Chapter 183 Chapter 183

Chapter 183 Chapter 183
Jolene
The mountain air has lost that bitter, bone-snapping edge. The thick ice along the stone balustrade is weeping in the afternoon sun, dripping in steady, rhythmic ticks onto the courtyard flagstones below. 
It’s still cold, but winter is finally losing its grip, giving way to that damp, muddy thaw where the earth smells like wet slate, pine needles, and coming spring.
I bet if I lean over far enough and look juuust right, I’ll be able to see the first flowers peek their little faces out to catch the sun rays.
I lean my elbows on the wide parapet, cradling a stoneware mug of spiced tea. My oversized grey sweater is stretched taut, but I’ve stopped fighting the awkwardness of my own center of gravity.
Baby girl, Hope, is busy today, flipping and flopping inside me like a proper gymnast, making my belly jiggle like a bowl full of jelly.
"If you drop that mug on a vanguard's head, I'm telling Merrick you did it on purpose," Calla mutters, adjusting her wool shawl as she leans beside me.
"If I hit Lexington, it will be on purpose," I counter, taking a slow sip.
Below us, the palace grounds are a chaotic hive of activity. Gary’s human crew is hauling giant sheets of acrylic toward the grand hall windows, while Clyde stands on a crate, using a brand new megaphone to direct a line of reluctant wolves carrying sacks of grain.
The wolves hate taking orders from humans, but Lexington is nearby, growling at every wolf who thinks they’ll be a little rebellious. “This will only work if we work together,” Lexington calls out every so often.
I think Clyde is rubbing off on him.
Near the center fountain, two young werewolf pups, maybe eight or nine years old, are aggressively rolling in a patch of slush. One has the other in a headlock, their small ears pinned back as they snap at each other with sharp, high-pitched YIPS.
“They will be good warriors one day,” Calla observes. “They are fearless.”
"Hey! Watch the mortar!" an old Lycan builder roars, waving a wooden trowel at them.
The pup on top immediately flips onto his back, widening his eyes in frantic, fake innocence, while the other yanks his ear. 
I burst out laughing, the sudden, genuine sound carrying over the stone edge. The guilty pup looks up, catches me watching, and bolts into a woodpile with his accomplice hot on his heels, scattering a stack of neatly piled shingles.
"Future elite guards right there," Calla snorts, shaking her head. "Terrifying."
"They've got spunk," I say, an easy smirk lingering on my lips. "Reminds me of my neighbour’s kids back home. Give them ten minutes and they'll be sharing a juice box."
"Don't let their mothers hear you call it a juice box," Calla dryly replies, swirling the dregs of her tea. "They’re pure werewolves who reject ‘human ways.’ They’ll insist on raw marrow juice."
“What the hell is marrow juice?” I ask.
“Blood straight from the marrow, of course,” Calla says and grimaces. “I enjoy a rare steak, but even I prefer a proper juice over that.”
"It helps them to grow up big and strong," Nathaniel’s voice cuts in smoothly. “Hybrids need extra… nourishment.”
He steps out from the archive doors, his tailored coat immaculate despite the slushy moisture in the air. He joins us at the railings, his sharp blue eyes sweeping over the bustling courtyard with a quiet, analytical distance.
"It's bizarre seeing them all together like this," I admit, watching Clyde argue with a six-foot-five Lycan warrior over where to stack dry timber. "Humans, wolves, elementals. It’s like a chaotic block party."
"It is progress," Nathaniel says softly. "For centuries, the lines were absolute. Werewolves stayed in their valley packs, aging and burning through their short lives, while the purebred Lycans remained isolated in their castles and palaces. The vampires were in their shadow realms, the elementals in their realm..." he nods slowly. “This is good.”
I glance at him, curious. "Why don’t werewolves and Lycans mingle? We’re practically the same species."
"Because of the nature of the blood," Calla answers for him, resting her chin on her hand. "A werewolf shifts on their sixteenth birthday. Their wolf wakes up early, but their body burns out fast. Only the highest ranking wolves live long, proper lives. They live, they age, they die. But a born Lycan? We don't shift until twenty-one."
I tilt my head. "Twenty-one?"
"To the exact minute actually," Nathaniel nods, a faint, nostalgic shadow crossing his handsome features. "We grow like a normal child through your youth. But the moment our twenty-first year hits and we shift for the first time, the clock freezes entirely. We become immortal at that moment."
"Must be nice," I murmur a little bitterly. "Skipping the whole existential crisis of growing old."
A sadness I can’t put into words settles over me. I’ll grow old and die, and then Merrick will die. Because that’s how it works, apparently.
“You are immortal Jo,” Calla says. “You are a Lycan. When Apollo bit you, he… activated the gene.”
“Not exactly,” Nathaniel says. “He woke Astra up all the way. When you shifted for the first time, your clock stopped too. You didn’t know?”
I shake my head and sip my tea. The enormity of it is almost too much to comprehend. Immortality. I could do so much! Learn every language, see every country, make endless friends.
"Immortality isn’t all it’s cracked up to be either, Jo," Nathaniel says quietly, his gaze drifting toward the high, jagged peaks where the snow is beginning to retreat. "Enduring centuries sounds poetic until you realise time loses its texture. When you've seen a dozen kingdoms rise and crumble into dust, the novelty vanishes. The world becomes a quiet, repetitive sketch.
“There is nothing to fight for, nothing to dream or search for, because there is always tomorrow. We don’t invent because we don’t die. To dream, to grow, one must face the certainty of death.”
Calla lets out a long, theatrical sigh. "Well, if you get too bored with immortality, Nathaniel, Oliver still needs help clearing the drainage gutters on the west wing."
Nathaniel slants a look at her, a faint, amused twitch touching the corner of his lips. "I am a King, Calla, not a plumber."
"Even Kings need to clear leaves if they don't want water leaking into the archive," she shoots back without missing a beat.
A quiet, genuine laugh escapes me. I look down at the bustling courtyard, feeling Hope give a firm, sharp stretch and a poke to the liver… or perhaps my pancreas. 
It’s a solid, grounding pulse of life inside the shifting world. The old ways are crumbling, the ancient texts are useless, and Lysander is still lurking out in the high dark passes. But standing on this stone balcony, watching my people rebuild our home under the pale gold of the afternoon sun, the future doesn't feel like a threat anymore.
It just feels like work that needs doing.
“Maybe the key to enjoying immortality,” I say without thinking much of it. “Is finding your own purpose. Over and over again.”
Nathaniel gives me an almost surprised look. “Yes. But all of us run out of purposes after a while.”
“Have you?” I ask.
“Now, Queen, how can you ask me that when you are my newest purpose?”
I smile at him. I do love him. And Lexington. Calla, Clara, Oliver… the whole lot of them. They are my family. My home.
"Merrick will be back from the valley soon," Calla notes, nudging my elbow. "And if he catches us gossiping while the roof is open, he'll assign us both to Clyde's dishwashing detail."
"He wouldn't dare," I smirk, taking a final sip of tea. "I'm carrying his heir. I have total immunity."
"That is true," Calla snorts, turning back toward the warm interior of the keep. “But he will find something for you to do, heir or not.”
Yes, something safe and cushy and entirely boring. Dishwashing would actually bring a little razzle dazzle to my current hum-drum days.
“I am going down to the scullery,” I announce. “To help with the dishes.”
Nathaniel barks laughter and pushes away from the railing. “You can try… but I doubt you’ll even be able to make it down the stairs to the scullery.”
I plant my hands on my hips and stare at the king. “Are you saying I’m fat?”
“No, your majesty,” he replies with a smile. “I’m saying you are very, very, very pregnant.”