Chapter 7

Rylan stood in front of the grand portrait, his eyes tracing the delicate features of the woman who had once been the heart of his family. The lady in the painting, with her deep brown eyes and brunette hair, held in an elegant bun, wore a golden gown that cascaded around her in luxurious folds. A crown, intricately crafted with precious stones and diamonds, adorned her head—a testament to her status and grace.

She was breathtaking, even now, immortalized in her youth. Rylan couldn't help but feel a pang of admiration and longing as he gazed at her. His mother had been the epitome of beauty and elegance, the kind of woman who commanded attention without uttering a word.

He took a deep breath, his thoughts wandering as he remembered the stories his father had shared. His mother had been cherished, loved deeply by the man who now ruled their world with an iron fist. But her absence had left a void, one that could never be filled.

She had died young, taken by a rare illness that had ravaged her body, leaving both Rylan and his father devastated. Rylan had been told the same story his entire life—that no healer, no magic, had been strong enough to save her. It was something his father never spoke of without a trace of sadness, though Rylan could sense there was more to the story.

The memory of his father’s grief and the way he spoke of his mother made Rylan wonder what life might have been like if she had survived. Would things be different? Would *he* be different?

As he stood there, lost in thought, Rylan’s hand instinctively reached out, brushing against the ornate frame of the portrait. His gaze lingered on the crown that rested upon her head—a symbol of power, wealth, and legacy. But more than that, it represented the love and loyalty his father had held for her, a love so profound it had never faded, even after her death.

“Mother,” he whispered softly, his voice barely audible in the empty room. “What would you think of me now?”

Rylan stood frozen, his eyes lingering on the portrait of his mother as a storm of emotions churned within him. The questions that plagued him were ones he had never spoken aloud. Would she be proud of him? Would she have loved him in the way mothers do—the way he had seen other mothers love their children?

It wasn’t something he liked to admit, not even to himself, but the absence of her love had always left a void. He couldn’t remember her touch, her voice, or even the warmth of her presence. All he had were secondhand stories, vague memories of a time when she had still been alive. And though his father had tried in his own way to raise him, there was always something missing.

He often watched other children with their mothers—how they would run into their arms, be showered with kisses, and hear the simple question, “How was your day?” It was a small act, but it held so much weight. He never had that. Instead, his life had been filled with formality, lessons, and an unspoken expectation to become the leader he was destined to be. Even his father, for all his power and respect, had been a distant figure—someone he only saw at formal dinners or grand royal events.

The palace was vast, and its halls were always filled with people. Yet, Rylan had never felt more alone. No matter how many servants, advisors, or warriors surrounded him, none of them could fill the aching gap where a mother’s love should have been.

He remembered standing at the edge of the gardens as a child, watching other noble children with their mothers. The way they laughed, the way their mothers bent down to wipe away their tears, the hugs they shared—it was something he longed for, though he never dared to speak of it. He was a prince, and princes didn’t talk about such things.

But the pain was always there, lingering beneath the surface, gnawing at him in the quiet moments when no one was around.

The dark corridors of the palace felt like a prison, every step echoing the hollow emptiness within Rylan. He couldn't shake the feeling of suffocation that clung to him like the thick velvet curtains that shrouded the halls. After covering the portrait of his mother once again, he walked towards the balcony of his room, seeking solace in the open air.

From his vantage point, the entire realm lay before him—the dense forests, sprawling villages, the bustling city, and the neighboring packs that surrounded Valoria. It was all his to rule, yet none of it brought him comfort. His gaze wandered, but it always returned to the forests on the horizon—the place where she lived.

Azura stood leaning against a tree on the cliff, her dark hair flowing in the wind as she watched the massive castle that dominated Valoria. From her perch, the entire structure was visible, but her eyes were drawn to the topmost spire, where she knew he resided—the future Alpha king.

Her green eyes, sharp and unwavering, scanned the distance. She could feel him, even from here, the connection between them undeniable. Despite everything, there was something that linked her to him, something deeper than magic or fate. She hated it, yet couldn’t deny it.

Rylan's intense gaze focused on that same cliff where a figure stood, barely visible to anyone else, but not to him. His eyesight, sharper than any other werewolf’s, allowed him to see clearly. It was her—Azura. He didn’t need confirmation, he could feel her presence. The connection between them wasn’t just in his mind; it was real.

"Azura..." He whispered her name, his voice a mix of longing and frustration, as if tasting the word brought both pleasure and pain. She was the only woman he had ever loved since his mother. His demon girl. The one who challenged him, drove him mad, and yet was the only one who made him feel alive.

Are you there, demon girl? His thoughts reached out to her, as if she could somehow hear him through the distance. His hand rested on the stone railing, fingers grazing the silver ring that marked him as royalty. The ring that protected him from magic, especially dark magic, was a symbol of his bloodline. It was why Azura’s powers never worked on him. She could curse anyone, but not him. He was untouchable to her in that way.

But not in every way.

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