Page 49 of Alpha's Exiled Mate

This wasn’t just about politics. Five years ago, I’d claimed the throne, but I cared little whether Viossi bore me an heir. Sophia and her spineless husband had long since been dispatched to a remote border territory under the guise of “honoring their loyalty”—far from the capital, far from my sight.

I played the role of a diligent king, approaching my thirtieth birthday and the looming curse with a strange indifference.

If I couldn’t find her, the curse could take me for all I cared. The throne, the kingdom, the legacy—it all paled in comparison to the void she’d left behind.

But I knew Viossi wouldn’t reveal the truth unless she was cornered, unless she had no other choice. For now, I needed patience, waiting for fate to guide me to the answers I sought.

I picked up a report from my desk, its contents a jolt to my system. The border patrol’s findings had shocked me—traces of Jackson in the northern forests. Jackson, the enemy who wassupposed to have been executed five years ago, his rebellion crushed beneath my heel.

During the chaos of her disappearance and Viossi’s revelation, I’d entrusted Orin with Jackson’s execution. Despite his feelings for my wife, Orin had fought fiercely against Jackson, proving his loyalty time and again. He’d presented Jackson’s severed finger, swearing the traitor was beheaded and his body burned to ash, the matter closed.

But now, evidence suggested otherwise. A photograph from the border scouts confirmed my suspicions—Jackson, alive, bearing his distinctive scar over his right eye and missing left ring finger. Worse, Orin was seen speaking with him, their exchange secretive, their postures conspiratorial.

Orin had betrayed me. Not only had he spared Jackson, but he might be colluding with him, plotting against the crown.

I didn’t confront him—not yet. Instead, I kept him close, feigning trust while secretly monitoring his every move. The less he suspected, the more likely he was to slip, revealing his plans and his allies. I’d assigned trusted agents to shadow him, their reports feeding me fragments of his movements, his meetings, his secrets.

I set the report down, rubbing my temples, where a dull ache throbbed. The healer called it stress-induced headaches, but I knew better. The curse was stirring, a harbinger of my impending thirtieth birthday, its power growing stronger with each passing day. My fingers brushed the mark on my chest—a coiling black rune, a ticking clock counting down to my death. As the deadline approached, the curse pulsed like a venomous snake, tightening its coils around my heart, a constant reminder of the fate I’d accepted.

I wasn’t afraid of death—not truly. If I couldn’t find her, I’d welcome the curse’s embrace, let it take me and end this hollow existence. The elders fretted, their voices shrill as they urged meto produce an heir with Viossi, to secure the kingdom’s future. But I ignored them, my mind elsewhere. I’d already chosen a trusted successor, a distant cousin whose loyalty was beyond question, to ensure the kingdom’s stability after my death. The throne would endure, with or without me.

Closing my eyes, I let memories flood in—her silhouette praying in the moonlight, the soft curve of her smile as she baked honey cakes, the gentle strength in her eyes that had captivated me without my realizing it. Those moments felt vivid yet distant, like a dream from another life, a world I could no longer touch.

“Please, let me find you,” I whispered, the words barely audible, a prayer to the universe. “Wherever you are, whatever name you carry, let me recognize you. Let me make things right.”

The next morning, the palace buzzed with activity, servants and guards moving with practiced efficiency as preparations for the diplomatic visit reached their peak. I stood before the mirror, adjusting my ceremonial attire with meticulous care. The deep blue robe symbolized royal authority, its heavy fabric settling over my shoulders like a mantle of responsibility. The wolf-head crest on my chest gleamed coldly, a reminder of the legacy I bore.

“Everything is in place throughout the city, Your Majesty,” the captain of the guard reported, standing at attention in the doorway. “The delegation from Fellinger is expected at noon.”

I nodded, my pulse quickening—not from nerves, but from an inexplicable anticipation, a pull I couldn’t name, as if some unseen forces were drawing me toward this moment.

“Queen Viossi is unwell and sends her apologies for missing the welcome ceremony,” the captain added, his tone neutral but his eyes flicking to mine, gauging my reaction.

I gave a wry smile, unsurprised. “As expected, Let her… rest.”

“And,” I added, my gaze sharpening, my voice taking on an edge, “tell Orin I want him personally overseeing thedelegation’s security. He’s to ensure the emissaries’ safety at all times. No mistakes.”

Assigning Orin to the delegation wasn’t about trust—it was about control. If Jackson planned to exploit the visit for chaos, Orin might be involved, and I wanted him where I could watch him. I’d already dispatched trusted agents to shadow his every move, their reports feeding me fragments of his actions, ready to catch him in the act.

At noon, the sun shone brightly over the palace square, where nobles and officials gathered in their finery, their murmurs of excitement filling the air. I stood at the top of the steps, the weight of the crown heavy on my brow, my posture regal but my mind elsewhere, caught in that strange sense of anticipation.

The sound of trumpets announced the delegation’s approach, their notes clear and commanding. Knights led the procession, their armor glinting in the sunlight, followed by a line of ornate carriages, their gilded details catching the eye. The crowd murmured in awe, many seeing Fellinger’s royal entourage for the first time, their splendor a rare sight in our capital.

The lead carriage halted before the steps, and a servant hurried forward, opening the door with a flourish and rolling out a red carpet that stretched across the stone. A woman stepped out gracefully, her movements fluid and assured—golden hair catching the sunlight, green eyes sharp and intelligent, her features refined and elegant.

And then I felt it.

The extremely familiar scent.

The familiar blend of rain-soaked leaves and morning sunlight, a fragrance that had haunted my dreams for total five years.

Everything froze. My blood roared in my ears, my heart pounding so fiercely it ached, a primal rhythm that drowned out the world. My wolf howled within, its cry one of recognition, of longing, of a bond that had never truly broken.

She looked up at me, her eyes meeting mine for a fleeting moment. A flicker of complex emotion passed through them—recognition, perhaps, or something deeper—before it was quickly masked by a polished diplomatic smile, perfected for the occasion.

“On behalf of the Kingdom of Fellinger, I extend my sincerest greetings to King Perock,” she said, her voice steady and composed, carrying the weight of authority as she curtsied with grace. “I am Lilia Fellinger, heir to Fellinger.”

Lilia Fellinger.