Chapter 22 – Isolde's Ode

Chapter 22 – Isolde's Ode

Selene’s POV

If time were mine to control... if I could pluck a single moment from the river of passing hours and hold it in my hands... I would choose this one. This moment. Here. Now. In Lucian’s arms.

His scent surrounds me, something ancient and unshakably familiar... woodsmoke, pine, and the faintest trace of winter rain. His hands, warm and strong, rest gently on the small of my back. Our movements are perfectly in sync, like the world was created for this dance alone. The orchestra fades into the background. The ballroom blurs. The crowd dissolves. In this breath, in this closeness, nothing else exists. Just us. Just him.

But the music begins to slow. The violins sigh. The final note hangs in the air like a reluctant goodbye. And then... it ends.

A ripple of tension spreads across the room like a sudden chill. Conversations still. Glasses pause midair. All heads turn in unison toward the grand arched entrance of the ballroom.

They’ve arrived.

The Lycan King and Queen stand silhouetted beneath the golden archway, their presence like a tempest rolling in from across a still sea. Power radiates from them in waves, thick and suffocating, demanding submission. Every guest... every noble, warrior, elder... bows low in respect. Except those of royal blood. I lower myself into a graceful curtsy, the silky layers of my gown sweeping across the marble like whispered apologies. But my eyes... traitorous things... rise and lock with the Queen’s.

And in that glance, the illusion shatters.

Her expression is sharp enough to cut through bone. She stands with the grace of a monarch, her posture proud and cold, but her eyes... her eyes are burning. Not with curiosity. Not even with the detached disdain nobles often show omegas. No... hers are filled with something far darker. Rage. Bitterness. Loathing. Her stare doesn’t land on me. It’s fixed on Lucian.

There’s history in that look. Unspoken accusations. Silent screams. A storm that’s been building for decades. I watch it all play out on her face in the span of a heartbeat.

The King raises a hand, regal and commanding. His voice booms from the gilded balcony above, echoing through the ballroom like the chime of a thousand bells.

“Welcome,” he announces, “to the Crimson Solstice.”

His speech is ceremonial, thick with old words and older meanings. He speaks of change, of harvest, of transitions... of life and death and rebirth. Of cycles turning once more. But I hardly hear him. I feel Lucian tense beside me. When the speech ends, the crowd applauds with polite reverence, and the celebration resumes... but not for us.

Lucian is summoned.

He leans down, brushing his lips against my temple in a gesture too brief, too fleeting. Then he’s gone. The space beside me feels suddenly enormous. Hollow. And the noise of the ballroom crashes down all at once, too loud, too bright, too alive.

I retreat.

Without him anchoring me, the palace becomes a labyrinth of light and noise and memory I do not yet belong to. My steps take me through a side corridor. The hallways stretch endlessly, gilded and ornate, like they were carved from moonlight and secrets. My shoes click softly on the polished floor as I search for solitude.

Eventually, I find it... a small alcove nestled behind velvet drapes, with a window seat overlooking the moonlit gardens. I crawl into it like a child hiding from a world too large. The cushion sighs beneath me. The night air is cool against the glass. I try to breathe.

But the silence doesn’t last.

Footsteps. Voices. Coming closer.

I recognize them before I fully register what’s being said. One is sharp, controlled, brimming with authority. The other... Lucian.

“I cannot support your marriage to that girl.”

The words land like a slap.

My body goes rigid behind the curtain. My hands fist into the fabric. I don’t breathe. I don’t dare blink.

The King’s voice is colder than the wind outside. “She’s the daughter of a prostitute, with no bloodline to claim. I had her past investigated. She’s an omega... and worse, she’s never even manifested a wolf.”

Lucian laughs. It’s not a sound of joy. It’s something else. Something brittle.

“That disapproval is a bit late, isn’t it? We’re already married. Unless your real issue is that she reminds you of me... another so-called outsider, born of a surrogate. In that case, maybe we’re more alike than you want to admit.”

The air vibrates with the King’s growl.

“Watch your tongue, boy. You are not merely the son of a surrogate. You are the child of my fated mate. And the moment we find a cure for your curse, I will name you my heir. Theron’s claim will crumble to dust. That fragile little girl will abandon you the moment she realizes you are no longer her ticket to power.”

Lucian’s voice cracks open. Thunderous.

“You mean the woman you rejected. My mother gave up everything for you. She was royalty. She was pure. She was kind. She loved you. And what did you do? You used her. Discarded her. Broke her.”

Every word digs claws into my soul. The image I had of Lucian’s past... clean, noble, tragic in a distant way... fractures with every syllable. The truth is uglier. And sharper.

“She stayed even after her kingdom burned,” Lucian continues, voice raw. “She stayed after you let her family die. After you erased her from history to protect your throne. You let the world believe she was no one. And she died believing she wasn’t worthy of love.”

“I was a prince,” the King hisses. “I had to secure alliances. I married an Alpha’s daughter to protect my people.”

Lucian’s fury is palpable. “No. You married ambition. You betrayed your mate. You buried her memory like a sin. You buried me.”

A long silence. Then footsteps. Retreating. Fading down the corridor.

But Lucian’s final words don’t fade. They settle into the air like ash.

“You may be my father and my King, but I will never become you. Even without a cure, I’ll find my own way to the top. And no matter what happens, I will never abandon my wife.”

I stay curled behind the curtain long after they’re gone. My heart hammers wildly in my chest. My breath comes in short, stinging bursts.

I had thought I knew pain. But this... this betrayal, this sorrow that does not even belong to me... cuts deeper than any wound I’ve known.

“Selene! There you are.”

I jolt upright, startled. Isolde stands at the end of the corridor, dressed in soft silver and moonlight, a smile on her lips.

“I was just… getting some air,” I mumble, forcing a polite smile.

“I figured,” she says, voice sweet and smooth. “It’s your first time at the palace, isn’t it? I thought maybe you’d like a little tour.”

I hesitate. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

Her smile widens. “It’s no trouble at all. In fact…” She leans in, conspiratorial. “I could show you Lucian’s old chambers. I imagine you’re curious.”

I blink. Her tone is friendly... almost too friendly. But something about her eyes makes my skin prickle.

“I... only if it’s okay. I mean, if he wouldn’t mind…”

She waves it off, already pulling a key from her sleeve. “He won’t. I have access. Come.”

The walk is quiet. Long. Too long.

We reach an imposing set of doors. She presses the cold iron key into my hand.

“Take your time,” she says softly. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Then she’s gone.

The key trembles in my fingers. I unlock the door. Push it open.

And the past hits me like a storm.

The room is grand. Breathtaking. Every inch of it whispers of a life lived before me. But more than that... it’s hers. The space doesn’t feel empty. It feels haunted. By her perfume. Her laughter. Her ghost.

Photographs. Dozens. All framed. All loving.

Lucian and Isolde.

On the bed. At the beach. Laughing in the garden.

Twin towels still hang on hooks, their embroidered initials curling like scars.

A scarf lies folded on a velvet chaise. A magazine on the table, its pages dog-eared.

And then I see them... lilies.

Withered. Forgotten. Still resting in a vase by the window.

And nestled in their dry, curling petals... a note.

For my fated love, Isolde. Forever yours, Lucian.

The floor drops out from under me.

I stagger backward.

There, in the corner, stands a piano. I had never known he played. On its stand... a sheet of half-written music.

Isolde’s Lullaby in D Minor.

I can’t breathe.

This wasn’t just a bedroom.

It was a monument.

He hadn’t just known her.

He had loved her. Deeply. Wildly. Eternally.

I don’t know how long I stand there. Minutes. Hours. Days.

When I leave, the door closes with a whisper.

Outside, the night air is sharp and cruel. Stars burn above like indifferent gods. The cold wind presses against my dress, but I don’t shiver.

I am already numb.

All I can see are lilies.

All I can hear is the melody.

And in my mind, the note replays again and again.

She was his fated mate.

I am not.