"Turn over every stone. Burn through every shadow. I want her found."
Raelith's voice crackled through the obsidian halls of the Demon Palace, laced with ancient fury. The Demon King's eyes, twin rubies set in fury, narrowed as he dismissed the latest report with a flick of his clawed fingers. Shattered crystal littered the floor. Another goblet, another disappointment.
Karl, the battle-scarred general of Raelith's armies, knelt with one fist pressed to the black marble. Sweat gathered at his brow—not from fear, but from the endless strain of chasing a ghost.
"She's not in the outerlands," Karl said lowly. "No divine aura, no mortal form. We searched the Cursed Canyons, the Howling Graves, even the Wells of Withering. My scouts scoured every inch of the Demon Realm."
Raelith slowly from his throne.
He didn't scream.
He didn't have to.
The air warped.
The palace groaned like a living beast as the temperature dropped, then spiked with infernal heat. Shadows clung to his form like loyal dogs.
"You mean to tell me that my bond flared for nothing?"
Karl looked up, jaw tight. "I believe she has been reborn, my king. But... not here."
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the flames dared not crackle.
Raelith's knuckles whitened against his obsidian throne. Then he moved—slow, deliberate. He descended the stairs, each step echoing like the chime of a war bell.
Karl stood, towering but tense, his dark armor singed with ash and blood.
"I gave you a task, Karl. You are the best tracker across all cursed realms. My general. My sword. My hound of war." Raelith's eyes gleamed. "So why do you return with your hands empty?"
"I returned with truth." Karl's tone was steady. "If she is not in the Demon Realm... then she is elsewhere. Maybe—"
"Do not say the Angelic Realm."
Raelith's voice dropped into a snarl.
Karl paused. But his eyes did not waver.
"It would explain why she's hidden. No one would think to look in the realm of our greatest enemies."
Raelith turned his back.
"Leave me."
Karl bowed deeply. "As you command."
The doors slammed shut behind him with a thundering boom.
Meanwhile, in the Angelic Realm
King Thalion Caelum sat on his throne of starlight and gold, fingers laced together in front of his lips. He was a man of pride, order, and quiet tyranny. The light filtering in through the crystal windows did nothing to soften his hardened expression.
Before him knelt a man no one expected to ever see bow: Crown Prince Xavier of the Lycan Kingdom.
Tall. Imposing. Power rolled off him like smoke. With silver hair flowing down his back and golden eyes like a predator in spring, Xavier's presence unsettled even the bravest angels in the court.
"I've come to ask for a hand," Xavier said, voice steady. "The hand of your youngest son."
Thalion's eyes narrowed.
"Lysander...?"
The room shifted.
The queen wasn't present. Neither were the elder princes. Just the king, his advisors, and this unshakable wolf prince with confidence sharp enough to draw blood.
"My son is fragile. Sick. He can't even stand in the wind for long," Thalion said at last. "Surely, Your Highness jests."
"I jest not," Xavier replied. "He has caught my eye."
"Caught your—" Thalion let out a dark laugh. "You must know what they say about him. That he's cursed. That he hears things in the night. That his wings are more paper than feather."
"And yet," Xavier said, rising to his full height, "he's beautiful. And unclaimed."
The court murmured.
Xavier's lip curved.
"I've chosen him. I don't care about frailty. I want him."
Thalion stared. Then he slowly leaned back.
Was this a joke? Was this the wolves trying to tie a leash around the weakest branch of his tree?
Still...
A union with the Lycans meant more power. It meant security. Fear.
And if Lysander could bring even a fraction of that with no effort of his own...
Thalion Caelum.
"Fine," he said, sharp and cold. "Let it be known, Lysander Floris Caelum shall wed Crown Prince Xavier of the Lycans."
The court gasped.
"Prepare the celebrations. The union will bring our houses strength."
"My King—" an advisor tried to protest.
But Thalion was already raising his voice.
"Cassian. Elion. They will support this. And Queen Calestina will do what is expected."
At that exact moment…
In the royal gardens, Lysander knelt beside a pale rose. His frail fingers brushed the petals, eyes full of distant stars. He had no idea that across the continent, his fate was being decided like a pawn moved across a blood-soaked board.
And miles away in the Demon Realm, Raelith stared at the fire pit in his chambers. His bond mark burned, pulsing like a drumbeat beneath his skin.
She was alive.
But why did the bond ache more today?
A premonition curled in his gut.
Something had changed.
And soon... he would know exactly what
King Thalion turns to his stunned court and declares, "Let the wedding of my youngest son be prepared immediately. Lysander will marry the Lycan prince. This is my will—no discussion. Not from my wife. Not from my sons. And certainly not from Lysander himself."
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