Iven's POV
Iven walked the familiar path leading toward the old ruins. Whenever the pack had visitors, this was where he hid. People assumed he avoided them because they were werewolves like him — but the truth was simpler. He avoided everyone. He couldn't stand the noise, the energy, the eyes. The temple was the only place that didn't suffocate him.
He still didn't understand why the alphas before him had never torn the place down. Maybe for the same reason he couldn't bring himself to do it either. The crumbling stone gave him something he didn't find anywhere else in his world.
Peace.
Like the ruins themselves were breathing softly around him.
He had once thought about restoring the temple, rebuilding it… but he feared fixing it would break whatever quiet magic it held. So he left it as it was.
This was the one place he could let his mind wander.
He'd been restless for a while now, most nights when he awoke, he felt his spirit wandering, searching for something. He just didn't know what yet.
They said the moon over Athelion was cursed.
Some nights it rose blood-red, hanging over the mountains like a watching eye. But tonight, storm clouds swallowed the sky, and the moon hid — as if even it feared what was about to wake.
Iven felt it before he heard anything.
That ancient pull in his bones.
A tremor.
A whisper.
A warning.
The Old Tongue stirred in him — Ulfgardr, the forgotten language of the Northern clans his mother once spoke. But beneath it came another hum, low and smoky… the spirit-call of the AmaLobo, the Zulu lycan guardians.
Two bloodlines.
Two destinies.
One curse he never asked for.
Lightning split the sky, throwing jagged light over the Greek ruins. Ivy crawled over broken pillars. The scent of wet stone, burned wood, and something darker filled the air.
Then he heard it.
A scream.
Sharp.
Human.
Afraid.
Iven didn't even feel himself make the decision — his body moved before thought could catch up.
His bones snapped first, shoulders widening, vision sharpening into silver focus as claws slid out from his fingers. A growl tore from his throat.
Not man.
Not wolf.
Something in-between… something forbidden.
He lunged toward the sound.
And then he stopped dead.
She was kneeling on the ground, clutching her arm, blood dripping from her fingertips. Her eyes met his — wide, stormy, brave even through the pain.
His wolf breathed a single word he had not heard for thousands of years:
Mate.
The clouds shifted.
Moonlight — white, clean, blinding — spilled across the ruins, lighting her like she was carved out of fate itself. Something inside him bowed toward her, pulled in a way that felt older than his bones.
His wolf knew her.
His curse recognized her.
His destiny… chose her.
But she stared at him with fear, confusion, not understanding what he was — or the bond he felt roaring through him.
And yet, he couldn't look away.