Chapter 162 Epilogue: A million lifetimes

Chapter 162 Epilogue: A million lifetimes
Six months had passed since the Spire collapsed, and the historic triangular stone table had finally been set up in the grand hall downstairs. It looked very official, very expensive, and entirely too late for the people who actually mattered.

The war was technically over, and a fragile peace was currently being signed into law. Arwen sat for the shifters, Aris stood in for the coven, and a commander was signing off for Caspian's vampire lineage. It was a beautiful, bureaucratic miracle, but the atmosphere in the room was heavy enough to suffocate an Alpha.

The council wouldn't finalize a single line of the treaty without the Lycan King's royal seal. They needed the ultimate authority to lock the three races into compliance, but the man they were waiting for looked less like a king and more like a specter.

When the heavy oak doors opened, Ronan walked in, supported heavily by Matthew.

The entire room went dead silent. The delegates from the coven and the vampire lines actively flinched. Ronan looked a decade older. His skin was gray, his cheekbones sharp, and his black hair had gone prematurely silver at the temples. The twin flame bond hadn't just gone quiet when Elara fell into the Abyssal Void—it had violently ripped out his soul. His wolf, Fenrir, had been dead to the world for six months, and Ronan’s body was actively rejecting life, refusing every medicine, every healer, and every reason to keep breathing.

He was only here to finish the job she started.

"Sign it," Ronan whispered, his voice dry and raspy like sand cutting through the tense silence of the chamber. He didn't even sit. He just leaned heavily against the stone table, took the heavy iron seal from Matthew's trembling hand, and pressed it into the hot wax with the absolute last of his strength.

"The alliance stands," Ronan murmured, his gold eyes dull as he looked at the finalized parchment. "Take care of the realms... because I'm done."

He didn't wait for the council's response. He didn't care about their politics. As Matthew hurried to catch his collapsing frame, Ronan’s eyes drifted to the high arched windows, a faint, small smile touching his chapped lips as he looked past the gray clouds.

"She told me she'd try again," he thought, the memories of her final words warming the freezing, hollow crater in his chest. "Every single lifetime... she promised me."

Before the emissary’s bell could even toll through the pack lands to announce the signing, the breath slowly left Ronan's lungs. The darkness didn't feel heavy; it felt light, like water lifting him up. The sudden, frantic shouting of the council members and Matthew’s heavy footsteps began to distort, warping into a strange, distant rushing sound. The cold stone of the castle vanished, and a massive pulling force dragged his soul forward through the dark, faster and faster until the quiet of the old world exploded into a sharp, sudden gasp.

Ronan’s eyes snapped open.

He lunged forward with a violent gasp, his hand instantly flying to his chest, his fingers bunching into the fabric of his shirt. He was sweating, his heart hammering against his ribs like a panicked drum.

He blinked rapidly, his chest heaving as he looked around, expecting stone walls and a chaotic council room. There were no stone walls. No parchment treaties. No smell of ash.

He was standing on his feet, leaning heavily against a massive glass wall on the ninety-fifth floor of a modern corporate skyscraper. Outside, the skyline of the city stretched out under a bright, sunny afternoon. Cars honked on the streets below, and the ambient, low hum of the expensive office air conditioning filled the room.

Ronan pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, his mind spinning completely out of control. "What the hell was that?"

He looked down at his clothes. He was wearing a sleek, tailored dark suit and a crisp white button-down. He was Ronan Lykaios, the twenty-eight-year-old billionaire CEO of The Silver Moon Holdings. He knew exactly who he was in this world. He knew his bank account, his schedule, his board members, and exactly how much money he made every second.

But that dream... that frustratingly vivid nightmare. He could still feel the phantom weight of a crown on his head. He could still see the council table and the wax seal. The name Elara was burning like a hot coal at the back of his throat. It felt too real to be a dream. It felt like actual memories of a life he had lived centuries ago, bleeding directly into his high-end corporate brain.

He rubbed his chest, right where a freezing, unexplainable hollow void had been since the day he was born. He had spent his entire life in this city feeling like a piece of his soul was missing, which usually just made him an aggressive boss. "Was that why? Was I actually a king in a past life?"

He shook his head savagely, forcing himself to calm down. "You’re losing your mind," he told himself, gripping the edge of his mahogany desk. "It’s just stress. Executive burnout. It was just a weirdly detailed nightmare."

The intercom on his desk suddenly buzzed, shattering his thoughts and making him jump. His head of HR, Marcus, cleared his throat over the speaker sounding incredibly stressed.

"Uh, Mr. Lykaios? The applicant for the executive assistant position is here. I know you rejected the last five, but this one... well, she insisted on seeing you directly. She skipped the lobby filter entirely."

Ronan ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the lingering chills of the vision. He picked up his cold coffee cup, his voice tight. "Marcus, if she can't follow standard hiring protocols, fire her before she even hits the elevator."

"Actually, sir, she's already opening your door."

Before Ronan could snap back, the heavy frosted-glass door to his executive office swung open.

A girl walked in. She was wearing a tailored blue blazer, her silver-blonde hair pulled back into a neat, professional ponytail, and she was carrying a leather portfolio under her arm. She stopped right in front of his desk, her chin tilting up as she looked him up and down with an intense, sharp blue glare.

Ronan’s breath completely trapped in his throat.

The coffee cup slipped from his fingers, hitting the expensive leather desk mat with a heavy, ungraceful thud, dark liquid splashing everywhere. He didn't blink. He couldn't.

It wasn't just a shock. The moment his eyes locked onto hers, a violent, blinding jolt of pure static shot straight down his spine, lighting up every nerve in his body. His internal wolf—the one that had been dead and quiet for centuries—woke up with a deafening, territorial roar. Every instinct he possessed screamed the exact same word, echoing through his soul with absolute certainty:

Mate.

It was her. His queen who had fallen into the dark. The freezing void in his chest didn't just warm up; it literally exploded into a roaring fire. The modern office vanished into absolute silence. The nightmare wasn't a dream at all. It was real. Every single bit of it was real, and she was standing right in front of his desk.

The girl looked down at the spilled coffee on his desk, completely unbothered by his intense, borderline psychotic stare. She raised an eyebrow, a small, arrogant, and incredibly familiar snarky smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She clearly didn't have the past-life memo. To her, he was just a clumsy, rich boss who couldn't handle his caffeine.

"Well," she said, her voice smooth, confident, and dripping with that exact same attitude that used to drive him crazy. "I see the Lycan King can't hold his drink in the morning."

Ronan’s heart battered against his ribs. He slowly stood up, his gold eyes locking onto hers, a slow, breathtaking smile spreading across his face as the realization washed over him. She didn't remember. She had no idea who they were or what they had lost. But she had kept her promise anyway. She had found her way back to him, even if she was currently just trying to get a corporate paycheck.

"You're late," Ronan whispered subconsciously, his voice thick with a lifetime of waiting.

Elara chuckled, tilting her head as she tapped her portfolio against her hip. "I told the lobby secretary I'd try to make it by ten, didn't I? Now, Mr. Lykaios, are you going to hire me?"