Zarek's POV
The throne room suffocated with voices—council members spitting demands, advisors whispering fears of rebellion, Nira's sharp words slicing through the tension like blades. But Zarek's focus drifted elsewhere. His body sat rigid on the silver-forged throne, but his mind? Anchored to the fragile pulse that pulsed faintly from the chambers above.
Her.
His mate.
Delicate. Mortal. Fevered and unconscious for days, yet somehow, her presence stormed his senses more violently than battlefields ever had. Her scent clung to him, threaded into the very fabric of his being—a maddening blend of warmth, earth, and mortal fragility.
His wolf prowled beneath his skin, agitated, snarling for proximity.
And then—
A scream.
Sharp. Raw. Familiar.
Her.
The entire hall froze, but Zarek was already gone.
Boots slammed against marble, his power rippling in his wake as guards scrambled aside, startled servants pressing to the walls. His pulse thundered in his ears, his wolf roaring beneath his skin.
Her terror hit him harder than any blade.
Corridors blurred. Silver runes pulsed along the walls as he stormed through the castle, fury sharpening every stride.
And then—he saw her.
Sprawled on the cold floor, tangled in silk, wide eyes glassy with disorientation.
His mate.
Alive.
Breathing.
Disheveled. Fragile. But awake.
The relief nearly crippled him.
He approached cautiously, his gaze devouring every inch of her—messy curls framing flushed cheeks, bruises faint against mortal skin, confusion swirling in her wide green eyes.
She didn't recognize him yet. The bond hadn't settled. The fever haze still clung to her.
Her voice—cracked, dry—muttered in unfamiliar tones, panic simmering beneath forced sarcasm.
Zarek's heart clenched.
"Veylin'ka... ilren sai?" he spoke low, careful, his voice vibrating with restrained power, though she wouldn't understand.
She flinched, mistrust flashing across her features.
Fragile. So impossibly delicate.
Kneeling, he brushed tangled curls from her cheek, his fingers trembling as warmth bloomed beneath his touch. His wolf snarled, demanding closeness, demanding protection.
Footsteps approached—his parents, Nira trailing behind.
The moment fractured. Instinct overrode hesitation.
Without waiting, he lifted her—small, warm, light as mist—into his arms. Her protests were weak, limbs flailing like she expected him to vanish at a moment's notice.
"Stay," he rumbled softly, carrying her back to the chamber.
The silken bed greeted them, glowing runes humming faintly along the walls.
Zarek tucked her beneath velvet layers, swaddling her small frame, ensuring no chill or danger could reach her.
Her mortal relics—the worn backpack—he retrieved reverently, sensing its importance despite its mundane appearance. Its tattered surface reeked of foreign places beyond their realm, but it smelled of her.
She dug through it, displaying strange Earth objects—melted chocolate, broken devices, tangled cords. Zarek watched, confusion blending with silent amusement.
Nira assessed her, his mother cooed gently, his father hovered like stone, unreadable.
The mortal curled beneath the blankets, exhaustion dulling her stubborn spark.
"Vel'en sai... sha'len," he whispered, hand gently covering her eyes, forcing them closed as she protested.
She slept.
Only then did his pulse steady.
Later...
The bath incident.
Zarek hadn't meant to invade her space. The maids had stalled, and impatience gnawed at him. He stepped inside—steam curling through the room—and froze.
His mate.
Practically naked.
Dripping. Flushed. Wrapped in nothing but a towel.
The maids shrieked. His mate screamed louder.
Zarek smirked despite himself, hands lifting in surrender. Her mortified glare seared into him as he retreated, the echo of her shriek lingering like music.
Breakfast followed—tension simmering beneath civil gestures.
She sat beside him, small and wary, cheeks flushed as their knees brushed beneath the table.
Her sarcasm returned—muttering sharp quips under her breath he barely understood, but the tone? The spark?
His wolf purred.
His parents observed—his father cold, his mother amused.
Zarek offered bread, his eyes softening as she accepted.
The meal passed, and reluctantly, he let his mother guide her away—to gardens, to distractions, while duty demanded his return.
The council reconvened.
Nira's sharp voice cut through strategy discussions. His father barked orders.
And then—the wizard arrived.
Zarek's eyes narrowed.
A male.
Young. Green-haired. Smirking.
Not the female sorceress he'd expected.
His wolf snarled.
"He's the one the Witch Queen sent," Nira explained flatly.
Zarek's lip curled, unimpressed. The wizard's magic barely registered—faint, unstable. His presence? Infuriating.
Mind-linking his mother, Zarek commanded, "Bring her. Now."
Moments later, the doors opened.
His mate entered—led by his mother, eyes wide, absorbing every unfamiliar detail.
The wizard's eyes locked onto her, his gaze lingering.
Possessive rage flared.
The confrontation began.
Tension crackled. His wolf paced, snarling beneath his skin.
The bond tethered him—her scent, her fragile form anchoring his every thought.
After the heated argument with everyone I finally gave permission to let the bastard pest to do magic on my mate because it was necessary for us to communicate and this language barrier wasn't a bit helpful.
Zarek stood rigid, every muscle coiled, eyes burning holes into the green-haired wizard as he dared approach her.
His mate.
The mortal female—fragile, wide-eyed, still processing this world, still tangled in confusion—but hers was the only presence Zarek's wolf acknowledged now.
The wizard murmured incantations, words older than kingdoms slipping from his tongue as faint magic stirred the air. His palm pressed lightly to her forehead—a gesture meant for clarity, translation, connection.
The room fell silent.
Zarek's heartbeat thundered behind his ribs, pulse synced with the hum of ancient runes etched into the chamber walls. Every instinct bristled to rip the wizard apart if even a single spark of his magic hurt her.
Light flared between them—a soft, golden glow wrapping her in delicate strands of energy. It pulsed… once… twice… like a heartbeat forming between two different worlds.
His father watched, impassive. Nira stood to the side, tense. His mother's eyes glittered with cautious hope.
Zarek barely breathed.
And then—
The glow faded. The wizard's hand dropped.
Nothing.
No dramatic collapse. No painful reaction. But no immediate understanding either.
His mate simply sat there—bedraggled, half-burritoed in the chair, her chaotic curls still damp from the bath disaster earlier.
Her eyes darted between them all, cautious, assessing—until they landed on the wizard again. And then—
Her voice.
Clear. Crisp. Drenched in sarcasm.
"…Did I just get scanned like airport luggage?"
Zarek blinked.
His wolf… paused.
The wizard looked stunned. His parents exchanged wide glances. Even Nira's stoic mask cracked slightly.
Her words—strange, accented, but perfectly comprehensible now. The spell worked.
And yet—what in the realms was 'airport luggage?'
Confusion rippled across the room, but Zarek's focus stayed locked on her.
His mate—small, disheveled, utterly out of place—yet sharp-tongued, defiant, alive.
The sound of her voice, fully understood, settled into him like a blade sliding home. The unfamiliar syllables painted her personality clearer than any magical bond had so far—irritated, stubborn, unfiltered.
Mine.
The possessive word rumbled through his veins, unspoken but absolute.
Around him, shock flickered across their perfect, regal faces—centuries-old warriors and rulers baffled by one bedraggled mortal wrapped in sarcasm and soft fabrics.
But Zarek's lips twitched—barely noticeable—but there.
Her spirit burned brighter than any magic in this room.
And for the first time in days, the storm inside him… eased.