Lilianna Green had never imagined that she would one day be pressed into a wedding gown encrusted with pearls and diamonds while still wearing a coarse linen dress stained with herbal sap.
"Lift your head, Your Highness."
The court lady's cold fingers clamped around her chin. "Tonight is your wedding night with King Arthas Wolfgang. To appear in such a state is an insult to the royal house."
In the mirror stood a pale-faced girl. Her golden hair had been roughly combed into an intricate courtly coiffure, exposing the slender, fragile line of her neck. Those sea-green eyes—Lilianna's sole precious inheritance from her slum-born mother—were now brimming with fear.
"I'm not a princess," she tried to explain. "I'm only an herbalist. You've made a mistake—"
"Hush."
The older attendant fastened a moonstone circlet to her brow. The gesture was less gentle than admonitory. "'The last bearer of the Silver Moon bloodline,' 'Princess Isabella, lost for sixteen years'—this has been personally confirmed by His Majesty the King. It would be wise for you to believe it as well."
Lilianna bit her lower lip until she tasted blood.
Three days earlier, the royal guard had burst into her herbal shop in the border town, dragging her out while she was grinding valerian root. They had produced a yellowed parchment covered in an intricate genealogy. When her blood fell upon its center, it had glimmered with a silvery-white light.
"Silver Moon blood," the knight commander had said, dropping to one knee without a trace of reverence. "Welcome home, Princess."
Home?
Lilianna stared at the stranger reflected in the mirror. Her "home" was a low cottage scented with mint, lavender, and earth; a leaking roof that needed mending every month; a place where the town's children ran first when they scraped their knees.
Not this castle with walls so thick they smothered all warmth.
Not these corridors built into cages of etiquette and silence.
And certainly not the man she was about to marry—
Arthas Wolfgang, sovereign of the Seven Northern Kingdoms, the Cursed Wolf King who transformed into a monstrous wolf beneath the full moon.
Rumor claimed he had slaughtered every noble who opposed him on the night of his coronation.
Rumor claimed his throne was built from the skulls of his enemies.
Rumor claimed his previous fiancée had collapsed dead at her engagement feast, beastly bite marks found upon her throat.
"It's time."
The court lady's voice snapped her back to the present.
The heavy oak doors were pushed open. Torch-bearing guards stood in two silent ranks along the corridor, their faces hidden beneath wolf-headed helms. At the far end loomed double doors carved with an enormous wolf sigil. In the flickering firelight, its eyes seemed to burn.
The doors opened.
The throne hall was vast enough to dizzy the senses. Across the soaring dome stretched murals of the turning stars, moonlight filtering through stained glass to scatter eerie patterns across the floor. Nobles in sumptuous attire lined both sides, their gazes piercing Lilianna like needles—curious, appraising, faintly gleeful.
At the hall's end, atop thirteen steps of obsidian, the man upon the throne raised his head.
Arthas Wolfgang was as terrifying as the rumors claimed—yet utterly unlike them.
He was tall; even seated, the power coiled within his frame was unmistakable. His silver hair was bound simply at the nape with a silver ring, stray strands falling across his brow without softening his features. His face was sharply carved, his nose straight, his jaw severe—and his eyes—
They were the eyes of a wolf.
In the dim hall they gleamed an uncanny amber-gold, fixed upon her without a blink, as though a prey had wandered into its territory.
Lilianna's feet seemed rooted to the floor. Her heart hammered wildly, blood roaring in her ears, nearly drowning out the officiant's recitation of the marriage contract.
"Lilianna Isabella von Wolfgang," Arthas spoke at last. His voice was low, rough with a gravelly edge. "Come forward."
It was not an invitation.
It was a command.
She moved. The train of her gown dragged behind her like shackles; each step felt like wading through deep water. She could feel the weight of every gaze upon her, heavy enough to crush her lungs.
At last she stood at the foot of the steps, forced to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
At such close range, she noticed more: the faint scar across his brow; the veins standing out on the back of his left hand; the taut, almost visible tension clinging to him, like a beast restrained by chains.
"You are afraid," Arthas said. It was not a question.
Lilianna forced herself to hold his gaze. "Any rational person would fear the Wolf King of legend."
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the hall.
Such words—to the king?
The corner of Arthas's mouth lifted, not into a smile but something colder. He rose and descended the steps. Fully upright, his shadow swallowed her whole. He wore black ceremonial robes, the wolf's-head sigil of House Wolfgang at his chest, a heavy mantle of silver-gray fur draped across his shoulders—said to be the hide of a winter wolf he had slain himself.
He extended his hand, long-fingered and powerful, faint scars marking his knuckles.
After a moment's hesitation, Lilianna placed her hand in his.
His skin was burning hot, feverish.
"In the name of the Moon Goddess," the officiant intoned, voice trembling, "we bear witness to the sacred union of His Majesty King Arthas Wolfgang and Her Highness Princess Lilianna Isabella. May your souls entwine like twin stars, your fates bound as blood…"
The ancient vows echoed beneath the dome. Lilianna felt Arthas's fingers tighten, his thumb brushing unconsciously over her knuckles, sending a shiver down her spine.
"…By blood as bond, by moon as witness, this covenant is sealed—life and death as one!"
Arthas suddenly drew a dagger. Moonlight flashed along its edge, runes etched deep into the blade. Before she could react, he sliced open his palm. Dark red blood welled forth.
Then he seized her hand, the blade turning.
Pain flared. Lilianna gasped as their blood mingled, dripping into the silver bowl held by the officiant. Within the bowl sloshed a dark liquid that hissed when the blood fell in, releasing a wisp of silvery smoke.
The smoke twisted and coiled, splitting at last into two streams—one sinking into Arthas's chest, the other into Lilianna's heart.
Heat seared through her, as though a brand had been pressed to her skin. Then came a strange sense of connection—she could hear his heartbeat, heavy and slow like distant war drums, while her own fluttered wildly, a startled bird.
"The curse is now active," Arthas said, releasing her hand. His wound sealed before her eyes, leaving only a pale pink scar. "From this moment on, your life is bound to mine. If I am wounded, you will feel pain. If I die, you will perish. And the same is true in reverse."
Lilianna stared at her palm as her own cut healed just as swiftly. "This is madness…"
"It is the only way to temporarily suppress the curse within me," Arthas murmured, so softly only she could hear. "And you are the key, my dear princess. The Silver Moon bloodline alone can counter it."
"I'm not—"
"Feast," Arthas announced, raising his voice as he turned to the nobles. "The celebration will continue until midnight. Afterward—" his gaze flicked back to Lilianna "—my bride and I will require privacy."
He emphasized the final word deliberately, drawing a ripple of knowing laughter.
Lilianna's face burned.
---
The wedding banquet was a masterpiece of refined torment.
The long tables overflowed with delicacies: peacock roasted in honey, wild boar stuffed with truffles, pastries gilded with gold leaf. Musicians played lively tunes as nobles toasted one another with hollow congratulations.
Lilianna sat at Arthas's right, rigid with discomfort. Her food remained untouched; wine trembled in her cup, reflecting the wavering lights of the hall.
"Eat," Arthas said suddenly, without looking at her. He carved his steak with elegant, almost predatory precision.
"I'm not hungry."
"You need strength." He placed a slice of meat onto her plate. "The night will be long."
She tightened her grip on her knife. Around them, the nobles chatted, but their eyes strayed again and again toward the royal couple—especially a silver-haired man seated at the head of the left table: Duke Reginald, the king's cousin and second in line to the throne. His gaze was cold, evaluative, like that of an appraiser examining a commodity.
"They're waiting for you to slip," Arthas said quietly, sipping his wine. "Any mistake will be magnified, spread, and turned into a weapon."
"Why?" Lilianna asked. "I'm a commoner. I know nothing of your world. Why target me?"
Arthas finally turned to her. Up close, she noticed how long his lashes were, casting fan-shaped shadows beneath his eyes.
"Because you sit beside me. Because you hold the only hope of suppressing the curse. And because—" his gaze flicked to the moonstone circlet on her brow "—the Silver Moon bloodline itself is power. Even if you do nothing, you are already a thorn in certain people's eyes."
The music shifted to a dance.
"Your Majesty," Duke Reginald approached with a courteous bow, "such a splendid night—would you not invite the queen to share a dance? After all, it is your wedding."
Arthas paused, then rose and extended his hand to Lilianna.
"Queen?"
It was not a question.
It was a declaration.
She placed her hand in his, allowing him to lead her to the floor. The musicians slowed into a courtly waltz, the other nobles retreating to make space.
His hand rested at her waist, the other holding hers. His posture was impeccable yet distant, a precise gap maintained between them.
"Follow my steps," he murmured. "Left. Right. Turn. Simple."
It was. She had danced folk dances at village festivals far more vigorous than this. Yet now her body was stiff, every step like treading a blade.
"Relax," Arthas said near her ear, his breath brushing her skin. "You look as though you're walking to the gallows."
"Perhaps I am," Lilianna replied, staring straight ahead at the silver buttons of his coat.
He gave a low chuckle that vibrated through his chest and into her hand. "An interesting thought. But rest assured—I won't kill you tonight. You're still useful to me."
"How comforting."
As they turned, her skirts bloomed like petals. Moonlight slid across the floor through stained glass, and she noticed that at a certain angle, Arthas's shadow grew unnaturally large, its edges blurred—as though another form strained to break free.
"The curse…" she whispered.
His hand tightened abruptly. "Do not speak that word here."
The music ended. Applause followed. Arthas released her with a brief nod and returned to the throne as though nothing intimate had occurred.
Lilianna remained where she stood, suddenly dizzy—not from emotion, but from a physical imbalance, as if the floor had tilted beneath her feet. She staggered, bracing herself against a pillar.
At the same moment, Arthas faltered as well, fingers whitening as they clenched the armrest of the throne.
The bond.
I am hurt, you will feel pain.
But he wasn't wounded—unless—
She looked up toward the high windows. The moon was rising, nearly full, lacking only a sliver to become a perfect silver disc.
The night of the full moon.
The hour of transformation.
Arthas drew a slow breath and straightened. "The banquet is concluded," he announced, his voice hoarser than before. "My thanks for your attendance."
The nobles exchanged glances but dared not object. They withdrew one by one. Duke Reginald lingered last, his gaze lingering between Arthas and Lilianna, a knowing smile playing on his lips.
The great doors closed, sealing out the final echoes of noise.
Silence surged like a tide.
Candlelight wavered, stretching and twisting their shadows across the star-painted dome. Arthas stood before the throne with his back to her, shoulders taut.
"You feel it too, don't you?" Lilianna asked softly.
"Feel it?" He turned. In the dim light his eyes shone brighter, pupils contracting like a beast's. "I feel it every moment, Princess. It whispers in my blood, screams in my bones. The full moon only makes it louder."
He descended the steps, still graceful, though she noticed the tremor in his fingers.
"That curse—what exactly is it?" she asked, knowing the answer might not come.
"Ancient black magic," Arthas stopped three steps away. "One of my ancestors bargained with the moon for the strength of the wolf, ignorant of the cost—his humanity. Every male of House Wolfgang inherits the curse. On the full moon we become beasts, and with time the transformation lasts longer and longer, until returning to human form becomes impossible."
"And you said I can suppress it?"
"The Silver Moon bloodline is a blessing bestowed by the Moon Goddess, born to counter the wolf's curse." He raised his hand into the moonlight; faint silver patterns pulsed beneath his skin. "Our mingled blood creates a contract that temporarily balances the power within me. But you—"
He stepped forward suddenly and seized her wrist. His heat was unnatural, searing.
"You are not Princess Isabella," he hissed. "Though you passed the blood test, a true bearer of the Silver Moon would not be this… weak. Your power is sealed, leaking only in fragments."
Her heart thundered. "I told you—you're mistaken—"
"It no longer matters." His face drew close, her reflection small and frightened in his pupils. "The contract is sealed. Until we find a true cure, you are my medicine."
His other hand rose to her throat, fingers resting against her pulse. The gesture was threatening, yet his touch was impossibly gentle, as if she were fragile porcelain.
"Tonight is the full moon," he continued, breath scorching. "I will transform. Your task is simple—survive until dawn. If you die, so do I. Therefore, whatever you see, whatever happens, do not run, do not scream, and do not attempt to attack me."
Her throat was dry. "Will you lose your mind?"
His mouth twisted into something like a smile. "My reason was the first thing I lost."
He released her and turned toward a small door set into the side of the hall. "Come. You can't stay here—too exposed."
After a moment's hesitation, Lilianna followed. Beyond the door lay a narrow spiral staircase climbing upward. Torches cast flickering light, their shadows twisting grotesquely along the stone walls.
She could feel his change beginning. His breathing grew labored; his steps faltered, forcing him to brace against the wall. Each pause sent a resonant wave of dizziness through her own body, as though she were sharing his torment.
At last they reached a heavy iron door. Arthas pushed it open to reveal a circular chamber with no windows, save for an oculus in the ceiling through which moonlight poured. Thick furs covered the floor. Chains hung from the walls—chains whose ends bore no shackles, only worn scars.
"This is my cage," Arthas rasped. "On full moon nights, I lock myself here."
He removed a chain from the wall. Metal rang sharply in the stone room.
"Are you going to chain me as well?" Lilianna asked, her voice trembling.
He turned. In the direct moonlight his eyes had fully transformed into vertical, bestial slits. His features warped; teeth lengthened, gleaming between his lips.
"No," the word came out barely human. "You will stand in the center. If I lose control completely—sing to me."
"Sing?"
"The Silver Moon blood responds to song." Arthas dropped to one knee, his back arching as his shoulder blades bulged grotesquely beneath his clothes. "Any song. A ballad. A lullaby. Just… make sound."
The chain quivered in his hands. He tried to fasten it around his own wrist, but his fingers were already deforming, incapable of fine movement.
Lilianna watched him struggle, terror flooding her veins. She wanted to flee, to hide, to cover her eyes like a child.
But another impulse overwhelmed everything else.
She stepped forward.
One step. Two.
Moonlight struck the moonstone on her brow, and the gem began to glow with a soft silver radiance.
She knelt before Arthas and took the chain from his grasp. The metal was cold and heavy, its edges stained with dark, dried marks—rust, perhaps, or blood.
He looked up at her. For a heartbeat, surprise flickered in those beastly eyes before pain drowned it out. His bones cracked with sickening sounds; something writhed and expanded beneath his skin.
Lilianna fastened the shackles around his misshapen wrist. They snapped shut of their own accord. Then she retreated to the center of the room, standing beneath the moonlight.
A guttural growl tore from his throat, hovering between man and beast. His clothes shredded as black fur burst forth, muscles swelling, bones reforming in a swift, horrific metamorphosis.
She clamped a hand over her mouth, forcing back a scream.
When the change was complete, what the chains restrained was no longer human.
A massive wolf stood there, its shoulders nearly reaching her chest. Its pelt was deep black, shimmering with silver-blue sheen under the moon. Its eyes remained amber-gold, wholly bestial now, brimming with agony and madness. It strained against the chains, sparks flying where metal scraped stone.
The wolf turned toward her, a threatening rumble vibrating in its chest.
Her heart nearly burst.
Sing.
She opened her mouth. At first her voice trembled, barely sound at all.
"The moon shines bright, the night wind still, leaves veil the windowpane…"
It was a lullaby her mother had sung when she was ill, from a homeland she scarcely remembered, its words a blend of unfamiliar language and gentle melody.
The wolf stilled, just for a moment.
She continued, voice steadier now. "Sleep, little one, close your eyes, the wolves have gone back home…"
She saw its ears twitch. Its crazed gaze fixed upon her, reflecting her moonlit figure. The moonstone burned brighter, silver light spilling like mist to envelop her—and reach the great wolf as well.
A soft whine escaped its throat, the pain easing slightly. It lowered itself, massive head resting on its forepaws, eyes half-lidded yet never leaving her.
Lilianna sang on, again and again, until her throat burned, until the moon slid past the oculus, until the first pale light of dawn replaced silver.
As morning came, the wolf's form shrank and shifted. Fur receded, bones slid back into place. At last, the chains bound a naked, utterly exhausted Arthas Wolfgang.
He lifted his head, human eyes weary but clear.
"That song…" His voice was shredded to a whisper. "What was it?"
Lilianna sank to her knees before him, just as spent. "A lullaby my mother taught me. I don't remember all the words—I made some of it up."
Arthas was silent for a long while. Then he looked down at the shackles. "Unlock them."
She did. When the metal sprang open, deep red marks circled his wrists, skin broken and bleeding.
"You said my power is sealed," Lilianna said suddenly. "If the seal were broken, could I fully suppress your curse?"
Arthas rose slowly and retrieved a black robe from a chest in the corner, draping it over himself. His movements were still elegant, but a bone-deep weariness clung to him.
"Perhaps," he said. "But first, we must discover who you truly are, Lilianna Green—and why someone went to such lengths to disguise a common girl as a lost princess and place her at my side."
Morning light streamed through the oculus, dividing the chamber into light and shadow.
Lilianna looked at the man before her—both king and beast—and realized she had stepped into more than a political marriage. She had entered an ancient conspiracy. Her fate was now bound to his, inseparable as moonlight and shadow.
"Where do we begin?" she asked.
Arthas pushed open the iron door. Light flooded the corridor beyond, outlining his tall silhouette.
"With your past," he said. "With the border town where you grew up. With your deceased mother. With every memory you have ever taken for granted—and searching them for what does not belong."
He stepped aside, gesturing for her to go first.
"But before that, my queen, you must learn how to survive in this court. Because from today onward, you are not only my medicine—"
His eyes narrowed slightly in the dawn light.
"You are also the foremost target of everyone who wishes me dead."
Lilianna drew a steady breath, straightened her spine, and walked through the door—into a new world woven of lies, magic, and danger.
And unseen by her, deep within the castle, in a hidden chamber, a silver mirror reflected not the face of its watcher but a roiling darkness. From within it, voices whispered:
"She survived the first night."
"The plan continues."
"The Silver Moon will rise—and the Wolf King shall fall."
The mirror rippled. The vision vanished, leaving only the cold stone walls of an empty room.