Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 32263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
And they quickly shuffle off the stage.
I grit my teeth as I turn to Rurik, who’s suddenly very interested in a spot on his robe.
“Rurik.”
“The kingdom needs heirs,” he says, the words bursting out of him like he can no longer hold them in. “Vespera is perfectly suitable as a queen. She’s from a prosperous family and ready to breed.”
“I. Don’t. Want. Her.”
“Then let me find someone you do want,” he pleads. “The security of the kingdom depends on it. There are whispers all over the Moonborne Kingdom of a Wolf King with no heirs and no wolf. They believe you are easy pickings and it won’t be long before you are challenged for your crown. Violently.”
I grit my teeth. “Let them try.”
But deep down, I know that without my wolf, I would not last a fortnight before I was overrun. My pack has always been intensely loyal to me, but even the most loyal pack will not fight for an alpha with no wolf.
“No heirs means vulnerability,” Rurik goes on. “Vulnerability means danger. The lives of your subjects depend on it.”
I drop my head into my hands, wishing I were born as a poor shepherd boy in the highlands.
“Maybe your wolf has… specific tastes,” he goes on, relentless, merciless. “Of a different variety. You know, your great-great-great-grandfather, King Ryane, mated with a human female.”
I turn to him in shock. Mating with a human female? How desperate is he to suggest that?
“His mate was discovered during a centuries-old custom.”
I shake my head. “Do not say it.”
“The Vocatio Regia.”
I let out a long, frustrated breath.
The Royal Calling.
Just hearing it puts a bad taste in my mouth.
The Vocatio Regia hasn’t been used in centuries.
It’s an old barbaric custom, used back when the humans and wolves were in perpetual war. The wolves would round up human women from their villages to be paraded before the throne.
It’s unheard of these days.
It’s sick.
“And what would the humans do if the wolves crossed the sacred borders and stole their females?” I ask with a laugh. “There would be war before winter.”
“There will be war before autumn without an heir to the throne,” Rurik says. “The kingdom is on the verge of open rebellion. The noble alphas are already jostling to take advantage. They know an opportunity like this may only come along once in three generations, if that.”
I want to curse him and send him away, but I know there’s some truth to that.
Wolf shifters can be vicious and their ambition knows no bounds.
And there’s the prophecy to consider…
The one the oracle gave me as I entered the world. The one sacred truth of King Alaric’s rule.
Only the unbound will bind the kingdom whole.
Some have tried to use my prophecy against me. They claim the true ruler should be an alpha unbound to the crown.
I’m still uncertain what it means.
But I can’t help but feel that this is all related.
I focus on the thick metal of the crown digging into my scalp as I review my choices.
My choices are: Bad. Horrible. Or complete and utter shit.
That’s usually how it goes for a king.
“What will you do, my Alpha?” Rurik asks as the party delves into full swing. The music is blasting, the bonfire is roaring, and my shifters are dancing and having the time of their lives.
“I will not make any rash decisions,” I say, feeling like I’m screwed no matter what I do.
“Perhaps, a visit to the oracle will help?” he suggests.
My stomach sinks remembering how vulnerable it feels to step into that cold, dank cave and face the oracle’s ancient, scrutinizing eyes.
But every time I leave, I leave with clarity. I leave with a plan.
“Yes,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I will see the oracle. Tomorrow.”
“Very well,” Rurik says with an approving nod.
I feel the cold metal digging into my temples. Sharp. Aching.
Heavy is the crown.
And it’s crushing me alive.
Chapter Two
King Alaric
This is humiliating.
A Wolf King should not have to travel long distances on foot.
Traveling by paw would take less than an hour. I would already be on my way back to the castle by now, but my contemptuous, insolent wolf refuses to wake.
So, I have to walk to the oracle. One plodding footstep at a time.
Even the wretched humans could travel faster on their slave horses.
This is pathetic.
I reach in again, trying to awaken my beast, but the furry fucker is practically comatose. I search for him internally the way I always have—by instinct, by memory, by the familiar pull that has guided me since I was a boy.
There is nothing.
No stir of power. No answering presence. No low awareness pacing beneath my skin.
It’s just me. And coiling dread.
I breathe in the cool air and look up at the trees as I walk. As frustrating as it is, there’s a calmness to traveling at this snail-like speed. I can watch the birds in the trees and hear the frogs croaking. I touch leaves, gather acorns, and marvel at the way the sun reflects on the water of the creek.