BROKEN HEIR

BROKEN HEIR
POV: Kade

The night is endless.

It does not move like it should, hour to hour, shadow to dawn. It just hangs—heavy, stagnant—like a punishment that forgot the crime.

The barracks smell of rust and mould. Stone sweats in the corners. A single lamp gutters in its hook, throwing broken light across the floor. Every time the wind breathes through the cracked window, the flame bends, struggling, then claws itself upright again. I envy it.

I sit on the floor, back against the wall, staring at nothing. My wolf should be here. Pacing. Snarling. Pressing claws against my skin to make me move. But the cage inside me is empty. My ribs echo hollow.

Wolfless.

The word curdles in my mouth.

I press my forehead against the cold wall until it hurts. The stone doesn’t shift, doesn’t care. I let the pain bloom. Pain is proof that something inside me still answers.

I remember when my wolf first came—bright, violent, whole. Her howl cut through the marrow of my bones like a blade finding its sheath. She was strong. Pride. My shadow, my shield. The other half of every decision I made.

And then she was gone.

Not killed. Not lost. Torn.

I can still feel the rip if I close my eyes—the moment her voice cut off, the silence slamming shut inside my head like a slammed door. I clawed after her, but there was nothing to claw at. Just absence. A hole where a god once lived.

I shake and whisper to the stone: “Not again.”

It swallows my words, gives nothing back.

They look at me differently now.

The guards. The courtiers. The wolves who once bent their necks.

I see it in their eyes when they think I’m not watching. Pity laced with relief. Better him than me. They whisper broken heir, useless, gods cut him loose.

A wolfless heir is a joke. A king without a beast is a grave waiting for dirt.

And yet I still breathe.

That is the cruellest part.

If I close my eyes, I see her instead—Araya.

Her fire. Her defiance. Her name carried on threads that once should have been mine to protect. I see her runes ignite, her Hollowflame rise like a crown she never asked for but wears like it always belonged. She shines, and I… I crawl.

The shame is worse than hunger. Worse than thirst. Worse than the silence where my wolf used to live.

I hear her laugh—sharp, alive, unafraid. And then I hear her cry, the one I swore to stop. The one I failed to stop.

I press my palms together, not in prayer, but to keep them from shaking. My voice rasps, cracked and stubborn:

“Not again. I won’t fail her again.”

My knees hit stone. Cold climbs my bones. My body feels like someone else’s: weak, foreign, too heavy. Still, I push. I drag myself to stand, spine against the wall, lamp-flame wobbling in front of me like a judgment.

I try. I try to call her back—the wolf that is no longer mine. I push at the hollow space in my chest until my ribs rattle with the effort. I force the howl into my throat though there’s nothing left to shape it. My vision blurs.

Nothing.

Only emptiness pressing back.

It feels like drowning in air.

I sink again, sweat beading down my back though the night is cold. I clutch my stomach like I can hold myself together with sheer force of will.

And still, I whisper the words, raw and hoarse, like a vow I’m carving into my bones.

“I won’t fail her again.”

Time blurs.

Shadows crawl long, then longer. The lamp dies with a last hiss of smoke, leaving me blind in the dark. I don’t light it again.

Somewhere outside, wolves howl. My body flinches, desperate to answer. My throat opens—but there is nothing to answer with. Only silence.

I fold in on myself and let the ache ride me.

When I dream, I dream her—gold hair caught in Hollowflame, runes glowing across skin like constellations. She is everything I should have been. Everything my wolf would have carried me toward.

And I dream myself, shadowed behind her, broken weapon in hand, trying to keep pace. Always behind. Always too late.

I wake shaking. The dark feels thicker, heavier, as if the Loom itself forgot to weave me into this night.

But I cling to the one thing I have left.

Not pride. Not strength. Not wolf.

Her.

Her name. Her fire. Her crown.

When she calls—whether with blade, with flame, or only with my name—I will crawl if I have to. Broken. Useless. Empty. It won’t matter.

I failed her once.

Never again.

The whisper shakes, but it stands. My vow, scratched into stone. My promise, carved into ruin.

“Never again.”