Chapter 15
KIERAN
I shouldn’t be following her.
I’ve spent the entire opening ceremony fighting the urge to cross the arena and demand answers. That pull, that connection I felt the moment our eyes met, it shouldn’t exist. I rejected her five years ago. Severed the bond completely. It should be dead, buried, forgotten.
But the second I saw her sitting in that Eastern box, dressed in emerald silk with her dark hair pinned up to expose that pale throat, something in my chest came alive. Like a dormant beast waking from a long sleep, hungry and furious.
My wolf has been clawing at my consciousness ever since, demanding I go to her, find out why the bond feels like it’s trying to snap back into place.
“Your Majesty?” Commander Thane’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “The banquet is about to begin.”
“I’ll be there shortly.” I wave him off without taking my eyes off the Eastern box across the arena.
Seraphina has stood, smoothing her gown with trembling hands. Even from this distance, I can see she’s shaken. Good. She should be. She’s not the only one fighting ghosts today.
She turns and says something to her mother before slipping out of the box. Instead of heading toward the main palace where the banquet is being held, she veers off toward the east wing.
My feet are moving before I consciously decide to follow.
I keep my distance, staying in the shadows as she walks through the palace corridors. She’s moving with purpose, not the casual stroll of someone heading to change clothes or freshen up. She’s going somewhere specific.
We pass through the main halls and into what looks like the family wing, quieter, less formal, with children’s laughter echoing from somewhere ahead. A nursery area, maybe. Or a playroom for noble children during formal events.
Seraphina stops at a set of double doors and pushes them open. I hang back, watching as she disappears inside.
This is insane. I should turn around, go to the banquet, forget whatever compulsion is driving me to stalk my ex-mate through her own palace like some obsessed fool.
But my wolf won’t let me leave. He’s practically vibrating with need, pushing me forward even as my rational mind screams that this is a mistake.
I move closer to the doors, staying just out of sight, and peer through the gap.
The room is large and bright, filled with children of various ages. Servants and caretakers supervise while the young ones play, noble children, I assume, kept occupied during the adult events. Toys are scattered across plush rugs, and paintings cover the walls at child height.
Seraphina weaves through the chaos until she reaches a boy playing alone in the corner with wooden soldiers. She kneels beside him, and even from here, I can see the softness in her expression.
Something about the child makes my wolf stir uneasily. He’s small, maybe five years old, with dark hair that catches the light as he moves. His back is to me, his attention focused on arranging his toy soldiers in careful formations.
Seraphina says something to him, and he looks up at her.
My chest tightens for reasons I don’t understand. There’s something familiar about the shape of his face, the way he tilts his head when he listens to her.
The boy nods at whatever Seraphina said, then stands. She takes his small hand in hers with the kind of practiced ease that speaks of years of doing this. Years of caring for him.
They start walking toward the door, toward me, and I press myself back against the wall.
The boy is chattering now, his voice high and excited, though I can’t make out the words. Seraphina laughs at something he says, and the sound hits me like a physical blow, genuine and warm and nothing like the screams I last heard from her.
I hold my breath as they emerge from the room, passing within a few feet of where I stand in the shadows.
And that’s when I see his face.
Pale skin. Delicate features that echo his mother’s. And eyes—
Ice-blue eyes.
My eyes.
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. My hand shoots out to grip the wall, needing something solid to anchor me because the floor has just dropped out from beneath my feet.
No. It’s not possible. Lots of people have blue eyes. Northern bloodlines aren’t uncommon in noble families. This doesn’t mean—
Then his scent hits me.
Pine and snow. My scent. Mixed with Seraphina’s wildflowers and something else, something uniquely his own. But there’s no mistaking the foundation—this child carries Northern bloodline as clearly as if I’d claimed him myself.
My wolf goes absolutely feral.
“PUP,” he roars, throwing himself against my consciousness with enough force to make me stagger. “OUR PUP. OURS.”
“No,” I breathe, but they’ve already turned the corner.
I stand there, back pressed against the wall, my entire body shaking. My mind is trying to catch up, to process what I just saw, what I just smelled, but the pieces won’t fit together. They can’t fit together.
That child. That boy who can’t be more than five years old—
five years old.
The timeline crashes over me like a wave. Five years since I marked her.
“Our pup,” my wolf insists, still clawing frantically. “She was carrying our pup. We sent her away while she carried our pup.”
“She would have told me,” I say out loud, my voice hoarse. “If she’d been pregnant, she would have—”
But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. Why would she tell me? Why would she trust me with anything after what I did?
The memory slams into me, Seraphina on the floor of that tower room, screaming as I spoke the words of rejection. The way her body convulsed with pain as the bond tore apart. How I stood there, frozen and resolute, while she shattered.
She was carrying him. When I watched her break, when I sent her home in disgrace, she was already pregnant with my child.
“Follow,” my wolf demands. “Follow our mate. Protect our pup.”
My feet are moving before I consciously decide, following the path they took. Every instinct I have is screaming, some primal part of me that has nothing to do with politics or duty and everything to do with the scent of my own bloodline walking away from me.
They’re heading deeper into the family wing, away from the formal areas where guests are allowed.
They stop at a set of doors. A woman is waiting there—a lady-in-waiting by her dress, and Seraphina says something to her before leading the boy inside. The door closes behind them with a soft click.
I stand in the corridor, staring at that closed door, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.
I have a son.
An heir.
And she kept him from me for five years.
“Your Majesty?”
I turn to find Thane approaching, his expression concerned. How long have I been standing here?
“You’ve missed the first course,” he says carefully. “King Aldric is asking—”
“I need information.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “About Princess Seraphina. Specifically, about any children in her care.”
Thane’s eyes narrow. “Children?”
“There’s a boy. Dark hair, about five years old. He was in the nursery area during the ceremony. Find out everything you can about him. Who he is, where he came from, and why Seraphina is caring for him.”
“Of course.” Thane doesn’t ask questions, just nods and disappears down the corridor.
I force myself to walk away from her door before I do something reckless like kick it down and demand answers. My hands are shaking—from rage or shock or something else entirely, I don’t know.
The banquet hall is already full when I arrive. Noble families from all four kingdoms mingle, the atmosphere carefully diplomatic despite centuries of bad blood. I take my seat at the Northern table, ignoring the concerned looks from my advisors.
Across the hall, the Eastern royal family sits at the head table. Seraphina’s seat is empty.
King Aldric notices my arrival and nods in acknowledgment. Queen Elara’s eyes are sharp, assessing, and I wonder if she knows. If she’s been in on this secret all along.
“Apologies for my lateness,” I say when a servant approaches with wine. My voice is steady, controlled. No one would guess that my entire world just imploded. “I was delayed.”
The dinner passes in a blur. I eat without tasting, speak when spoken to without really hearing. My wolf is going insane, torn between the protective instinct toward a child I never knew existed and fury at Seraphina for keeping him from me.
Thane returns midway through the third course, leaning down to whisper in my ear.
“The boy’s name is Azriel. He’s registered as a ward of the Eastern Crown, supposedly orphaned five years ago when his parents died in a border raid. Princess Seraphina took him in as an act of charity.”
“Parents who died in a border raid.” I set down my wine glass very carefully. “How convenient.”
“The records show they were minor nobles from a distant province. No living relatives. No one to contest the princess’s guardianship.”
“And no one questioned why she suddenly appeared with a child after returning from the North?”
Thane’s silence is answer enough.
I look up at the head table again, where Seraphina’s seat remains conspicuously empty.
She kept my son from me. My heir. My blood.
And tomorrow, she’s going to answer for it.
