KING RYKERR
“The King’s bride is here. Be quick and gentle with him,” Warfox, the King’s head guard, said in a firm voice as he led the group of maids into the King’s chamber.
The King lay quietly on his grand bed, looking pale and lifeless. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. His eyes sometimes stayed open for hours, but it was as if he saw nothing. Some people whispered that he had gone blind. Others said he had lost his voice and his mind.
Three maids rushed to dress him. Their hands trembled as they worked fast, putting him in a royal garment made of soft silk and lined with golden embroidery. The room smelled faintly of herbs and something sour, perhaps the sickness that now ruled the King’s body.
Two healers stood silently near the bed, watching carefully. Though the King looked weak and distant, they made sure his hair was neatly brushed and styled. His long beard had been trimmed. His fingernails were clean and polished. The maids did their best to make him look like a ruler again.
Once they finished, they stepped aside.
Now, the male healers moved closer. They held a small gold cup and a matching golden spoon. They slowly fed the King a warm tonic made from fish broth and special herbs. It was the only food he could keep down these days. After each spoonful, they gently wiped his mouth with a soft white napkin.
“We’re ready,” one of the healers said softly to Warfox.
Warfox nodded and clapped his hands twice.
The heavy wooden doors opened, and four strong guards entered, pushing in a royal cart made to carry the King in a seated position.
“Lift him gently. Do not hurt him,” Warfox ordered. “His bride is waiting.”
The guards bowed their heads in respect and stepped forward. They carried the King with careful hands, placing him into the cart and adjusting his body until he was sitting upright. Two men supported his sides, so he wouldn’t fall over. The rest of the group, maids, healers, guards, lined up behind them. Together, they left the King’s chambers.
This was King Rykerr, once the most powerful man in the land. Women used to fight for a place in his bed during his yearly Rut. He was strong, proud, and desired by all. But now, he was silent and helpless, unable to speak, eat, or even stand without help.
His next Rut was only weeks away.
This was the real reason they had searched for a bride.
All the noble families who used to fight to offer their daughters to him had vanished. No one wanted to be linked to a dying King. So, his guards were forced to travel far, to Ayla’s poor Pack, where a desperate family would not say no to such an offer.
The elders of the palace had insisted. The King needed an heir. Someone had to carry his bloodline. His younger brother, Prince Raban, couldn’t rule unless the King was proven unable to produce a child.
So this marriage was not for love.
It was for duty.
Warfox led the way as the group entered the main court of the palace. The doors opened with a loud creak. The nobles and elders inside rose to their feet as the King was carried in.
********
AYLA
Ayla stood still as she watched the King being brought into the hall. Her eyes widened. Her heart pounded fast in her chest. She had known the King was sick, but nothing had prepared her for this.
He looked like a doll, lifeless and pale.
Tears burned behind her eyes, but she blinked them away quickly. She had to be strong.
She was only eighteen. Her life had just begun. She had never even met her fated mate. But now, she was being given away like property to a man who didn’t even know she existed. All to save her Pack from hunger and shame.
If she had a choice, she would have run. But she didn’t.
The Moon Goddess had chosen her.
Maybe it was her purpose to heal the King.
Maybe this was all part of something greater.
The moment for the joining ritual arrived. Ayla took a deep breath and stepped forward. She sat in the chair placed beside the King’s throne. He didn’t even move or look at her. His face was still, his eyes empty.
The priest began the sacred prayer.
He called on the Moon Goddess to bless their union. To awaken the King’s spirit. To help him rise again and give this land a future heir.
A golden thread was brought forward.
It was a holy thread, used only in the most sacred of joining ceremonies.
The priest gently tied it around Ayla’s wrist, then wrapped the other end around the King’s limp hand. Their hands were bound together. It was done.
The hall filled with soft applause.
The ritual was complete.
But suddenly, everything changed.
Ayla gasped.
Her eyes widened in shock as a strange power surged through her body. She tried to pull away, but the thread kept them tied.
Then, the impossible happened.
The King’s eyes snapped open.
Fire burned in his gaze. His body jerked upward as he stood, on his own feet.
People screamed. Gasps echoed across the room.
He reached out with his free hand and grabbed Ayla by the throat.
“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice sharp and deep like thunder. “Who gave you the right to touch me?”
Ayla choked.
She tried to breathe, but his grip was tight. Her hands clawed at his wrist.
The thread still bound their hands together, glowing faintly as if something magical had been triggered.
The crowd froze in shock.
The King, who had not spoken or moved in months, was now standing, talking, and furious.
“Let her go!” someone shouted.
But King Rykerr didn’t listen.
He stared into Ayla’s eyes like he was searching her soul. Something inside him was waking. Something old. Something wild.
