Chapter 17 Awakening threads
The Wildvein Woods stretched like a living maze, thick with ancient oaks, shadowed groves, and the pungent tang of medicinal herbs—wild silversage, moonroot, and venomleaf, all native to Northwood territory. Draven moved at the front of the line, crimson eyes flaring, jaw tight, hands clenched so hard his knuckles bled faintly under the pale light. Around him, trackers and scouts moved cautiously, scanning roots, hollows, and moss-covered stones.
“She isn’t here,” one tracker muttered, crouching to inspect a patch of crushed ferns.
Draven’s fingers flexed, claws scraping the soil. “Don’t speak as if you know anything. She hasn’t gone anywhere. I would know if she did." His voice carried a low, dangerous growl, pride and fury coiling through him like wildfire. “She can not run from me. She won’t.”
Rylan, leaning casually against the trunk of a gnarled oak, rolled his eyes. “Maybe if I’d beaten some sense into you earlier, you wouldn’t be whining through the woods like a fool now. You think after all the shit you put her through she wouldn't escape at the first sight of freedom? Dream on!”
Draven whirled, teeth bared. “Shut your mouth, Rylan!” His wolf snarled within him, ears flat against his skull. “She isn’t yours to lecture me about!”
Rylan smirked, unbothered. “Right, because the way you speak about her like she’s a trophy instead of a person is really working out for you.”
Draven’s fist shot out, catching Rylan by the shoulder. “She is not just anyone! She is... well... was... our foster sister, and now, she is my mate! No one touches her. And I will have her, Rylan. No matter where she hides, no matter what she thinks, she is mine!”
"Is he seriously reminding us of our relationship with Elara?" Iman grunted.
The trackers flinched but pressed forward. One of the younger warriors called out, holding something between gloved hands. “Alpha… we found another piece of her dress. Tattered… and… there's dried blood. Whoever she ran into—” His voice faltered.
Draven snatched the fragment, eyes burning with fury. “She did not run into anyone!” He slammed the piece into the dirt. “She would never run. She knows better than anyone who owns her.” His wolf throbbed inside him, enraged.
Rylan muttered under his breath, a smirk still twisting his lips. “You really need to check your priorities. She’s more than some prize to claim.”
Draven’s hands shot toward Rylan again, gripping his shoulders, eyes wild. “She is my prize! The one who matters! No one else will touch her!”
The trackers moved to hold him back as he shook with rage, growling low, teeth scraping his lower lip. “And if she has been attacked... if anyone even dared to lay a finger on her…” His voice dropped to a menacing whisper. “They’ll regret it in ways they cannot imagine. I’ll tear this forest apart if I must.”
One of the older warriors spoke softly, trying to steady him. “Alpha, the dress… the rogue remains… it could mean she was attacked. We need caution. We may be chasing shadows if we rush blindly.”
Draven’s red eyes flared, nostrils flaring. “I don’t care if it’s a shadow. She is mine! And I will find her! Every branch, every root, every shadow in these cursed woods will answer to me!”
Rylan shook his head, exasperated, though a flicker of unease passed through him. “And if she’s not here?”
Draven’s glare could have split stone. “Then whoever hid her, or took her… will die. Every last one of them. I will not—cannot—lose her to chance.”
The trackers glanced at one another, wary of the firestorm of a man who refused to accept loss or doubt. The forest seemed to lean closer, leaves rustling in tension, sensing the wolf-driven fury of a king’s mate that could destroy everything in its path.
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Meanwhile, far from the chaos of the forest, the palace had grown quiet in a different way. Seven months had passed since Elara had fallen unconscious. Seven months of Ronan sitting at her bedside, brushing her silver hair, murmuring the lullaby his mother had sung to him, and ignoring the world outside the chamber. Meals had been skipped, baths refused, sleep abandoned—his life had become entirely hers.
His appearance betrayed his months of neglect: hair tangled and unkempt, beard overgrown, clothes stiff with sweat and grime. He refused to bathe, to change, or even to eat. Whispers had begun circulating within the palace walls. “It seems like the king has lost his mind,” the servants said. “Ever since he brought back that… girl.”
Ronan didn’t care. He only cared for her.
Arwen stepped into the chamber, her presence commanding even the shadows. Attending maids flanked her, their eyes wide at the state of the king. “I cannot believe I am saying this again,” she mumbled as she inched closer to Ronan.
“Ronan.”
He froze mid-stroke, fingers hovering over Elara’s silver hair. His red-gold eyes lifted slowly, wary. “Mother,” he said softly, almost defensively.
She started, “Seven months. Seven months, and you’ve done nothing but sit here while the world expects its king to act. I cannot and will not allow this to continue.”
Ronan’s jaw tightened. “I—”
“You what? You’ve done nothing?” she pressed, voice trembling with restrained frustration. “You’ve let yourself vanish while everyone else keeps the Moonvale strong.”
“I am here,” he murmured, voice low, rough. “By her side. What more do you want?”
Arwen’s grey eyes softened for a fraction of a heartbeat before sharpening again. “More? I want my son to live. To eat, to sleep, to bathe, to be alive again. To be the king the people need. And perhaps then she will wake.”
Ronan scowled, sniffing himself and muttering, “I didn't feel the need…”
“You didn't feel the need?” she asked, incredulous. “Ronan, you’ve spent months as a shadow. Do you think that will save her?”
He looked down at Elara’s still form, chest tightening, throat raw. “I… I can’t leave her,” he whispered. “What if she wakes and I’m gone?”
Arwen took a careful step closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You won’t be gone. But she deserves to see you whole. Not… this. I am not asking. I am ordering you. Bathe. Freshen yourself. For her.”
Ronan stiffened, jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around the brush. “I… I don’t know if I can,” he admitted, voice barely audible.
“You will,” she said, her voice softening, maternal yet absolute. “You are her anchor. You are my son. If you cannot do this… I will make the arrangements myself.”
His wolf growled, gold eyes flashing in the shadows. “I will not leave her side,” Fenrir murmured, low and possessive.
Mistvale, Arwen’s wolf, emerged. Its eyes locked on Ronan, reflecting the same steel as Arwen’s gaze. The message was clear: do as she says… or Elara moves to the Silvermoon Sanctum. The sanctum, bathed in lunar energy and accessible only to the women of their bloodline, would protect Elara but keep her out of Ronan’s reach.
Ronan’s fingers trembled as he clenched the brush. It splintered. His teeth ground together, a growl vibrating in his chest. "You wouldn't dare."
"Oh, I will." Arwen stepped even closer, her eyes locked on his. “I have stationed elite guards at the chamber entrance for extra protection. Now, you will do this. For her. Three hours. That is all I ask. Do you hear me?”
Ronan exhaled slowly, shoulders heavy, and finally gave a small, reluctant nod. “For her,” he said, voice low, almost broken.
Arwen’s lips curved into a quiet, relieved smile. “Of course. For Elara.”
A soft, almost imperceptible sigh passed through the room. Elara stirred.
Ronan froze, heart hammering. His eyes widened as he leaned closer, studying the faint rise of her chest, the twitch of a finger. Seven months of waiting, and now, finally, she was beginning to return.