herself riding across constellations instead of hallways lined with gold.
The duality of her childhood—the golden and the grim—had shaped her into someone who could navigate both light and shadow. She had learned to laugh even when the court whispered of war. She had learned to speak truth even when everyone around her bowed to lies. And she had learned to trust herself, because no one else ever seemed capable of doing so consistently.
Her thoughts shifted to the harsher lessons—the nights when letters arrived stained with blood, when envoys returned in coffins, when the empire's wealth could not protect her from grief. She remembered the plague that swept through the northern provinces when she was twelve. The palace had been quiet then, too quiet, as if mourning was a secret to be hidden. She had watched nurses carry the sick, some crying, some silent, and she had felt helpless. That helplessness had been a lesson in its own right: that courage is often choosing to act even when one feels powerless.
Then there were the betrayals, subtle and sharp, delivered by smiles and whispered words. Friends who turned their allegiance, servants who whispered secrets to rivals, courtiers who whispered that a princess should not meddle in affairs of state. Each betrayal was a lesson etched into her mind, teaching her to measure people, to read intent, to discern loyalty from convenience. And yet, despite all that, Elowen never hardened entirely. Compassion remained at the core of her being, though tempered by vigilance.
She shook herself, the memories folding back into the quiet of the morning. The Iron Wilds were not her home, and yet, strangely, she felt at ease here. Perhaps because here, in the presence of Kael and his wolves, she was forced to confront fear without the distractions of courtly life.
Kael emerged from the trees, moving with the same effortless grace that had captivated her the night before. He stopped a few paces away, watching her with a mixture of curiosity and caution.
"You are up early," he said, voice low, carrying across the clearing. "The frost does not seem to bother you."
"I have grown used to the cold," she replied. "Not just the weather. The world itself can be cold."
He inclined his head slightly, a gesture that suggested understanding rather than judgment. "It seems we are alike in that way. The cold teaches things warmth never could."
Elowen studied him. "Tell me about your past," she said suddenly. "You speak of survival and inevitability, but I want to know… who Kael was before he became the King of Werewolves."
Kael's eyes darkened, the silver glow retreating as he regarded her. "My past is not kind," he said. "It is not gilded with roses and laughter. It is sharp stones, endless nights, the scent of blood and betrayal. I learned power first, empathy second, and trust… almost never. That is why I test those who enter my lands so carefully."
Elowen nodded, sensing the weight of his words. "I understand," she said. "My past is not all roses either. I have seen death, deceit, cruelty. I have seen the empire tremble and falter. I have seen people die because others valued power over life. And yet…" She paused, taking a deep breath. "…I have also known love, laughter, and moments of pure joy. That is what I carry with me now, even into your lands. That is what makes me who I am."
Kael's gaze softened. "You are strong," he said, almost a whisper. "Stronger than I expected."
Elowen met his eyes steadily. "Strength is learned," she said. "In every loss, every betrayal, every night of fear… you either let it break you, or you let it forge you."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The forest was quiet except for the distant rustle of wolves and the soft drip of melting snow. Then Kael nodded, a subtle acknowledgment of the truth in her words.
"You are… unusual," he said finally. "Not afraid to see the world as it is, yet unwilling to let it make you bitter. That is dangerous, you know. Dangerous to me, dangerous to the empire, dangerous even to yourself."
Elowen allowed herself a small smile. "Perhaps. Or perhaps it is the only way to survive in a world ruled by fear and legend."
Kael's lips curved into something almost like respect. "Perhaps," he agreed. "And perhaps this is the beginning of it all—of what you and I might become, and of what the empire may never understand until it is too late."
Elowen looked out across the clearing, the stones, and the forest beyond. She felt the weight of her past, the burden of her title, and the flicker of hope that the future could be different. She did not yet know what awaited her in the Iron Wilds, nor how the bond with Kael might grow—or fracture—but for the first time, she felt ready to meet whatever came.
And in that quiet morning light, with the solid, watchful presence of the King of Werewolves at her side, she understood that beginnings were never simple. They were forged in memory, in loss, in courage, and in the choice to step forward despite the fear that clawed at the edges of the heart.
This was the beginning of it all.