The hall was colder than she remembered.
Not because the fires had gone out—no, the torches still burned along the stone walls, their flames steady and indifferent—but because of the way silence sat heavy between her ribs, pressing, suffocating.
She stood at the center of the throne room alone.
Again.
The Alpha King did not rise when she entered.
He never did.
His crown caught the firelight, forged silver etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly, as if alive. Power clung to him like a second skin, invisible yet undeniable. The kind of power that bent spines without a word spoken.
And once—only once—she had believed that power might someday turn toward her.
"Speak," he said at last.
One word. Flat. Final.
Her fingers curled at her sides. She had practiced this moment a hundred times in her mind—measured words, steady voice, dignity intact—but all of it unraveled under the weight of his gaze. Golden eyes, sharp and unyielding, cut through her as if searching for something he already knew he would not find.
"I came because you summoned me," she said, forcing the tremor from her voice.
A pause.
Then a quiet, almost bored exhale from the throne.
"Yes," he replied. "To end this."
The words struck harder than any blow.
End this.
As if this—the bond she had felt, the pull she had not chosen, the sleepless nights and silent hopes—was nothing more than an inconvenience to be swept aside.
Her heart thudded painfully. "End… what, exactly?"
At that, he finally leaned forward.
The movement was subtle, but it shifted the room. Power rolled outward, heavy and deliberate, reminding her exactly who he was—and who she was not.
"Do not insult me by pretending ignorance," he said coolly. "The rumors. The whispers. Your expectations."
Her breath caught. "I never—"
"You did," he cut in sharply. "The moment you looked at me the way you do."
Silence followed. Thick. Suffocating.
She swallowed. "And how is that?"
His jaw tightened. For a brief, dangerous second, something flickered in his eyes—something dark and unreadable—but it vanished just as quickly.
"Like someone who forgets her place."
The words sliced cleanly.
She felt them settle deep, embedding themselves where hope once lived.
"I know my place," she said softly. Too softly. "I've always known."
"Then remember it," he said. "You are not my mate. You never will be."
There it was.
The rejection spoken aloud, stripped of ceremony, stripped of mercy.
The bond—fragile, one-sided, cruel—snapped inside her chest with a soundless crack.
She staggered, just slightly. Enough that she hated herself for it.
"I didn't ask to feel this," she whispered. "I didn't ask for the pull. Or the dreams. Or the way my wolf—"
"Enough," he said, rising at last.
Now he stood before her in full, towering and unmovable, a king carved from command and consequence. He descended the steps slowly, deliberately, until only a few feet separated them.
"You think you are the first to mistake proximity for destiny?" he asked coldly. "The first to believe my attention meant something more?"
Her throat burned. "You let it."
That stopped him.
For the first time, silence did not obey him.
She lifted her chin, tears blurring her vision but not falling. She refused to give him that satisfaction.
"You let me stand at your side," she continued. "You let me fight your battles, bleed for your pack, carry your burdens while you watched and said nothing. And now you tell me it was all… nothing?"
Something dangerous stirred behind his eyes.
"You were useful," he said. "Nothing more."
The word shattered what little remained.
Useful.
She laughed then—soft, broken, disbelieving. "That's all I ever was to you?"
He did not answer.
That was answer enough.
She stepped back, the distance between them suddenly vast, immeasurable.
"Very well," she said quietly. "You have made yourself clear."
She turned to leave, each step heavier than the last.
"Do not mistake this for weakness," he said behind her. "You will leave this hall and continue your duties as before. This changes nothing."
She stopped.
Slowly, she looked back over her shoulder.
"No," she said. "It changes everything."
His brow furrowed. "You will obey."
"I will survive," she corrected. "And one day, you will understand the difference."
For a heartbeat, the Alpha King looked almost unsettled.
Then the crown settled back into place.
"Go," he ordered.
She did.
But as she crossed the threshold, something inside her shifted—not breaking this time, but hardening.
The bond was gone.
The illusion was gone.
And in the hollow left behind, something new took root.
Not love.
Not hope.
But resolve.