The Prince and the Prisoner
The throne room of Lunaris was meant to inspire awe—and fear.
Each inch of the obsidian chamber had been crafted with deliberate intent. Towering pillars, veined with silver moonstone, stretched toward a vaulted ceiling painted with the constellations of the Old World. Their glossy surfaces were etched with centuries of blood-soaked history: the victories of the Royal-Blooded, the annihilation of entire Forsaken clans, and the Moon Goddess herself, standing in solemn judgment above a battlefield strewn with her fallen children.
A hundred steps of polished black stone led from the arched doors to the moonstone dais. Many had walked that path only once—kneeling before the crown prince to beg for mercy they rarely received.
The chamber reeked of power.
And blood.
Kael Thorne, Crown Prince of Lunaris, sat at the heart of it all—his throne hewn from a single slab of pale moonstone, luminous even in shadow. It cast a cold aura around him, amplifying the chill that clung to the chamber like breath on ice.
He was dressed in black ceremonial armor, devoid of any ornament save for the silver sigil of his House—a crescent wolf's head etched into his chestplate. His midnight hair was slicked back, and his pale gold eyes were twin shards of winter.
The court was gathered in solemn silence, more restless than usual. Nobles in crimson velvet and silver-threaded cloaks lined either side of the throne room, their crescent-shaped pendants glinting like tiny moons in the torchlight. The elders, ancient as stone and twice as proud, watched with narrowed eyes.
Kael's scouts had returned before dawn, and their report had changed everything.
A Forsaken had been captured.
Not just any Forsaken.
This one had slaughtered two Royal trackers in the dead of night. Escaped three hounds bred for blood and scent. Vanished into the Black Pine Forest without a trace. Until now.
"She didn't run," the lead scout had said, his voice tight with disbelief. "She circled back. Killed one of ours. Injured another. Then surrendered herself."
As if she'd wanted to be found.
The heavy double doors at the end of the chamber groaned open. The sound echoed like thunder, and the tension snapped taut.
Two royal guards marched through, their armor dulled with dirt and blood. Between them—barely standing, her arms draped over their shoulders like dead weight—was a girl.
She wasn't screaming.
She wasn't begging.
She walked on her own until her legs gave out near the dais, and the guards dragged her the rest of the way, her heels scraping the stone floor.
They dropped her before the prince like a sack of meat.
Kael rose slowly, each movement deliberate. Seven steps led down from his throne, and he took them one at a time, his boots echoing with the weight of judgment. As he descended, he studied her.
Her face was bloodied, the left side swollen from a blow. Her ankle was wrapped in what looked like torn fabric, crimson seeping through it with every heartbeat. Her hands were scraped raw, fingers trembling with pain or fury—he couldn't tell which.
She lay crumpled at the base of the stairs. But there was nothing defeated about her. Her back was straight despite her injuries. Her chin tilted, not in submission, but in silent defiance.
Wild. Proud.
Something stirred inside him. Something he didn't like.
"Name," Kael commanded, his voice low, clear, and cold.
She didn't answer.
Not even a twitch.
He descended the final step, coming to a stop directly before her. She didn't lift her head, didn't so much as flinch beneath his gaze.
"Do you not know who I am?" he asked, voice quieter now. More dangerous.
Still nothing.
The nobles behind him rustled, some murmuring curses under their breath. To ignore the Crown Prince was a death sentence. A swift one.
Kael crouched, his armor groaning softly as he lowered himself to her level. He reached out, gloved fingers gripping her chin. Her skin was warm beneath the cold leather. Dirt smeared her cheekbones, a bruise darkened along her jaw—but beneath the mess, her features were unexpectedly fine. Delicate. Even regal.
She jerked her face from his grip with a strength that startled him.
"Touch me again," she rasped, her voice rough from thirst and smoke, "and I'll bite you."
Gasps rang through the court like wind through trees.
Kael's lips twitched.
Not in amusement.
But in interest.
He leaned in again, this time gripping her chin more firmly, tilting her head up so he could see her eyes.
Silver-blue.
And furious.
The moment their eyes met, the air changed.
The bond struck like lightning.
Not soft. Not gentle. A savage, soul-shattering collision.
Kael's breath locked in his throat. The world tilted. A heartbeat slammed through his chest, so loud he was certain everyone in the room could hear it.
Mate.
The word exploded in his skull, in his soul, in the very marrow of his bones. His wolf surged forward, clawing at the walls of his mind, howling with need.
He stared at her—at Selene—and knew.
Fate had tied him to this girl.
This Forsaken.
His mortal enemy.
He released her like she'd burned him and shot to his feet. His entire body was thrumming with conflicting instincts—claim her, kill her, protect her, destroy her.
Selene didn't look away.
She had felt it too.
There was no mistaking the way her breath caught, the way her pupils flared wide. But instead of fear, her expression was a challenge.
He searched her face—looking for something, anything that might make sense of this.
And then he saw it.
The mark beneath her right eye.
A faint crescent-shaped scar.
It was no brand.
It was a birthmark.
His blood turned to ice.
Only one line bore that mark. A line thought extinct for nearly two decades. The Royal-Blooded were descendants of the Moon Goddess herself—but even among them, there had once been a second branch. A family cursed and cast out for their betrayal during the last rebellion.
That line had been wiped out. Every last one.
Or so they believed.
Kael stepped back slowly.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper now, tight with disbelief.
The girl hesitated. Her eyes flicked to the court, then back to him.
"Selene," she said, and the name curled through the room like smoke. "Daughter of no one. Forsaken, like the rest."
The reaction was instant.
Shouts erupted.
"She lies!"
"She bears the mark of the Moon Queen's bloodline!"
"That line was destroyed!"
"Kill her now!"
Kael raised one gloved hand, and silence fell like a blade.
He turned to face the court. His expression was stone. Cold. Sharp.
"She is mine," he said.
The words weren't planned. He hadn't meant to say them. But the bond pulsed in his chest, undeniable.
The court fell into stunned, horrified silence.
"You will not touch her," he continued, his voice frost. "She will be taken to the lower chambers under royal protection. Anyone who questions this decision may face me in the ring."
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Kael turned back to Selene, who was still kneeling, still bleeding, still watching him like she was already planning how to break him.
He hated her.
He wanted her.
She would be the end of him. He could feel it in his bones.
"Guard," he said, his voice like steel drawn from a sheath.
A soldier stepped forward. "Yes, Your Highness?"
"Take her. Tend her wounds. Bind her with silver if she resists. But she lives."
"Yes, sire."
The guards stepped forward. Selene did not resist as they pulled her upright. Her legs barely held, but she did not stumble.
Not until they reached the door did she look back.
She turned her head over her shoulder, blood in her hair, fire in her eyes.
And she smiled.
Not a kind smile.
A promise.
Of chaos.
Of blood.
Of ruin.
Kael remained standing long after the doors closed behind her. The court shifted nervously behind him, murmurs already rising despite their fear.
His hand moved to the hilt of his dagger, fingers white-knuckled with restraint.
He had faced assassins. Beasts. Traitors and kings.
But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this.
His mate was Forsaken.
And she would tear his world apart.
To be continued...