Chapter 36
No POV
The hall was dimly lit, the crystal chandeliers above casting fractured reflections on the polished marble floor. The scent of rosewater lingered faintly in the air.
He was already there.
Mirage stood in the far corner, half-hidden by a curtain of shadows, his presence unnoticed, just as he intended.
She hadn't seen him.
Viona moved through the room like frost slipping beneath a closed door, untouched by the celebration humming faintly from the gardens outside. The world had shifted since she last walked this hall, but she remained unnervingly the same.
Mirage watched her, every inch of him still as stone. He'd been there during the battle, though she'd never noticed. Always in the places she didn't look. And now, standing here, watching her return, he wasn't sure if she would even remember his face—or care to.
Still, he stepped out of the shadows.
"Viona, or should I add the newly earned title...?"
Her name left his mouth like an exhale—quiet, but laced with something brittle.
She turned slowly, her gaze meeting him with chilling calm. No warmth, no spark of surprise. Just an acknowledgement. She was cold.
"Young Alpha Mirage," she replied simply.
No warmth. No recognition of the months apart. Just a name and silence. A pause, long and sterile.
"You're back," he said, forcing a small nod. "In one piece." A smirk formed on his lips.
"I had no intention of returning in fragments," Viona replied, dryly, puzzled.
He chuckled once, though it came out hollow.
And then it hit him.
A sudden, stabbing sensation spread through his chest—sharp and hot—as though something acidic was crawling through his veins. His spine stiffened, and he drew in a shallow breath.
His hand instinctively gripped the edge of the banquet table beside him. The pain intensified—it wasn't an injury. It wasn't fatigue.
It was something else.
"Excuse me," he murmured tightly, stepping away before she could question him—not that she would.
He turned from her and strode quickly across the floor, his movements increasingly rigid, like a puppet fighting tangled strings. The corridors blurred. The walls closed in. His head throbbed. His heartbeat pounded unevenly in his ears, and the searing pain in his limbs was now an inferno in his veins.
He stumbled into an empty alcove and dropped to one knee, clutching his head. "Breathe," he told himself, voice a hoarse whisper. "Control it. Will it go down."
His vision swam, nerves screaming. The bulging of his veins was visible beneath his skin, dark and swollen as if infected by shadow. His breath came in short, ragged pulls. He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and forced himself to stay grounded.
Pain. Heat. Pressure. Focus.
He exhaled slowly, centering on the rhythm of his pulse. It took everything—every ounce of discipline, every fragment of his mental training—but gradually, the intensity dulled. The heat faded. His blood calmed.
For now.
He pushed himself upright, legs shaky beneath him. And then—
Master.
The voice entered his mind like a whisper through silk—soft, steady, unmistakable. Lilah?he mind-linked back, his thoughts unguarded.
Come to the east wing. Now. Quietly.
She cut the connection before he could reply.
Still weakened, Mirage forced himself to move, slipping through the halls like a phantom. He took the servant route, avoiding guests, shadows curling around him as if drawn to the strange rhythm in his blood.
By the time he reached the eastern corridor, the hallway was quiet. Golden candlelight flickered along the high stone walls, casting long shadows across the floor.
Lilah stood at the far end, half-shrouded behind a column near the wine station. She didn't move when he approached—just tilted her head slightly to acknowledge him.
Her eyes flicked toward the open banquet table where drinks were being poured for the next toast. Guests milled about, their voices distant, muffled by velvet and marble.
Then he saw her. A maid.
Standing at the drink station, dressed in servant's garb, her features serene, lips curved into a faint, practiced smile. Her hands moved with expert grace as she arranged the glasses on a silver tray.
But then she reached into the folds of her apron.
And Mirage froze.
She pulled out a small vial, no larger than a fingertip, and with the ease of someone who'd done it dozens of times, she tilted it into a single cup. The liquid shimmered briefly—a faint violet hue—then vanished into the deep red wine.
She capped the vial, tucked it away, and continued her task as if nothing had happened. Mirage's jaw clenched.
Could she be a witch...? No, it's not possible; there are hundreds of wolves here; one would have sniffed her out a long time ago.
"She's using blood magic," Lilah whispered into his mind again. "Or something darker." Mirage inhaled sharply, then nodded once. "Who's the cup for?"
Lilah hesitated. "I don't know. But she's timing it perfectly. Right before the final toast." A sick chill ran through him.
"Get to Viona," he said under his breath. "Make sure she doesn't drink anything."
"What about you?" Lilah whispered back.
"That's not your concern."
He stepped back into the shadows, his movements fluid despite the lingering ache in his limbs. His heartbeat had steadied—for now—but something inside him still churned.
Author: Everyone can already guess whose POV this is, but I just didn't make use of the "I's and My's," rather "He and His." I hope you guys don't mind.
Please Log In or Sign Up to continue reading.
Unlock all Chapters with 3$
Proceed to payment to unlock all chapters and continue reading.