The cold was a constant companion.
It lived in the flagstones of the great castle, seeping through the thin soles of her worn leather slippers.
It clung to the damp air in the lower corridors, a miasma of mildew and forgotten things.
Most of all, it lived in her bones, a deep, unshakable chill that had nothing to do with the wind that howled down from the northern peaks.
Idrris had been born to the cold, and she expected to die in it.
She was a servant, less than a servant, really.
A piece of the castle’s machinery, as unremarkable as a loose stone in the wall, or a bucket with a rusted handle.
Her hands were raw from lie soap, her back perpetually achd from hauling water and scrubbing floors that were never truly clean.
She was invisible, and that was her only protection.
To be seen was to be noticed, and to be noticed was to be at risk.
But there was a cold in this castle that was deeper than stone, older than the winter winds.
It was a cold of grief, a silence that had fallen over the kingdom three years ago and never lifted.
It was the cold of a missing king, King Jessimine.
The name was a whisper, a ghost story told by the older kitchen maids.
They spoke of a vibrant ruler, a man whose laughter could shake the rafters and whose presence was like the summer sun.
Then he had simply vanished, not from the castle, but from life.
He was there somewhere in the royal wing, but no one saw him.
The council ruled in his name.
His meals were taken to his chambers and returned untouched.
But the man himself was gone.
Rumors said he was dying.
Others said he was cursed.
Idris just thought he was lonely.
Her duties rarely took her near the royal wing.
She belonged to the scullery, the laundry, and the endless drafty halls of the servants’s quarters.
Yet her path often took her past the old kennels, a place most staff avoided.
It was a grim, lightless building of greystone, smelling of wet fur and despair.
Only one animal lived there now, a wolf.
He was massive, a creature of shadow and myth.
His fur, what she could see of it, was the color of midnight, but it was so matted and caked with filth that it looked like cobbled stone.
He lay on a thin scattering of damp straw, his great head resting on his paws.
He never moved when she passed, but she felt his eyes on her.
They were a pale, luminous amber, filled with a pain so profound it made her own aches feel trivial.
The other servants spat as they passed the kennel.
They called him the king’s beast, the monster that had stolen their ruler’s soul.
They said the king had loved the wolf more than his own people, and the gods had punished him for it, chaining his life to the creatures.
When the wolf died, the king would die.
So they kept it alive.
a miserable, hated captive, a living effigy of their lost hope.
The kennel master, a brute named Gro, was the worst.
He saw the wolf not as a creature, but as the source of his own stagnant life.
He fed it scraps not fit for pigs, and delighted in the small cruelties he could inflict, without drawing the council’s eye.
Idris hated him for it.
She hated the way he kicked the water bowl, the way his voice was a lash of contempt.
She, who had spent her life making herself small and silent, felt a spark of something hot and dangerous whenever she saw him near the wolf’s cage.
One afternoon, the spark caught fire.
She was carrying a bucket of fresh water from the well, her arms trembling with the effort when she heard Gro’s snarling voice.
He was standing before the wolf’s enclosure, a heavy wooden club in his hand.
Useless beast, Gro spat, his voice echoing in the stone kennel.
Look at you, filthy, pathetic.
The king rots because of you.
The wolf did not lift its head.
A low tremor ran through its massive shoulders, the only sign it was even alive.
Its breathing was shallow, ragged.
Maybe if I give you a reason to get up.
Gro sneered, raising the club.
A little persuasion.
Something inside Idris snapped.
The years of silence, of enduring, of being invisible.
They all broke apart in an instant.
She dropped the heavy bucket.
The clang of wood and iron on stone was like a thunderclap.
Gro spun around, his face a mask of rage.
What do you want, girl? Idrris’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone.
Her voice, when it came, was a reedy thing, thin and unused.
“Don’t,” he laughed, a harsh, ugly sound.
“Don’t discipline the monster.
” “He’s not a monster,” she whispered, taking a step forward.
Her whole body shook.
She was challenging a man who could break her without a second thought.
She was making herself seen.
He’s sick.
Can’t you see he’s in pain? I see a curse.
Gro snarled, turning his attention back to the wolf.
He raised the club higher.
And I’m going to beat it out of him.
Idris didn’t think.
She moved.
She ran the few steps to the cage door and stood in front of it.
Her arms spread wide as if she could shield the entire world.
She was so small, a ren before a storm.
But she was there.
You will not touch him.
The words were not a whisper.
They were clear, ringing with a strength she didn’t know she possessed.
They hung in the cold air, a declaration.
Gro stared at her, his mouth a gape in disbelief.
He took a menacing step toward her, his face modeling with purple fury.
Get out of my way, you stupid girl, before I beat you instead.
No, it was a single word, but it was everything.
It was a lifetime of fear defied.
For the first time, the wolf moved.
He lifted his great head, and those amber eyes fixed on her.
There was no pain in them now, only a kind of stunned wonder.
She said, “No.
” The new voice was quiet, but it cut through the tension like a razor.
It was dry, like rustling leaves, but held an undeniable core of authority.
Idrris and Gro both turned.
An old man stood in the shadows of the kennel entrance.
He was draped in the gray robes of a royal counselor, his face a web of wrinkles, his eyes sharp and intelligent.
It was Lord Bastion, the king’s most trusted adviser, the man who now ran the kingdom.
Gro’s face went pale.
He dropped the club as if it had burned him.
It landed with a dull thud on the stone floor.
He bowed low, stammering.
“My lord,” I was just The beast was being defiant.
Lord Bastion’s gaze flickered from Gro’s terrified face to Idrris’s trembling form, and finally to the wolf, who was still watching her.
His expression was unreadable.
“The beast has a new keeper,” Bastion said, his voice flat.
He looked directly at Iddris.
You, your duties are here now.
See to him.
Everything he needs.
Idris could only stare, her mind reeling.
Bastion’s gaze shifted back to Gro.
You are dismissed from this post.
Return to the barracks.
If I see you near this kennel again, you will be dismissed from the castle entirely.
Without another word, Gro scured away like a rat.
Lord Bastion watched him go.
Then his eyes returned to Idris.
The king’s beast is now your charge.
Do not fail him.
He turned and walked away, his gray robes melting back into the shadows, leaving Idris alone in the sudden ringing silence with the wolf.
Her terror slowly receded, replaced by a bewildering new reality.
She was the keeper of the king’s beast.
She looked at the wolf, who had lowered his head back onto his paws, but whose amber eyes had not left her face.
“Hello,” she whispered, her voice still shaking.
The name felt strange and formal on her tongue.
“My name is Iddris.
” The wolf closed his eyes, and a soft sigh escaped him, a puff of white in the cold air.
It was the first sound she had ever heard him make that was not a sound of pain.
The work began with caution.
The wolf, she refused to call him a beast, was a creature cocooned in misery.
Lord Bastion had given her a key to the enclosure, a heavy, cold piece of iron that felt like a momentous responsibility in her hand.
The first day she did nothing but bring him fresh water in a clean wooden bowl and a portion of roasted meat from the kitchens, a privilege she’d had to fight the cooks for.
She set them just inside the gate and retreated, sitting on a cold stone bench just outside, watching.
He did not eat.
He did not drink.
He simply lay there, a mountain of dark, matted fur, and watched her.
She felt his gaze like a physical touch, probing and heavy with a weariness that seemed ancient.
“You have to eat,” she murmured to him across the distance.
“You’ll waste away.
There was no response.
After an hour, she retrieved the untouched food and water, her heart sinking.
The next day, she tried again.
This time, she brought a blanket from her own meager bed.
It was thin and patched, but it was clean and dry.
She pushed the food and water inside, and then, her heart pounding, she stepped into the enclosure herself.
The air inside was thick with the scent of sickness and old straw.
It was a smell of decay.
The wolf tensed, a low rumble vibrating from his chest.
It wasn’t a growl of aggression, but a warning, a plea.
Stay away.
I’m not going to hurt you, she said softly, her voice barely a breath.
She moved slowly, deliberately.
She laid her thin blanket over a patch of straw, smoothing it out.
This is better than the damp.
She backed away and left the enclosure, her legs feeling weak beneath her.
She waited.
Hours passed.
Just as the weak afternoon light began to fail, he stirred.
With a visible, painful effort, he heaved himself to his feet.
His legs trembled.
He was thinner than she’d imagined under all that fur, his ribs starkly visible.
He limped over to the blanket, circled it once, and then collapsed onto it with a groan.
It was a victory, a small one, but it felt monumental.
He still wouldn’t eat or drink when she was there.
So, she established a routine.
She would bring the food, speak to him for a while, and then leave for an hour.
When she returned, the bowl was always empty, a silent truce.
She started talking to him more, filling the cold silence of the kennel with the sound of her voice.
She told him about her day, about the gossip in the kitchens, about a patch of winter roses she’d found blooming against a sheltered wall.
She spoke of things she’d never told another soul.
He was a perfect confidant, his silent presence a comfort.
She also began to sing.
They were old songs her mother had taught her, simple lullabies and folk tunes.
Her voice was untrained, but it was soft and clear.
She sang of summer fields and silver moons of love and loss.
The first time she did, he lifted his head, a flicker of something she couldn’t name in his amber eyes.
After that, she sang to him every day.
She knew she had to do something about his coat.
It was more than just dirty.
It was a prison of filth and tangled fur that pulled at his skin, hiding soores, and who knew what else.
It had to be agonizing.
The thought of bathing him was terrifying.
He was a wild animal, a creature of immense power, even in his weakened state.
But the thought of leaving him in such misery was worse.
It took her a week to gather what she needed.
She bartered a mended shirt for a block of gentle unscented soap from the laundry matron.
She found old soft cloths.
The biggest challenge was the warm water.
She had to haul it in buckets from the kitchens.
a backbreaking task.
That afternoon she entered his enclosure, her heart a frantic drum.
She carried two buckets of steaming water and her bundle of cloths and soap.
He was lying on his blanket and he watched her approach, his body tense.
The low warning rumble started in his chest.
Sh! She crrewed, setting the buckets down carefully.
“It’s all right.
I know.
It’s been a long time.
She knelt, keeping a respectful distance.
Three years, the stable boys say.
Three years since anyone has touched you with kindness.
She began to sing a soft meandering tune about a river washing stone smooth.
She dipped a cloth in the warm water, rung it out, and held it out in her open palm for him to inspect.
He sniffed it cautiously.
His nose was dry and cracked.
I just want to help, she whispered.
Please, let me help you.
She reached out, her hand trembling so badly she could barely hold the cloth.
She moved with agonizing slowness, expecting him to snarl, to leap, to tear her arm off.
Instead, he remained perfectly still, watching her with those ancient, sorrowful eyes.
Section dash section.
Her warm, damp cloth made contact with the matted fur on his shoulder.
He flinched, a violent tremor that shook his whole body, but he did not pull away.
Tears pricricked her eyes.
She took it as the permission it was.
For the rest of the afternoon, she worked.
She bathed the wolf, singing softly the entire time.
It was a slow, painstaking process.
The filth was like armor.
She worked in small sections, soaking the fur, gently working the soap in with her fingers, and rinsing with fresh, warm water.
The water in the buckets quickly turned black.
Beneath the grime, she found a body ravaged by illness.
His skin was dry and flaky, with angry red soores in the places where the matted fur had pulled the tightest.
He was shockingly thin, a frame of bones draped in muscle that had long begun to waste away.
And there was a strange creeping discoloration along his flank, a grayish, lifeless patch of skin that felt cold to the touch, colder than the rest of him.
A creeping death.
He bore it all with a stoic patience that broke her heart.
He trembled under her touch, not from fear, she realized, but from the sheer sensation of it, of a gentle hand, of warmth.
When she worked on a particularly painful mat, he would whine low in his throat, a sound of pure misery.
But he never snapped at her.
As she cleaned the fur around his face, she saw the scar, a thin silver line that ran over his left eye, an old wound from a battle long past.
When she was finally done, the sun was setting, casting long orange rays through the kennel’s grimy windows.
The wolf was transformed.
His fur, now clean, was a deep, lustrous black with hints of silver at the tips.
It was still patchy and thin in places, but he looked less like a monster and more like what he was, a noble creature brought low by suffering.
She was exhausted, her back screaming in protest, her hands raw.
She sat back on her heels looking at her work.
The wolf lay on his clean blanket, his fur still damp, watching her.
He seemed smaller now, more vulnerable.
He did something then that stole her breath.
He stretched out his neck and rested his great head in her lap.
The weight was immense, solid, and trusting.
A deep sigh shuddered through him, and for the first time since she had met him, he truly slept, his breathing evening out into a slow, steady rhythm.
Idris sat there unmoving as the last of the light faded, her hand resting on the head of the king’s wolf, tears streaming silently down her face.
She did not feel the cold of the stone floor.
For the first time, she felt a warmth spreading from where his head lay in her lap, a warmth that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with a broken thing choosing to trust her.
From that day on, everything changed.
A bond had been forged in that afternoon of soap and song.
He started eating in front of her, his appetite slowly returning.
He would follow her with his eyes as she moved about the kennel, and when she sat to talk to him, he would lay his head on her knee.
The creeping gray patch on his flank, however, seemed to be getting worse.
It was spreading, and the flesh beneath felt hard and lifeless.
It was a disease she had no name for.
A slow decay that was consuming him from the inside out.
Whatever his curse was, it was real and it was winning.
One evening, as a storm raged outside, she sat with him, stroking his head.
The kennel was cold, and he was shivering despite his clean fur.
“I wish I could do more,” she whispered, her voice thick with helpless frustration.
I wish I knew how to heal you.
The wolf looked up at her and his amber eyes held a desperate plea.
He gave a low whine and then with a groan of effort he pushed himself to his feet.
He stumbled toward the darkest corner of the enclosure, a place she rarely cleaned because the shadows were so deep.
He nudged a loose stone with his nose.
Curious, Idris brought a lantern over.
She worked her fingers into the crack and pried the stone free.
Behind it was a small hollowedout space, and inside, lying on a folded piece of velvet, was a heavy gold signant ring bearing the royal crest of a wolf’s head crowned with winter roses.
The king’s ring, her blood ran cold.
The stories, the rumors, they all clicked into place with horrifying certainty.
The king hadn’t been chained to the wolf’s life.
He hadn’t vanished.
He was right here.
She looked from the ring in her hand to the great black wolf who was watching her with an expression of profound soul deep shame.
You, she breathed, her voice failing her.
It’s you, King Jessimine.
The name was no longer a ghost story.
It was the dying creature before her.
He lowered his head, a gesture of confirmation and defeat.
Idrris’s mind spun.
The reclusive king, the cursed beast.
They were one and the same.
He was trapped in this form, dying in this filthy kennel while his counselors ran his kingdom.
Why? She asked the air, her hand clutching the ring.
Why didn’t you shift tell someone? As if an answer, a wave of tremors racked his body.
He collapsed to the floor, a pained cry tearing from his throat.
The gray dead patch on his flank seemed to pulse with a malevolent cold.
He was too weak.
The curse held him fast in this form, and in this form it was killing him.
She understood then his boundary, his refusal to let anyone close.
It wasn’t just about the curse.
It was about the shame.
The mighty king Jessimine reduced to this.
He had hidden himself away to die in secret, and she had stumbled right into the heart of his pain.
“I won’t tell anyone,” she promised, her voice fierce.
“Your secret is safe, but I am not leaving you.
” She set the ring back in its hiding place and replaced the stone.
She would guard his identity as fiercely as she guarded his life.
Her purpose, which had been simply to be kind, now had a name.
She would save her king.
Her new resolve was tested almost immediately.
The court, which had long settled into a stagnant rhythm in the king’s absence, was suddenly shaken by a new arrival, Lady Morena.
She swept into the castle like a winter storm, all shimmering silks and cold diamonds.
She was beautiful with hair the color of spun gold and eyes like chips of ice.
Idris recognized her name from the kitchen gossip.
She had been the king’s intended bride years ago.
The match had been celebrated.
The kingdom prepared for a wedding and then nothing.
King Jessimine had called it off without explanation and Lady Morena had retired from court humiliated.
Now she was back, and she walked the halls as if she owned them.
Morwena made a great show of inquiring after the king’s health, her voice dripping with false sympathy.
She charmed the counselors, her laughter echoing in halls that had been silent for too long.
But when her ice blue gaze landed on Idrris, her smile was a thin, cruel line, she came to the kennels one morning, trailing a scent of expensive perfume that was jarring in the grim space.
Gro, the former kennel master, trailed behind her like a whipped dog.
He had somehow found his way back into her service.
“So this is the famous beast,” Morwa said, her voice laced with contempt.
She looked at Jessimine, who lay still on his blanket, the picture of a simple animal.
“And you must be the little servant girl who fancies herself a beast tamer.
” Iddris stood, placing herself between Morwena and the wolf.
I am his keeper, my lady.
Morwena’s eyes narrowed.
I remember this wolf, the king’s ridiculous pet.
He always did have a fondness for stray things.
Her gaze swept over Idris, making her feel small and dirty.
It seems his taste has not improved.
Jessimine let out a low growl, a deep, threatening rumble that vibrated through the stone floor.
It was the most aggressive sound Idrris had ever heard him make.
Morwena’s smile widened.
It was a predator’s smile.
Oh, he has spirit left in him.
Good.
She turned to leave, her silk dress whispering over the stones.
A beast should know its place, and so should a servant.
That encounter was the beginning of a subtle creeping war.
Morwena was clever.
She never acted openly against Idrris.
Instead, things began to go wrong.
A tonic the healer had prescribed for the wolf’s sores was found to be laced with a mild poison, just enough to cause pain.
A rumor started that the servant girl was practicing dark arts, that her songs were enchantments that were draining the king’s beast of its life force.
Gro was always nearby, whispering in the ears of the other staff, feeding their suspicions.
Idrris felt the castle turning against her.
The other servants, who had once been indifferent, now looked at her with fear and hostility.
They avoided her, making signs against evil when she passed.
Through it all, her bond with Jessimine deepened.
He seemed to sense the danger closing in around her.
He grew more protective.
his growl a constant warning to anyone who came too close.
Some nights when the strain became too much, Idris would confess her fears to him.
“She’s going to take you away from me,” she whispered into his fur, her tears soaking into his clean black coat.
“She’s going to win,” he would nudge her with his head, a silent reassurance.
But she could feel the tremors that still racked his body.
The gray patch of decay was spreading faster now, a creeping map of his mortality.
They were both trapped, an invisible net drawing tighter around them with each passing day.
Late one night, she was with him in the kennel when he suddenly became agitated.
He got to his feet, pacing restlessly, his gaze fixed on the door.
A wave of pain hit him, and he stumbled, his leg buckling.
What is it?” Idris asked, rushing to his side.
He whed, a sound of pure distress, and then did something he had never done before.
He began to change.
It was a horrifying, agonizing transformation.
Bones cracked and reshaped, fur receded, his form twisting and contorting.
He cried out, a sound that was halfwolf, half man.
Idris could only watch in horror, helpless.
When it was over, a man lay on the straw-covered floor.
He was naked, emaciated, his skin pale, and stretched tight over his bones.
The left side of his torso was a horrifying landscape of gray, dead flesh, cold and unmoving.
But his face, his face was still handsome, sharp featured, with a strong jaw and a mouth that was now tightened in pain.
The silver scar over his left eye was stark against his pale skin.
It was the face from the portraits in the great hall.
“King Jessimine.
” He pushed himself up on one elbow, his breathing ragged.
“Idrris,” he rasped, his voice rough from disuse.
“You have to run.
” “No,” she said, kneeling beside him, trying to cover him with her own cloak.
“I’m not leaving you.
She knows.
He gasped, clutching at his chest.
Morwena, she cursed me three years ago.
A poison of the spirit.
It binds me to the wolf but rots the man.
She She wants me to die like this alone as an animal.
I won’t let her, Idris said, her voice shaking with a rage that burned away her fear.
She’s coming for you, he insisted, his amber eyes so familiar in this new face filled with terror for her.
She will use you to finish me.
You have to leave the castle now.
And leave you to her mercy.
Never.
She looked at him at the broken dying king who was trying to save her.
I’ll take this one, she whispered.
Not to him, but to fate.
It was a promise.
This one is mine to protect.
His hand, cold and trembling, found hers.
“You are a fool.
” “Then we are two fools together,” she replied, her fingers tightening around his.
The transformation back was just as violent.
He fought it, trying to hold on to his human form, but the curse was too strong.
Within moments, the wolf lay panting on the floor, utterly spent.
But he had spoken.
He had warned her and he had confirmed her worst fears.
Morwena’s plan came to fruition a few days later.
It was brutal and swift.
Lord Bastion, his face a grim mask of regret, came to the kennels, flanked by two armed guards.
Idrris, he said, his voice heavy.
You are accused of witchcraft, of consorting with dark spirits to harm the king’s beast and through it the king himself.
Idris stood frozen.
Jessimine struggled to his feet behind her, a furious snarl ripping from his chest.
He launched himself at the bars of the enclosure, his teeth bared.
He would have torn them all apart if he could.
The evidence is undeniable, Bastion continued, not looking at the raging wolf.
Lady Morena has presented witnesses.
Items from your room, potions, charms.
They were planted, Idris cried, her voice desperate.
She did this.
Gro.
Gro has confessed to being your accomplice, Bastion said, his voice flat.
He claims you bewitched him.
Lady Morwa has demanded a trial by the council.
They have already convened.
You are to be brought before them.
It was a trap perfectly sprung.
Morwa had turned the entire castle against her.
She was a servant girl with no name and no allies.
Who would believe her against a highborn lady? The guards moved forward.
Jessimine roared, a sound of pure impotent fury, throwing himself against the iron bars again and again, but he was too weak.
Each impact left him staggering.
“Don’t fight,” Idrris whispered to him, her eyes locked on his.
“Save your strength.
” The guards grabbed her arms.
The touch was rough, bruising.
As they dragged her from the kennel, she looked back at him one last time.
He had collapsed against the bars, his amber eyes filled with a despair that mirrored her own.
The trial was a farce.
It was held in the throne room, the great chamber dusty and cold from disuse.
Morwa stood before the council, a vision in deep crimson, her face a perfect portrait of sorrowful duty.
She spoke of her concern for the king, her discovery of the servant girl’s treachery.
Gro, sniveling and terrified, corroborated every lie, painting Idrris as a manipulative witch who had seduced him into her evil plans.
Idrris stood alone, her hands bound and denied everything.
But her words were whispers against a hurricane of fabricated evidence and prejudice.
The counselors, men who had known King Jessimine their whole lives, were easily swayed by Morena’s charm and the convenient scapegoat Idrris provided for the kingdom’s longsuffering.
The verdict was swift.
Guilty.
The sentence was death.
At dawn, she would be burned in the castle courtyard as a witch.
They threw her into a dungeon cell, a lightless freezing hole in the bowels of the castle.
The cold was absolute.
It stole the air from her lungs, the feeling from her fingers.
But the cold outside was nothing compared to the icy despair that filled her.
She was going to die.
And Jessimine, he would be left alone with his curse and the monster who had inflicted it.
Morwena had won.
She had taken everything.
Idrris curled into a ball on the filthy floor, not to conserve warmth, but because the grief was a physical weight that was crushing her.
She thought of the wolf, of the king, of the trust in his eyes, the warmth of his head in her lap.
She had failed him.
Hours passed in the suffocating darkness.
She lost all track of time.
Then she heard a sound, a scraping of stone.
A section of the wall beside her groaned and shifted inward, revealing a dark, narrow passage.
A figure stood silhouetted against a faint torch light.
Quickly, a familiar rusty voice commanded, “Lord Bastion.
” Stunned into silence, Idrris scrambled to her feet and followed him into the secret passage.
He led her through a winding network of tunnels, the hidden arteries of the castle.
“I never believed her,” he said, his voice a low growl as they moved.
“Morena is poison.
I knew it when the king sent her away years ago, but she has the council in her pocket.
I could not move against her openly.
” He led her to a small hidden chamber.
A fire was lit in a hearth, and on a cot lay a human figure, shivering violently under a pile of furs.
Jessimine.
He was in his human form, but barely.
The effort it had taken him to force the shift, had nearly killed him.
The gray decay now covered half his body.
His breathing was a shallow, painful rattle, but his eyes, when they found hers, burned with a fierce, desperate light.
“Idras,” he breathed.
She rushed to his side, tears blurring her vision.
Bastion cut the ropes on her wrists.
She took Jessimine’s hand.
It was as cold as ice.
“You fool,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
“You’ve killed yourself.
” “Had to see you,” he gasped, his fingers tightening weakly on hers.
“Bastion, he gets you out.
There’s a passage to the river.
I’m not leaving, she said, her resolve hardening.
Not without you.
There is no me to leave with, he said, a bitter smile touching his lips.
This is the end of it.
The curse has won.
No, she would not accept it.
He looked at her, his gaze intense, filled with all the things he’d never said.
I watched you, he whispered, from my window.
for months, working, always kind, even when others were cruel.
You were a light in the dark, he coughed, a racking sound that shook his entire frame.
I’m sorry I dragged you into it.
I would walk into it a thousand times if it meant finding you,” she confessed, the words pouring out of her.
He reached up, his trembling fingers tracing the line of her jaw.
His touch was freezing, but it sent a shock of heat through her.
“I love you, Iddris,” he rasped, the words costing him almost all of his remaining strength.
“And it’s going to kill me.
I love you, too, Jessimine,” she cried, leaning down.
Behind them, Lord Bastion spoke, his voice grim.
“We are out of time.
She will have discovered the cell is empty.
Guards are searching the castle.
” Jessimine’s eyes fluttered closed.
His breathing hitched, then stopped.
“No!” Idris screamed, her heart shattering.
“No, don’t you dare.
” She pressed her hands to his chest, feeling for a heartbeat, for any sign of life.
There was nothing, just cold, still flesh.
The decay was spreading rapidly now, a tide of gray death consuming his last warmth.
He was gone.
A profound, terrifying calm washed over her.
The fear, the grief, the rage, it all fell away, leaving behind a single simple truth.
She would not live in a world without him.
“It’s all right,” she whispered, leaning down to press her lips to his.
“It was not a kiss of passion, but of farewell, a final loving surrender.
She was accepting this, accepting his death, and her own that would surely follow.
The moment her lips touched his, something inside her broke.
It was not a sound.
It was a feeling.
A pressure building behind her eyes, in her chest, a silent detonation of power.
The air in the small room grew thick, heavy, vibrating with an unseen force.
A wave of pure energy erupted from her.
It was not light or fire.
It was a tangible, invisible wave of force.
It slammed into the stone walls, making them groan.
Dust rained from the ceiling.
Lord Bastion was thrown back against the far wall, stunned but unharmed.
The power wasn’t wild.
It was focused.
It poured from her through her lips, through her hands on his chest, and into Jessimine’s body.
It was a torrent of life, of order, of pure will.
She felt the cold decay fighting back.
a malevolent, stubborn presence.
But her power was a tide, relentless and absolute.
She pushed, pouring all of her love, all of her grief, all of her soul into him.
The gray dead flesh began to recede.
Color returned to his skin.
The icy chill that had permeated the room was replaced by a growing warmth.
A deep, shuddering breath tore through his body.
His eyes flew open.
They were no longer just amber.
They were blazing with golden light, a reflection of the power that was surging through him.
A power that had come from her.
The door to the chamber burst open.
Morwa stood there, her face a mask of triumphant fury, flanked by guards.
There you are, witch.
Her eyes widened as she saw Jessimine alive and breathing, the curse visibly retreating from his skin.
Impossible, she hissed.
Jessimine sat up, his movement still weak, but no longer those of a dying man.
He looked at Morena, and for the first time in three years, his eyes held not shame, but the cold fire of a king.
“It’s over, Morwenna,” he said, his voice quiet, but resonant with newfound strength.
Her face twisted in rage.
She raised a hand and black shadowy energy coiled around her fingers.
If I cannot have you, no one will.
She flung the bolt of dark magic, not at him, but at Iddris.
Idris didn’t even have time to flinch.
But she didn’t need to.
She instinctively threw up a hand.
The air in front of her shimmerred, solidified.
The bolt of black energy slammed into an invisible wall a foot from her face and dissipated into nothing.
Telekinesis, a shield of pure will.
She had never known.
It was a part of her she had never even suspected.
Morwa stared in shock.
That moment of hesitation was all Jessimine needed.
He surged to his feet.
He was still thin, still scarred, but he was filled with the raw power Idris had poured into him.
He moved faster than a man should be able to move.
He seized Morwenna’s wrist, his grip like iron.
“You will not harm her,” he commanded, his voice ringing with absolute authority.
The guards, seeing their king alive and powerful, seeing Morena’s witchcraft laid bare, lowered their swords, their allegiance shifting in a heartbeat.
The fight went out of Morena.
Her power was broken, her betrayal exposed.
She looked at Jessimine’s face, at the love and fury in his eyes as he looked at Idrris, and she knew she had lost.
Lord Bastion stepped forward, his face grim but satisfied.
Take her to the dungeons, he ordered the guards, the real ones.
As they dragged her away, Morena’s hateful gaze fixed on Idris.
You are nothing, she shrieked.
A servant astray.
Idris met her gaze, no longer afraid.
She felt Jessimine’s hand find hers, his fingers lacing through her own.
His touch was warm.
So wonderfully warm.
“I am his,” Idrris said, her voice clear and steady.
And in that moment, she knew it was the truest thing she had ever said.
They stood together in the quiet aftermath, the air still humming with residual power.
Jessimine looked down at her, his golden eyes soft.
He was still pale, still marked by his ordeal, but he was whole.
The curse was broken.
“You saved me,” he said, his voice filled with awe.
He raised her hand to his lips.
“You healed me.
We saved each other.
” She corrected him softly.
He pulled her into his arms, holding her as if she were the most precious thing in the world.
He was still thin, but his arms were strong around her.
She rested her head against his chest and heard the steady, powerful beat of his heart.
It was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard.
“They called you a witch,” he murmured into her hair.
“But they were wrong.
You’re a miracle.
” She looked up at him at the king she had bathed and the man she loved.
“And you,” she said, a small smile playing on her lips.
Your name? Jessimine.
It’s beautiful.
A faint blush colored his cheeks.
I always hated it.
It was my mother’s favorite flower.
Too soft for a king.
It’s not soft, she said, her hand coming up to cup his cheek.
It’s strong.
It survived.
He leaned down and kissed her.
And this time there was no desperation, no farewell.
It was a kiss of beginning, of promise, of a world made new.
The power that flowed between them was no longer a frantic torrent, but a quiet, steady river, a bond forged in darkness, and now brought into the light.
Three months later, the castle was a different place.
Sunlight streamed through clean windows, chasing the shadows from the corners.
The sound of laughter and bustling activity had replaced the oppressive silence.
The kingdom was healing along with its king.
Idrris stood on a balcony overlooking the gardens, a gentle breeze stirring her hair.
She was no longer dressed in the rough spun gray of a servant, but in a simple gown of deep blue that matched her eyes.
She was not used to the fine fabric, but she was getting used to the feeling of Jessimine’s arm around her waist.
He came to stand beside her, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.
He had regained his strength, the healthy weight on his frame returning the powerful breath to his shoulders.
The scar over his eye remained, a reminder of the warrior he had been.
But the haunted look was gone from his eyes, replaced by a deep abiding peace.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice a low rumble against her ear.
“About how cold it used to be?” she confessed.
I don’t think I’ve been truly cold since that night.
I will spend the rest of my life making sure you are never cold again, he vowed, his hold on her tightening.
A great black wolf patted onto the balcony and rested its head on Jessimine’s boot.
It was his other form, now whole and healthy, the fur thick and glossy.
He could shift at will now, the curse entirely gone, the two halves of his nature finally at peace.
He looked up at Idris with familiar amber eyes, and she reached down to stroke his head.
Lord Bastion had dealt with Morena.
Stripped of her magic and her allies, she was exiled to a barren northern island, a punishment Jessimine had insisted upon over the council’s cry for execution.
Mercy was a strength, not a weakness.
He had told them.
Idrris had taught him that the kingdom was still adjusting to the revelation of their queen, the servant girl with the quiet voice and the impossible power.
But they could not deny the life she had brought back to their king and their land.
They saw the way he looked at her as if she were the son and they were learning to see it too.
The council is waiting to discuss the spring planting, Jessimine murmured, though he made no move to leave.
They can wait a little longer, Idris replied, leaning her head against his shoulder.
Her power was a quiet, constant hum beneath her skin, a shield and a comfort.
It was tied to him, to their bond.
As long as they were together, it was there, a force of will, a force of love.
He smiled, his hand tracing patterns on her back, as my queen commands.
She looked out over the greening gardens at the world waking up from a long cold winter.
She had found her place, not on a throne, but beside the man who was both king and wolf, the man whose broken soul had called to her own.
She had bathed a wolf in an afternoon, singing softly, and in doing so had washed away a curse and found a home.
The cold was finally gone.
There was only warmth now, a deep and steady fire she knew would last a lifetime.
