Wills Hills? That's miles away, an entire day's drive from the main city.
And yet, of all places, she ended up here. Wills Hills, a town shrouded in infamy, whispered about for its strange occurrences. They call it the town of no return, once you arrive, leaving becomes nearly impossible.
So how, then, did she find herself here?
She can only mutter, "How is this possible?" as her feet press into the floor, suddenly heavy. Her eyes dart to the window, peering out at a vast expanse of green fields secured by a towering steel wall.
The sight makes her heart pound with disbelief. She moves as if in a trance, walking toward a set of golden stairs. Her legs move faster, chasing some unknown destination, ignoring the immense living room filled with dozens of chairs and a massive square table.
A maiden with a tray of goblets is in her way, and she bumps past her, sending the glasses crashing to the reflective gold floor.
The sound of shattering glass and the maid's angry scolding are nothing but distant noise. She doesn't hear the woman calling after her to stop. All that matters is reaching the top of those stairs.
Her eyes scan the world outside, and a single thought echoes in her mind:
"What's happening?
How?"
Her head spins as she takes in the bizarre scene. Before her stands a majestic castle, its walls a tangle of rock and root vines that are about to bloom.
At every corner, statues of a woman stand, a piece of cloth wrapped around her waist, a vase in her hand. Her bare chest is unsettling, yet the statues hold an undeniable beauty and mystery, with glowing eyes that capture every gaze.
At the center, a fountain depicts a giant man covered in fur, with clawed hands and ears like a wild dog. The entire place is strange, confusing her more than she can process.
"Your Highness," a woman's voice cuts through her thoughts, and Ella's gaze snaps to her.
The woman rushes forward, a panic in her eyes. "You shouldn't be out here. If His Majesty finds out, he'll be furious." She grabs Ella's hand and pulls her through the doors, which are opened by men standing guard.
Back in the room from before, she tries to collect her thoughts, pacing back and forth, but the words and images just won't come together.
"What may I call you?" she asks, the words feeling foreign on her tongue.
The woman doesn't pause her work, her hands continuing to fold clothes in the wardrobe. "Whatever suits Your Highness. But if I must say, I am mostly addressed as Abibatu."
"Abi," Ella begins, a nervous tremor in her voice. "What is this place? And how did I get here?"
Abibatu stops folding and offers a small, flat smile. "I'm your appointed governess. Before this, I was a maid in the king's service. It is his trust in me that has granted me this responsibility. As for your other questions, I'm afraid I cannot answer them. I am unfit to do so."
A governess? What does that even mean? Ella's mind reels. Each new piece of information is another puzzle she can't solve. The doubt is a knot in her stomach. She has to figure this out, has to escape this golden cage. But how?
"Since you can't answer my questions, who can?" Ella presses, a desperate plea in her eyes.
"The King."
"Then perhaps you should have your king come meet me or best have me taken to him," Ella said, with intentions of fleeing the second she walked out.
"I'll have him know you're up." With that, Abibatu exits, shutting the door securely behind her. She's been trusted with this duty for a reason, and she knows better than to leave the door unlocked. It's clear that this isn't her first time dealing with a reluctant princess.
"Damn it," Ella curses, a failed attempt to open the door confirming her fears. Her one chance at escape is gone. She paces in a furious circle, her thoughts racing. There must be a way out. Her eyes scan the room and land on an open balcony door.
Bingo.
Meanwhile in a dimly lit, austere chamber, John speaks to the figure seated upon a chair carved twice the size of any ordinary throne.
"It's a mystery," he begin, voice low, "how she managed to touch the moonstone and live. Anyone else, mage or mortal, would've frozen solid, shattered, and turned to dust. Yet she..." He hesitate, recalling the sight. "She held it as if it were nothing more than glass."
For a moment, John's words hang in the heavy silence. He shift his weight, uneasy beneath the weight of the ruler's gaze.
"At first, I thought it beneath my notice," he continued. "But then I saw your mark on her. She belongs to you. And I..." His voice dropped, deferential. "...I would never dare claim what is yours."
Across from him, King Steffens, the lycanthropic sovereign of the seven kingdoms, remained still. His face, carved from shadows and stone, betrayed nothing. No flicker of surprise. No flash of anger. Just silence, more suffocating, more dangerous, than any roar.
For decades, an unspoken law had ruled the seven kingdoms: the tyrant king does not mark. His heart is stone, untouched by longing, and his very presence alone is enough to silence armies. To him, the notion of mating is weakness, an indulgence beneath his notice.
Why would King Steffens waste time on such a trivial bond? Unlike other immortals, who could live for centuries yet fall to blades etched with blood and runes, he is untouchable. No steel can pierce his flesh. No flame can draw his final breath.
He is cursed with a singular immortality, unyielding, indestructible. A king bound to centuries of solitude, walking a path of endless shadow. And now... he has marked someone.
The king's dark gaze falls on John, heavy and unblinking, as if weighing every word of his unbelievable tale.
When John had first appeared at his gates with a frantic human in his hands, claiming she was the king's mate, Steffens had been momentarily stunned. His ears had almost refused to accept such words, forcing him to demand that John repeat them. And John had done so, eagerly.
Then he saw it. His own mark, etched into her skin.
His eyes, so used to disbelieving, had searched for the flaw, the lie, the trick. But there was none. As much as he longed to dismiss it all, dismiss her, he could not. Curiosity, that rarest of poisons, rooted itself in him, and he found himself unwilling to cast it aside.
He have never marked anyone. He is not reckless. Every encounter with a woman have always been calculated, measured, controlled. His emotions, every flicker of them, are shackled to his will
And yet there she was. Marked. His.
"So..." John's voice break into the silence, treading the line between boldness and folly. "Are you going to tell me how you met her?"
The words dangle in the air like bait on a hook, an invitation, a provocation. John knows he risk anger. He knows the punishment that might follow. But the thrill of pressing the tyrant king for answers is far too intoxicating to resist.
"So..." John's voice breaks into the silence, treading the line between boldness and folly. "Are you going to tell me how you met her?"
The words dangle in the air like bait on a hook, an invitation, a provocation. John knows he risks anger. He knows the punishment that might follow. Yet the thrill of pressing the tyrant king for answers is far too intoxicating to resist.
"You can trust me," he adds, tone deceptively light. "I won't breathe a word. Did you cross paths with her during your trip to the city?"
He alludes, of course, to the king's recent visit with a parliament member, a meeting sparked by the disturbing rise in citizen deaths, murders believed to be the work of two escaped supernatural prisoners.
One a rogue.
The other, a dead mind witch.
The king's mission was clear: find them, and end them without mercy.
John leans forward, lips curling into a daring grin. "I'm more curious about how she managed to seduce you into bed. Tell me, was it worth it?"
In an instant, a dangerous glow flashes in the king's eyes. His hands snap forward, a blur of motion, and his fingers lock around John's collar with suffocating strength. Just as he's about to hurl John across the room, a sharp knock echoes at the door.
Slowly, the king's grip loosens, and he releases John, who stumbles back into his chair, gasping for air.
"Speak," King Steffen commands, his voice a low, authoritative growl.
Outside, Abibatu keeps her gaze fixed on the floor as she delivers her message. "Her Highness is awake."
A sudden, fierce gust of wind blasts through the hall, making her stumble. Before she can regain her footing, the king is gone, a whisper of a storm vanishing down the corridor toward Ella's chamber.
John grins, smoothing the wrinkles from his collar. "Don't you also find their connection... suspicious?"
Abi rolls her eyes, unimpressed by his audacity, and quickly follows after the king. John is right on her heels.
Inside the chamber, Ella stands just a few steps from the balcony, a hand on the cold stone balustrade. An icy wind whips through the room, halting her in place.
Her breath catches in her throat as she looks up, her eyes meeting the piercing gaze of a man who now stands before her.
He towers over her, his silhouette so vast it consumes her own shadow entirely.
As she takes a more detailed look at his face, an unexpected thought sparks in her mind: he bears an uncanny resemblance to her favorite celebrity crush.
Well... aside from the fact that he's even taller than she ever imagined.
"You're awake," he states, his gaze sweeping over her, taking in every detail. She's smaller than the women he's used to, delicate, almost fragile. Pretty, yes. Charming, even. But in his eyes, nothing remarkable. A flat chest, a body too slight. Hardly the sort of woman who should hold his attention.
"No, I'm still sleeping," she replies with a sarcastic roll of her eyes.
Is he blind? She's clearly on her feet. very much conscious, and he dares to state the obvious? Either he's blind or just unbearably arrogant. Well, he'll learn quickly enough, she's not the type to cower.
"Do you always speak with such ill manners?" His voice sharpens, irritation flaring. A dangerous edge creeps in, the kind that makes her skin prickle. She can almost see the thought flicker in his eyes, that he could silence her with a single command, tear her tongue out if he wished. Torture her, even. The threat coils in the air between them, unspoken but palpable.
But he doesn't move. Not yet. He restrains himself, and the restraint makes him more unsettling than if he had struck her outright. He needs something from her.
"Tell me who you are," he demands, his gaze like a blade pinning her in place.
She refuses to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, her eyes dart toward the open balcony. The world beyond it hums with possibility, distance, freedom. If she can just calculate the height, the drop, the chance of surviving...
His next words drag her attention back like chains tightening around her wrists.
"Who are you, and how the hell do you have my mate mark?" His voice drops into a low growl, the sound vibrating through the room. His patience is thinning, each syllable scraping against it like a blade.
Her head snaps toward him, eyes narrowing in bafflement. Mate mark? What the hell is he talking about?
"What are you even saying? What mark? What mate?"
The disbelief in her tone only fuels her irritation. First, he kidnaps her, now he's spouting nonsense? She lets out a scoff, frustration curling her lip.
"Look, I don't know who you are or what the hell is going on here. If I did, trust me, I'd be the first to let you know." She exhales sharply, pressing her fingers to her temples. The madness of this place presses in on her from all sides, and she tries to steady herself against the chaos clawing at her thoughts.
When she looks up, she finds him watching her, eyes narrowed, not with rage this time, but with something quieter. Skepticism. Calculation.
"You're a human," he murmurs, the words almost sounding like a revelation.
Her arms fold tightly across her chest. "Obviously."
The retort cuts through the air, but her pulse races, betraying her.
'Why is he looking at me like that? , like am not what I am?'
The thought unsettles her more than she cares to admit, so she masks with a sharp glare
He watches her in silence, his gaze a heavy, unsettling weight. It's not admiration; it's dissection. He's a predator, puzzling over prey that doesn't fit the hunt. His jaw tightens, and his hand clenches in his trouser pocket, as if debating whether to crush or to question.
"The mark on your back," he asks, his voice low. "How did you get it?"
Her eyes flash. The question reveals his vantage point, and a slow-burning realization hardens her expression. "You pervert!" she snaps, wrapping her arms around herself. "What did you do to me while I was unconscious?"
A sharp exhale leaves his lips. The girl's gall astounds him. Does she not know who he is? King Steffen, the feared ruler of the seven kingdoms. The idea of him preying on a helpless woman, let alone a small thing like her, is absurd.
"I didn't touch you," he says, his patience fraying. "I would never. You're not my type."
A loud scoff and a theatrical eye-roll meet his words. "Oh, please." She dismisses his statement with a wave of her hand. He's lying, her mind asserts. She may not think of herself as irresistible, but she knows her own appeal. To a man, an unconscious, defenseless woman is a temptation, or so she believes.
"Then how do you know I have a mark on my back?"
He stiffens. A cold sweat breaks on his brow. The question is a trap, a simple thing he hadn't prepared for. He can't tell her the truth: that he checked to confirm John's claims. The truth, in her hands, will become another accusation. Another reason to dismiss him as a monster. He has a reputation, a kingdom, to protect. A small lie, just this once.
"That's not important right now. Just tell me how you got it."
"It's just an ugly birthmark," she says, the words laced with nonchalance.
His teeth grind together. Ugly. The word is a dagger twisting in his gut. An ugly birthmark. Her casual dismissal of the symbol that defines his entire being, his very identity. He remembers the women who have begged for a chance to carry his mark, who saw it not as a flaw, but as a promise. He wants to shake her, to make her understand the gravity of what she just said.
"Birthmark?" The word is a venomous hiss on his tongue.
"Yeah," she replies, utterly oblivious. "You know, something you're born with? I've had it my whole life. If I could get rid of it, I would. But why are you so concerned?"
Before he can answer, the door bursts open.
She stands rigid, every muscle locked in place.
John steps inside, and just like that, the blurry memories sharpen into a horrifying clarity. The beast. The white creature that nearly ripped her head off.
Her body goes rigid, cold. Fear crawls over her skin, a thousand tiny pinpricks. She takes an instinctive step back as John approaches.
"You..." Her voice trembles, a fragile thread. "You turned... You're a beast!"
John's brows raise at the accusation, but his expression remains unreadable.
She shakes her head, a frantic motion, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. "Where am I? Where is Mia? Where is she?!" Her voice climbs with each panicked question, but no one offers an answer.