🔹Act 4🔹

Kaelis’ pov

The past two weeks had changed me in ways I did not expect. At first, I thought I would break, but had they let me help in the clinic, and that work kept me standing.

I carried water for the healers, held down bandages, steadied trembling hands when patients were too weak to lift themselves.

It was not much, but it was enough to remind me I was not completely useless. Even when my hands shook, even when my stomach turned at the sight of wounds, I forced myself through it.

The King had also moved me from that cage they first called a room. Now I slept in a chamber with sunlight pouring through wide windows every morning. I could see the sky, the trees dancing in the distance, and when I stepped close enough, I could even feel the warmth of the sun across my face. The mattress was still hard and the blanket scratchy, but compared to where I had been, it felt like another world.

Why give me comfort now after keeping me in a place that felt like a cage?

And in those quiet hours, when the work of the clinic was done, my thoughts returned again and again to that night in the arena— when I first felt my bond snap.

The sound of it still haunted me.

It settled in my chest like a fire that would not go out. I remembered the way his eyes had found mine, sharp and unshaken— every time the memory rose, my breath grew unsteady, and I hated it… I hated the way it left me shaken… I hated more the silence that followed because he had not appeared since.

A soft knock broke my thoughts.

My head turned sharply toward the door. For a moment, I didn’t move. My pulse climbed as though something waited behind it.

Finally, I forced my voice steady. “Enter.”

The door creaked open.

A girl— a bit younger than I was stepped inside, quick on her feet, carrying a tray with folded clothes. She set it down carefully as her movements were too precise, as if she was trained not to spill a single drop of air. Her eyes lifted, steady, meeting mine with an expression I could not read.

“My name is Myra,” she said, her voice smooth, not unkind but not soft either. “I am your handmaid, assigned by King Soren. I am here to help you prepare for the festival tonight.”

The name stung like a spark across my skin.

King Soren.

I straightened on the bed, my hand tightening on the blanket until they hurt. I did not answer at once, as my eyes were fixed on her face, searching for a trick or a hint of mischief behind her calm.

My lips felt dry as I shaped the words. “And this King Soren… he is the ruler of Silvermaw?” My voice quiet but edged.

Myra nodded once, not breaking her gaze.

I let out a breath, slow but controlled. “Why would a king give me a handmaid?” My voice trembled but I held it together.

Her answer came smooth, practiced. “Because you are his guest.”

I studied her carefully, eyes narrowing, waiting for some crack in her mask. I added at last, though my voice came out softer than I meant.

“Since when does a prisoner earn that kind of service?”

She did not flinch. “That was then. Now the King has ordered me to care for you— food, clothes, whatever you require.”

I let out a soft chuckle. “And if I reject it?”

“If you resist, the guards will drag you instead.” Her face wore a wild smile that was way too fake but for the first time, her eyes flickered— as if she could smell my unease.

I let out a long breath and rose slowly from the bed. “Fine,” I muttered, eyeing the fabric like it was some sort of trap.

Two other maids slipped in quietly, carrying more gowns, they spread them across the bed.

“You must be washed first. It is not proper to wear these without cleansing.” Myra added.

The water smelled of lavender and it clung to me as they poured it down my back. Drops slid over my body as it was running to the floor. My body felt lighter, almost strange as if I was being peeled clean layer by layer.

When they finished with the whole makeover, one of the maids held up a polished metal plate. My reflection stared back at me— my face was pale, my eyes darker than I remembered, framed by braids weaved with silver. The gown shined with each movement, making me look like someone I didn’t recognize.

The drums outside beat louder now, steady and deep, vibrating through the walls as Myra stepped back and looked me over— like a proud artist looks at his paintings.

“Good,” she said. “It is time.”

The maids led me through the halls, their footsteps soft, my own loud in my ears. We stepped into the open courtyard— people filled the space, laughter mixing with shouts, the crowd alive with song. Drums beat in rhythm, shaking the ground beneath my feet.

And then my eyes found him— King Soren.

He stood at the edge of the throne— tall and broad, golden eyes glittering like firelight but he was not alone.

The hooded figure stood close beside him as his shoulders were tense, his head bent, his voice low.

I could not hear the words, but I saw the way his hand clenched tight at his side, the way his body leaned forward as if dragging with restraint.

Soren listened, his gaze sharp, unreadable then his eyes slid past him and landed on me.

The hooded man followed that gaze too.

Even across the distance, I felt the pull. My chest tightened, my skin tingled, as my eyes locked on them, and the world narrowed to that single line between us.

Then, without warning, he turned… the cloak swallowed him as he vanished into the crowd, leaving me standing with my heart pounding, as if someone had ripped away something I hadn’t even realized I needed.

“You look lovely tonight,” Soren said, his voice carrying easily over the noise.

I smiled faintly, though my chest still ached. “Then I must warn you, my king,” I said softly. “Do not mistake a dress for gratitude. I would rather not be rude.”

His lips curved, almost a smirk. He stepped forward, took my hand firmly in his, and held it in place before I could pull away.

“Walk with me.”

The crowd parted as he led me forward. Whispers followed, sharp as knives. Every stare pressed against my skin as he guided me up the steps and motioned to the chair beside his throne.

“Sit.”

I sat, keeping my chin high though my body trembled.

The crowd hushed when Soren rose. His voice was deep, commanding, impossible to ignore.

“Tonight, we honor tradition. Tonight, we celebrate strength… The Festival of Moons begins…”

The roar of an engine had cut him short.

A rider burst into the arena, cloak snapping like a banner and wheels spitting sparks.

The crowd erupted— cheers and screams mixed together as if they had anticipated it.

Some chanted in rhythm with the pounding drums, others threw their hands up, fists punching the sky as if a god had descended among them. Children scrambled onto their shoulders just to catch a glimpse. Women pressed forward, eyes shining, calling out as though the rider might hear only them.

The energy shifted like a storm breaking loose and the wild hunger of a pack welcoming its champion.

It wasn’t just excitement— it was worship.

My breath hitched, sharp and shallow, my heart pounding so hard it ached. I couldn’t move or look away.

I froze.

The bike came to an abrupt stop, and the rider alighted with ease. Tall, broad-shouldered, and his steps were slow but certain.

Each movement was measured, confident, and pulling every eye in the courtyard.

He reached up, gripped his helmet, and pulled it free.

Black hair spilled loose, falling in waves around his face. His jaw was strong, dusted with scars. His cheekbones were high and sharp, his mouth full and set in a firm line.

Then his eyes met mine.

Deep brown, so dark they almost seemed black under the light but they were steady and burning.

Heat rose in my chest, spreading through every nerve as the pull was stronger now, so sharp it left me trembling.

He walked forward towards the throne… each step sounded like a heartbeat— my heartbeat.

When he stopped before me, his presence filled the space, drowning out the noise of the crowd. Slowly, he reached for my hand, and almost instinctively I had stretched it out without thinking, then his fingers closed around mine, warm and firm.

He lifted it, bowing his head, and his lips brushed my skin.

The world stopped— up close, he was the most handsome man I had ever seen since I had been in Silvermaw and he was fucking breath-taking.

He raised his head, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Orin Ashvale,” he said, his voice low but clear, every word meant for me. “I am here for you, my lady.”