Moonbound To The Werewolf King

The great hall of Alarist Castle felt so charged with tension. Every soul within its stone walls seemed to hold their breath as the massive oak doors groaned open, revealing the silhouette of a man who commanded fear and respect in equal measure.

King Alaric Venemore stepped through the threshold like a force of nature given human form. He was tall, easily six and a half feet, with broad shoulders, built like a warrior. His dark hair fell to his shoulders with silver streaks that made him look distinguished. But it was his eyes that truly set him apart: pale green, cold as winter ice. His eyes swept over the crowd and when they landed on people, grown men fought the urge to step back.

His clothing was practical rather than ornate: black leather boots that reached his knees, dark riding pants that clung to powerful thighs, and a forest-green tunic that had seen better days. A traveling cloak hung from his shoulders, secured by a silver brooch bearing the royal crest. Everything about him spoke of a man who valued function over form, strength over ceremony.

The servants who had rushed to greet him kept their distance, forming a respectful semicircle as he surveyed the hall. His presence filled the space like smoke, impossible to ignore and faintly suffocating. When he moved, it was with the fluid grace of someone who had spent decades in combat, each step deliberate and controlled.

"Your Majesty," Elder Gareth stepped forward, bowing deeply. "Welcome home."

Alaric's gaze fixed on the elderly man, and something in his expression softened fractionally. "Gareth. Status report."

"The castle has been secure in your absence, Majesty. No incidents to report from the household staff." Gareth's voice carried the weight of years serving the crown. He had served Alaric's father for years, and now him. "The border situation?"

"Handled." Alaric's reply was clipped. He began walking toward the high table, his boots echoing against the stone floor. "The rogue pack has been... relocated. The eastern border is secure."

He paused at the head of the high table, his hands resting on the carved chair that had been his father's and his grandfather's before him. "What of the grain stores? The harvest reports from the outer villages?"

"Excellent yields this season," Elder Isla interjected, stepping forward with a leather-bound ledger. "The farmers report the best crop in five years. The stores should last well into spring even if we face a harsh winter."

Alaric nodded once, a gesture that managed to convey both approval and dismissal. "And the trade negotiations with the Coastal Clans?"

"Progressing well," Elder Marc replied, though his voice carried a note of hesitation. "Though they're still requesting increased silver shipments in exchange for their fish and salt."

"Denied." Alaric's tone brooked no argument. "Our silver stays in our territory. If they want to trade, they'll accept our terms or find other partners."

The conversation continued for nearly an hour, covering everything from tax collection to bridge repairs, from military recruitment to diplomatic correspondence. Alaric listened to each report with the focused attention of a man who truly understood the weight of leadership. He asked pointed questions, made swift decisions, and demonstrated an intimate knowledge of his kingdom's needs that spoke of genuine care beneath his stern exterior.

Throughout it all, he never once mentioned his mate.

Elder Fabian cleared his throat carefully. "Majesty, regarding the... recent arrival..."

Alaric's expression didn't change, but something in the air shifted. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees. "What of it?"

"The arrangements for the formal introduction ceremony—"

"Can wait." Alaric's voice was flat, emotionless. "I have more pressing concerns than social obligations."

"But Majesty," Elder Isla ventured carefully, "tradition dictates that a new mate should be—"

"Tradition." Alaric's laugh was sharp and humorless. "Tradition would have had me mated two decades ago to some simpering noble daughter. Tradition would have had me bow to the Moon Goddess's will instead of forging my own path." He straightened, his impressive height making him tower over the assembled elders. "I've built this kingdom by ignoring tradition when it suited me. I won't start genuflecting to it now."

The silence that followed was deafening. Even the servants seemed to shrink back, as if afraid his cold displeasure might somehow infect them.

Elder Gareth, ever the diplomat, tried a different approach. "The young lady has been... settling in well. The staff reports no incidents."

"Good." Alaric turned away from the table, his attention already shifting to other matters. "See that it stays that way. Now, I want a full report on the grain distribution to the outer villages. Winter comes early in the north, and I won't have my people starving because of poor planning."

The dismissal was clear, but Elder Vera persisted. "Majesty, perhaps you could go see her, she's been waiting in your chambers—"

The words seemed to hit Alaric like a physical blow. For the first time since entering the hall, his composure cracked slightly. His jaw tightened, and when he spoke, his voice carried an edge that made several servants step back.

"My chambers?" The question was deceptively quiet.

"Yes, Majesty. Elder Isla thought it would be appropriate, given that she's your—"

"I don't care what you thought was appropriate." Alaric's voice cut through the air like a blade. "Those are my private rooms. My sanctuary. I didn't give permission for anyone to be placed there."

"But tradition—" Elder Isla began.

"Tradition be damned." Alaric's control snapped for just a moment, and the raw power in his voice made the stone walls seem to tremble. "I don't care if she's my mate, my queen, or the Moon Goddess herself." His voice dropped lower. "Those chambers are mine."

The elders exchanged worried looks. Elder Fabian cleared his throat. "We took precautions, Your Majesty. Silver-threaded curtains, guards posted throughout the royal wing."

"Precautions?" Alaric scoffed. "Against a witch whose mother has spent the last twenty years trying to kill me."

"She's just a girl..." Elder Isla murmured, almost to herself.

"She's been well-behaved," Elder Gareth added. "Keeps to herself, mostly, though she did join us for breakfast once. After that, she's taken all her meals in her chambers."

"Why?"

Elder Vera shifted uncomfortably. "There may have been some tension with certain council members about the suitability of the match."

Alaric's eyes flashed dangerously. "Explain."

"Some elders expressed concerns about having a witch as Luna," Elder Gareth said carefully. "Nothing treasonous, just concerns about the political implications."

"I see." Alaric's voice was deadly quiet. "And you allowed my supposed mate to be insulted at my own table."

The accusation hung in the air like a blade. Elder Fabian swallowed hard. "Your Majesty, we didn't think—"

"Enough," Alaric cut him off. "Proceed with the introduction ceremony and that's all about that, I won't waste any more time on trivialities" He waved a dismissive hand. "She can stay where she is for now. The border patrols need to be doubled. The rogue pack I dealt with was larger than initially reported, which suggests they had support from somewhere. I want to know who's been helping them and why." Alaric's attention had already shifted, his mind clearly focused on matters of state rather than personal obligations. "Also, send word to the Coastal Clans that if they want our silver, they'll need to provide more than fish and salt. I want information about ship movements, trade routes, anything that might indicate whether they're dealing with our enemies."

"Of course, Majesty. And regarding your... the lady..."

"Will manage on her own, I'm sure." Alaric's tone suggested the matter was closed. "She's a witch, isn't she? I'm sure she's resourceful enough to entertain herself."

The casual dismissal of his fated mate left the elders speechless. 

"Now," Alaric continued, "I'll be in my study reviewing the patrol reports. See that I'm not disturbed unless the castle is burning down or we're under siege."

With that, he strode from the hall, leaving behind a group of very confused and very worried elders.

-

Three floors above, Seren stood before the tall mirror in their chambers, her heart racing as she tried to calm her nerves. 

He was here. King Alaric, the Wolf King, her fated mate, was finally in the castle.

Her mind raced through every possible scenario of their first meeting. Would he be angry? Dismissive? Would he take one look at her and decide she wasn't worth his time? The stories painted him as a monster, but Prince Darius had hinted at something more complex—a man who had been alone by choice, who saw emotional connections as weaknesses to be avoided.

She smoothed her hands over the deep blue silk of her gown, checking her reflection one more time. The dress was beautiful, a rich blue that brought out the green in her eyes and complemented her brown hair, which she'd arranged in an elegant style. It was formal enough for meeting a king, but not too elaborate.

At least, that's what she'd thought few minutes ago.

Now, staring at herself in the mirror, she felt hopelessly naive. What did she know about meeting a king? About making a good impression on a man who had spent twenty years refusing to take a mate? She was nineteen years old, raised in a coven where the only men were enemies.

Elara's words echoed in her mind. 'Werewolves are very... physical. Get him to lie with you and you're his.'

Heat flooded her cheeks at the memory. She'd been shocked by the suggestion at the time, but now... now she wondered if the maid had been right. Maybe being subtle wasn't what was needed here. If physical attraction was truly the key to a werewolf's heart, then perhaps...

Before she could lose her nerve, Seren walked over to the wardrobe. Her hands brushing them as she looked through the dresses they had made available for her, pushing aside the plain high-necked ones. She needed something bold. She stopped when her eyes landed on a deep red gown that shimmered as if it had its own light.

Carefully, she pulled it out. The fabric felt like silk, soft and smooth like on her skin. It was more revealing than anything she'd ever worn before. The neckline was low, meant to show off rather than hide. The dress tightened at the waist before flowing down into a soft, full skirt. Silver designs were stitched along the top and bottom, catching the light every time she moved.

Seren slipped into the gown with shaking hands, struggling with the tiny buttons that ran up the back. The fit was perfect, as if it had been made specifically for her body. Her figure was naturally graceful, slim through the waist with gentle curves at her hips that gave her an elegant sway when she moved. The top of the dress lifted and enhanced her naturally generous curves, making her figure look elegant but still eye-catching. It showed off her body in a way that felt soft and feminine, from the smooth line of her shoulders to the way the silk flowed over her hips.

When she turned back to the mirror, she barely recognized herself. The dress transformed her from a sheltered coven daughter into a stunning young lady. 

The red silk made her skin glow. Her brown hair, freed from its earlier style, fell in waves around her shoulders, framing her face and drawing attention to her neck. The neckline was what made her breath hitch, it was sensual, the kind of dress that demanded attention.

She'd never worn anything so revealing before. Back home, such displays would have been considered inappropriate. But this wasn't home, and she wasn't just a coven daughter anymore. She was meant to be a queen, a Luna, a woman capable of capturing the attention of the most powerful werewolf in the Northern Territories.

The thought made her stomach flutter with excitement and terror.

She moved to her dressing table and applied a touch of deep red color to her lips that complemented the dress perfectly. Her hands shook slightly, betraying her nervousness despite her attempts to project confidence.

"Courage, Seren," she whispered to her reflection, unconsciously echoing her mother's words. "You can do this."

She had just finished applying a touch of color to her lips when she heard footsteps in the corridor outside.

Her heart leaped into her throat as the steps grew closer, then stopped directly outside her door.

Seren quickly smoothed her skirts as she stood facing the door, her pulse racing with anticipation and terror in equal measure. And just then, a soft knock at the door made her jump.