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But there was no turning back now.

The Oracle had spoken all those years ago, and now, after two failed journeys eastward, he was closer than ever.

He had to find the girl.

Because until he did, he could not return home.

His fingers drummed absently against his arm as his mind drifted back, drawn into the memory that had haunted him for years.

Draken had stood before her, his newborn son wrapped in wolf-fur, the tiny weight of him warm, fragile. The Oracle's chamber had been filled with the acrid scent of burning herbs that day, thick, curling tendrils of smoke twisting through the air like phantom hands. The crone sat before the great fire, her eyes white and unseeing, her frail hands trembling over the bowl of still water that reflected things no ordinary eye could see.

The crone's voice sounded deeper and heavier, bouncing off the stone walls of her den.

"The blessed one has been born."

Draken had felt it—the shift in the air, the power of a truth set in motion.

Then she had spoken again, her voice echoing with something not entirely of this world.

"His soul is bound to another."

A slow dread had unfurled in his chest. He had seen the way the crone's lips parted in wonder, in awe— as if she was witnessing something rare, divine.

"A child with hair like night and eyes like the moon shall be born far from here. She alone will complete him."

Draken had clenched his jaw, his wolf bristling inside him.

A bonded mate.

Such a thing was practically legend—a fate written in blood and bone, one that could not be severed. It was a gift and a curse.

He had never wanted such a destiny for his son.

And yet, the crone had spoken.

Draken exhaled, his breath fogging slightly against the cool glass of the window.

This was his third journey eastward. The first two had been dead ends, filled with false trails and wasted time. His warriors were restless, ready to return to their own mates, their own lives.

But he couldn't leave.

Not yet.

Because despite the failed attempts, despite the years lost chasing a fate he had never asked for—he couldn't shake the feeling that this time, he was close.

That she was here.

Somewhere in this land of magic and secrets, the child the Oracle had spoken of existed.

And Draken would not return home until he found her.

His fingers tightened around the windowsill as he watched the rain roll down in slow rivulets, his mind drifting to the uneasy balance of power that had shaped the world he now lived in.

There had been a time when humans—the Hairless Ones, as the shifters often called them—ruled everything. They had their machines of war, their numbers vast, their arrogance limitless.

And yet, for all their guns, bombs, and steel-plated beasts, when they had turned their sights on the shifters and the magical ones, they had miscalculated.

They had thought that superior technology would be enough.