For a moment, Zeal was completely lost of words as he didn't even know how to react. He couldn't understand the concept of this, leave alone making sense of it.
He knew he was a warlock, so how could he possibly be tied to this girl? That was completely unheard of. A warlock and a werewolf? Come on, it just can't happened.
Something deep in him wished that this girl could be joking, but she wasn't. Her demeanor was clear, not playful, and bedsides, werewolves can joke with any other things but not the mate bonds.
They would always take this matter seriously, making them the most loyal and overprotective to their partners. A mate bond can only come once in a lifetime, and if one ends up losing their partner, that would be it. They would have completely lost their one true love, and even if they would try and find a replacement, it wouldn't just feel the same.
It would always feel like something was missing. Unavoidable silent in the screams, a hollow within them that would make their replacement feel like nothing, a play thing and finally forcing that relationship to crumble.
So yeah. When they come across their mate, they would always act clingy, overprotective and the most loyal onces when it comes to relationships.
"Oh. You thinking I'm joking." The girl innocently giggled with a beautiful smile that melted Zeal's heart.
It was just too hard for him not to fall for this girl, her charm, her demeanor, her behavior. Everything about her was perfect, a typical dream girl for any man in the world.
"Then perhaps this might convince you." She added while gently extending her left hand towards Zeal and suddenly, the world seemed to hold its breath.
From the space between them, a thread of light erupted—
not harsh, not blinding, but soft as snowfall and radiant as dawn.
It shimmered with hues no mortal eye could name: silver laced with starlight, white tinged with memory.
It spun in the air like a dancer, graceful and deliberate, circling her ring finger with reverence.
Then, as if drawn by an ancient promise, it stretched forward. A slow, deliberate arc across the silence,
cutting through the tension like a blade made of mercy.
It reached Zeal's hand, hesitated for a heartbeat,
then coiled around his ring finger with the same sacred precision.
The light pulsed once, a quiet thrum, like a heartbeat shared between two souls, and then settled, binding them.
Not with chains, but with truth.
Two reflections,two destinies but one bond.
Zeal didn't move. The light still lingered, faintly pulsing around his finger like a living vow. It should have felt warm. It should have felt right. But all he felt was the slow unraveling of certainty.
His breath came shallow, chest tight with something he couldn't name. Not fear, not anger, but the quiet panic of a man watching the ground shift beneath him.
This wasn't supposed to happen. Not to him. Not like this.
She was a wolf—born of moonblood and instinct. And he was a witch—crafted from spellwork and silence.
Their worlds didn't touch.
They collided
He glanced at her, searching for hesitation, for regret.
But she stood steady, her gaze locked on his, eyes wide and unflinching. Not demanding. Not pleading. Just… waiting.
It was like she had already accepted the impossible. But Zeal couldn't. Not yet.
His mind raced through consequences like a strategist mapping a battlefield.
This would affect her pack at a great magnitude. His race would call it a contamination. The academy would brand it heresy. After all, creating a hybrid was completely against all the three races as this might cause a shift of power struggle.
It has already happened before among the Snow siblings, and the war that took place afterwards, everyone would try and avoid it at any
And Irine… Irine would feel it. The severing. The shift.
He clenched his fist, as if he could crush the light, break the bond, undo the moment. But the thread remained. Unbroken. Unyielding.
Fate had spoken. And Zeal, for all his power, had no spell to silence it.
"Miss, I think this is a mistake." He spoke with a worrying face while praying that the girl could feel the same.
But she didn't, she looked at him gently, not pushing, but her eyes reading him like an open book. It was like she knew him better than he does himself, and certainly knowing what, and when to speak.
And with that, she leaned a little forward before speaking.
"It's fate, remember. I didn't choose this. But it might as well be the start of all." She muttered.
It was even strange to see her maintain this level of calmness. She looked more like she was trained for this moment. Like she was told what to say and when to. This all made her look mature for the person of her age, which was of course cool, but not to Zeal.
"You don't understand." He quickly responded as if wanting to cry. "But I'm of witch race and you, You are a werewolf." He added while shrugging his shoulders.
"Are you sure about that?" she asked, her voice dancing between curiosity and challenge.
A soft giggle followed shortly, gentle, melodic, and strangely loud in its charm.
It wasn't flirtation. It was enchantment. The kind of sound that could make any human forget their name, their purpose, their gender, just to hear it again.
She leaned forward slightly, her eyes never leaving his, and took a few delicate sniffs of the air around him.
Not animalistic.
Not crude.
But graceful—like a violin tuning itself to the soul it was meant to play.
Then she smiled. Not wide. Not smug. Just enough to tilt the world.
"…Or maybe," she whispered, "you're just in denial."
The words landed like feathers; soft, but heavy with truth.
Zeal flinched, barely. But she didn't give him a chance to speak his mind. She tilted her head, her gaze sharpening like moonlight on glass.
"But tell me," she continued, her voice now a thread of silk pulled taut,
"Is that all you fear?"
The question didn't echo. It lingered. It wrapped around him like mist, seeping into the cracks he didn't know he had.
Was it the bond?
The politics?
The betrayal?
Or was it something deeper—
the terrifying possibility that this girl, this werewolf,
might be the one thing in the world he couldn't fight.
"The thing is…" Zeal began, his voice barely holding shape.
He coiled inward, like a flame retreating from wind.
A blush crept across his cheeks, warm, embarrassed, human.
"I mean, look at you… and look at me. You're just… you know."
His words stumbled, tripping over awe and inadequacy.
He turned toward the mirror, unable to meet her gaze any longer, and there he was.
A black boy with skin like polished obsidian, deep, rich, ancient.
Eyes dark as storm clouds before the rain, holding secrets he hadn't dared name.
He stood at 5'11, neither tall nor short, neither striking nor forgettable. His frame was lean, almost fragile, like a reed beside a river, bending to survive.
There was no grandeur in his posture. No myth in his silhouette. Just a boy who knew he wasn't made to dazzle.
In the mirror, he saw the contrast like a cruel painting.
She—ethereal, radiant, carved from starlight and moonfire.
He—earthbound, plain, a shadow beside her flame.
When it came to charm, he was like a beggar in the streets,
trying to court a crown princess from the heavenly beauty realm.
Not with gold. Not with wit. Just with the trembling hope that maybe, just maybe, she'd see something in him worth touching and yet, the mirror didn't mock him. It mourned him.
"Is that so?" she murmured, voice dipped in velvet mischief, fingers teasing the edge of her sleeve as if testing the air between them why trying to undress.
"Then maybe I should just give myself to you... to prove how serious I am."
Her words hung like incense smoke, sweet, dangerous, impossible to ignore.
Zeal's breath caught. A tremor laced through his chest, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the curve of her smile and the shimmer in her eyes.
His heart stuttered—then thundered. A thin line of blood slipped from his nose, the price of proximity to something too divine, too forbidden.
"Is she—no. No, I can't do this." The thought screamed through his skull like a curse. And in a blur of panic and shame, he bolted. Out the door, down the stairway, his footsteps echoing like a retreating war drum.