Chapter 21: Hecate

Maddox POV

The throne room fell into a hush that felt heavier than silence. It was the kind of quiet that preceded a storm, or a miracle. I could not tell which.

Hecate. That was her name.

I had never laid eyes on her before. I did not know if I could trust her. But one thing was certain as I sat upon my throne, my fingers still stained with carriage grease, my hair unkempt, my heart a hollow drum in my chest. This woman was something else entirely.

"Hecate of the Midnight Pack," I said, rolling the words across my tongue as if tasting aged wine. "I know there are mysteries hidden in the darkest pack in the kingdom. But tell me, does your fame truly precede you?"

She did not flinch at my scrutiny. Her large black eyes held mine with a steadiness that few dared to attempt. Most visitors to my court lowered their gazes, intimidated by the gold that still flickered in my pupils, by the rumors of the monster I became. But Hecate looked at me as if she saw past the king, past the curse, past everything I tried to hide.

I did not know whether to praise her audacity or take it as a threat.

"Many people think that magic is for show," she said, her voice low and smooth, like honey poured over stone. "But true magic is not a spectacle. It is a force that comes from within. It heals because it understands pain."

She moved then, elegant and unhurried, her black velvet overcoat trailing behind her like a shadow given form. She stopped before a potted plant near one of the pillars, its leaves brown and curled, its stems brittle with neglect. No one had tended to it in months. Perhaps longer.

I watched as she placed her palm over the wilted leaves. Her fingers began to glow, a soft green light that pulsed like a heartbeat. The plant shuddered. Then, slowly, miraculously, the brown leaves turned green. New stems unfurled. Tiny buds appeared, swelled, and burst into blossoms the color of fresh snow.

My breath caught in my throat.

I had seen many things in my years. I had seen the curse twist my body into something inhuman. I had seen blood spray across marble floors. But I had never seen death reversed so simply. So beautifully.

"Hecate," I said, rising from my throne. "Come with me."

I led her through the corridors of the castle, past the guards who bowed their heads, past the servants who pressed themselves against the walls to make way. She walked beside me without speaking, her footsteps soft, her presence a quiet weight at my side.

We stopped before the doors to Odette's chambers.

I hesitated. My hand hovered over the iron handle. Every time I entered this room, I felt the guilt rise in my throat like bile. Odette's pale face. Her accusing eyes. Her legs that no longer carried her. All my fault. All of it.

I pushed the door open.

Odette lay in her bed, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Her skin was the color of old parchment, her lips cracked, her dark hair spread across the pillow like a funeral shroud. The maid who had been tending to her stepped aside as we entered, her eyes wide with curiosity.

I noticed Hecate stop for a moment. Her body tensed. Her gaze fixed on Odette with an intensity that made me uneasy. Perhaps she was simply assessing the severity of the illness. Perhaps she saw something I could not.

"There is a dark aura in this place," Hecate said quietly. "Heavy. Suffocating."

I nodded. I knew what she meant. The guilt. The resentment. The years of unspoken blame that filled this room like smoke. Odette's hatred for me. My hatred for myself. And beneath it all, the ghost of another woman. Samantha. Her name still cut through me like a blade.

I had searched for her in the first months. Like a madman. I had torn through forests, questioned every pack between here and the eastern coast. But I was the king. I had duties. The kingdom was crumbling, and Odette had rallied the nobles to her side, whispering that I had abandoned her, that I was unfit to rule, that she alone could restore order.

So I had performed the mating ritual with Odette. I had made her my Luna. Not because I loved her. Not because she was my mate. But because I was trapped. Because guilt is a cage with bars made of shame.

She never calmed me. Not once. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she begged me to let her in, her scent could not reach the beast inside me. Not the way Samantha's had. And the more Odette forced herself, the sicker she became. The weaker. Until she could no longer walk.

And she blamed me. Every day. Every night. With every breath.

"Cure her," I said flatly. The words felt hollow, even to my own ears.

Hecate approached the bed slowly. She raised her hand and placed her fingers on Odette's forehead. Her touch was gentle, almost tender. Then her fingers began to glow, a soft amber light that spread across Odette's face like liquid gold.

Odette's eyes fluttered open.

Color returned to her cheeks. Her breathing deepened. Her lips parted, and for a moment, she looked almost healthy. Almost whole.

I exhaled, a breath I had not realized I was holding.

But Hecate withdrew her hand and turned to me, her expression grave.

"This is temporary," she said. "The root of her illness runs deeper than magic alone can reach. Her body is failing because her spirit has been poisoned. She will need regular sessions. Massage on her limbs to restore circulation. Magic to draw out the darkness bit by bit. This could take days. Weeks."

I did not hesitate.

"You stay," I said. "Emrich, prepare chambers for Hecate. Indefinitely. She is to have whatever she requires. Whatever she asks for. Healer, you will remain here until Odette is cured."

Hecate inclined her head. "As you command, my king."

I looked at Odette one last time. She had already closed her eyes, her breathing steady now, her face peaceful in a way it had not been in years. Perhaps the healer was right. Perhaps time and care could undo what I had done.

I turned and left the room.

But as I walked down the corridor, my mind was not on Odette. It was on Hecate. On the way she had looked at Odette. On the way she had tensed when she entered the room. On the glow of her fingers, so warm, so alive.

There was something about her. Something familiar.

I shook the thought away. I was being paranoid. Samantha was gone. She had fled three years ago, and she was never coming back.

I had made sure of that.