Chapter 3: The House of Wolves

Elira woke to the sound of crackling fire and the faint hush of snowfall beyond the window. The scent of woodsmoke clung to the thick furs wrapped around her, and though her body still ached, it no longer screamed in pain. Warmth—real, solid warmth—enveloped her for the first time in what felt like years.

She had slept. Deeply. Safely. In someone’s home. A stranger’s home. A king’s.

Her mind snapped back to the previous night—the eyes like silver moons, the voice deep and steady, the way he’d carried her as if she weighed nothing at all. As if she were something worth saving.

Lucien. The Lycan King.

She shifted, cautiously pulling herself upright in the grand bed. Her body responded sluggishly, sore but no longer paralyzed by cold or fear. A pitcher of water and a bowl of something thick and fragrant rested on a small table nearby. Her stomach twisted in longing.

Just as she reached for it, the door creaked open.

A young woman entered, no older than twenty, with rich auburn curls tied back and eyes as sharp as her smile.

“Oh, good. You’re finally awake.” She crossed the room quickly. “You’ve been unconscious for two days. We weren’t sure you’d survive the fever.”

Elira blinked. “Fever?”

“You nearly froze to death. Your body went into shock. The king—well, he doesn’t usually bring home half-dead omegas, so you’ve caused quite the stir.” The woman poured her a cup of warm tea. “Drink this first. Slowly.”

Elira obeyed, though her hands trembled. The liquid soothed her throat.

“I’m Mara,” the woman continued. “The king’s steward. You can think of me as your caretaker while you’re here.”

“I… I’m Elira.”

“I know.” Mara’s eyes softened. “He told me your name.”

Elira blinked again. “He remembered it?”

“Of course he did. The king forgets many things—his meals, his advisors—but not names. Especially not of someone he carried through a snowstorm.”

Elira’s throat tightened. “Why is he doing this? I don’t understand.”

Mara paused, then sat on the edge of the bed, her expression serious.

“He doesn’t save people,” she said softly. “Not since the war. Not since he lost—” She shook her head. “Lucien rules with strength and silence. But he saw something in you. Something worth fighting for, perhaps.”

Elira swallowed, unsure how to respond.

“Eat. Rest. When you're strong enough, he’ll want to speak with you.”

---

The days that followed passed like a strange, waking dream.

Elira remained in the king’s guest wing—an ancient, stone-walled sanctuary perched high in the northern mountains. The palace was less opulent and more fortress, carved into cliffs that overlooked vast stretches of forest and frozen lakes. Guards with steely eyes patrolled the halls, and the servants all moved with quiet discipline.

No one mistreated her.

No one shouted.

No one touched her without permission.

It was disorienting.

She kept expecting a blow, a sharp command, a cruel laugh. But none came.

Each day, Mara helped her bathe, fed her hot meals, and brought her books when she asked. Her bruises faded. Her limbs grew stronger. Slowly, the bones that held her soul began to knit themselves back together.

She hadn’t seen Lucien again. Not since the storm. But she felt his presence like a shadow in the halls—heavy, watchful, restrained.

And then, one morning, as she stepped out onto a stone balcony wrapped in a thick wool cloak, she found him there.

Lucien.

He stood alone at the edge, staring out at the white wilderness below. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the sky, catching in his dark hair and on the shoulders of his heavy fur cloak. The wind curled around him, but he didn’t move.

He was so still, so silent, that Elira almost turned to leave.

But then he spoke.

“You’re healing.”

She froze, his voice cutting through the wind like a blade.

“Yes,” she said, her voice quiet.

“Good.” He didn’t turn. “How do you feel?”

She hesitated. “Stronger. And… confused.”

He nodded slightly, as if he expected that answer.

“You’re wondering why I brought you here.”

She didn’t deny it.

Lucien finally turned to look at her.

His eyes were as piercing as ever, but there was no malice in them. Just depth. Weight. History.

“Tell me about your pack,” he said.

Elira tensed. “Why?”

“Because if you don't name your past, it will haunt you. And because I need to know what broke you.”

Her lips parted, then closed. She wrapped the cloak tighter around herself and walked slowly to the edge of the balcony, keeping a safe distance between them.

“I was born the runt of the Stormfang pack,” she began. “My mother died during childbirth. My father barely acknowledged me. I was the only unmated omega of my age when the bond ceremony came.”

Lucien said nothing, waiting.

“I thought Kael—the Alpha heir—was my mate. He said I was his.” Her voice wavered. “He marked me, but never claimed me. Kept me close, but only to serve him. I cooked, cleaned, ran errands like a slave. And I stayed because I believed that one day he’d—” She broke off. “He used me. Lied to me. And when I begged him for more, he laughed. Then left me to die in the woods.”

A heavy silence settled between them.

Lucien’s jaw was tight. His eyes gleamed with something dark and dangerous.

“What would you do,” he asked, “if you had the power to return to them?”

Elira blinked. “Why?”

“Would you beg for their forgiveness?” he said, voice low. “Or would you burn their world to the ground?”

She stared at him.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’m not strong like that.”

Lucien took a step closer. “You will be.”

Her breath caught.

“I will give you a choice, Elira,” he said. “You can stay here, safe, hidden from the world that wronged you. Or you can train, learn, rise—and when the time comes, take back what was stolen.”

She stared at him. “Why would you do that for me?”

His gaze locked onto hers.

“Because once, I was broken too.”

---

Lucien’s training began the next day.

Not with weapons or combat—but with knowledge.

“You were taught to obey,” he said, leading her into the old library filled with scrolls and tomes. “Now you’ll learn to think, to speak, to lead.”

Elira raised a brow. “You expect me to become a queen?”

“I expect you to become you,” he replied. “And queens don’t beg for scraps.”

She studied every day—history, diplomacy, Lycan law. Mara tutored her in court etiquette and language. She learned how to speak without trembling, how to read people’s faces, how to command space without shrinking into corners.

Lucien was always near—never hovering, but present. Guiding. Watching.

When she fell, he didn’t catch her. But he waited for her to rise.

He never raised his voice, never touched her without asking. But when he looked at her, something in his eyes told her she was not invisible.

And for the first time in her life, Elira began to believe she was not weak.

Not worthless.

Not prey.

---

One evening, months after her arrival, she stood on the same balcony where they'd first spoken. Snow still drifted lazily, but her shoulders were straighter now, her eyes sharper.

Lucien stepped beside her.

“You’ve changed,” he said.

Elira looked at him. “Because you helped me.”

“No,” he said. “Because you chose to rise.”

She turned to face him fully.

“Why me?” she asked. “There are others. Stronger women. Smarter. You could have chosen any she-wolf to stand beside you.”

Lucien's answer was quiet.

“Because when I found you in the snow, I didn’t see weakness. I saw a wolf who refused to die.”

His hand brushed hers.

“When the time comes,” he said, “will you be ready to claim your crown?”

Elira’s voice didn’t shake this time.

“Yes,” she whispered. “But not because I want revenge. Because I want to live.”

Lucien smiled faintly—the first real smile she’d seen on his face.

And in that moment, Elira Stormfang—once a forgotten omega—began her true ascent.

---