The Wolf King's Echo Soul

Chapter 1

Willa

The air is sharp with the scent of pine and damp earth. My breath plumes in a white cloud, a ghost in the twilight. Ahead, barely visible through the tangled branches, the stag scrapes its antlers against a birch tree. It’s the biggest one we’ve seen in three seasons. Big enough to feed the pack for a week, if we’re careful.

My brother, Finn, shifts beside me, the leather of his tunic creaking. “Ready?” he whispers, his voice a low rumble.

I nod, my grip tightening on my bow. The wood is worn smooth under my palm, a familiar comfort. “On my mark. You take the left flank. Go for the leg. Just slow it down.”

“I know the plan, Willa. I’m not a pup.”

“You still run into fights with more courage than sense,” I murmur, my eyes never leaving our prey. “Just stick to the plan.”

I can feel his annoyance without looking. It radiates off him like heat. We need this. The blight has pushed the herds further south, leaving behind only the sick or the desperate. Our traps have been empty for weeks. The elders are getting thin, their faces etched with a hunger that has nothing to do with pride. The children’s laughter is quieter.

This stag is our hope.

I raise my bow, drawing the string back until it kisses my cheek. The muscles in my back and shoulders strain, a familiar burn. I exhale slowly, emptying my mind of everything but the target. The space between the stag’s ribs. The heart. A clean, quick death.

Just as I am about to release, the wind shifts. It carries our scent straight to the stag. Its head snaps up, great dark eyes locking directly onto our position. Its nostrils flare. It’s not fear I see in its gaze. It’s rage.

A low growl rumbles in its chest, unnatural and guttural. Its eyes seem to glow with a faint, sick green light. The blight.

“It’s tainted,” Finn hisses. “Willa, we should go.”

“No,” I say, my voice flat. “We don’t have a choice.” Tainted meat is better than no meat. We can cut away the worst of it. We have to.

Before Finn can argue, the stag charges. It’s not fleeing. It’s attacking.

“Scatter!” I yell, loosing my arrow. It flies true, but the beast swivels with impossible speed. The arrow glances off its thick shoulder instead of sinking into its heart.

The stag bellows, a sound of pure fury, and barrels past my position, straight for Finn.

My heart seizes. I drop my bow and pull the two hunting knives from my belt. The world narrows to the space between my brother and a ton of blighted muscle and bone. Finn is fast, but he stumbles on a root, his face a mask of shock as he falls.

I don’t think. I run. My feet pound the forest floor, each step a prayer. The stag lowers its head, the points of its antlers aimed at my brother’s throat. I launch myself into the air, landing hard on the creature’s back. My knees slam into its spine, and I wrap my arm around its neck, holding on as it thrashes wildly.

It smells wrong. Like rot and old blood. I drive my right knife down, deep into the thick muscle of its neck. It screams, a terrible, high pitched sound, and bucks like a wild horse. My teeth rattle in my skull. My grip slips. One of its antlers swings back and catches my side, tearing through leather and skin. A hot, sharp pain explodes along my ribs.

I gasp, but I don’t let go. I can hear Finn shouting my name. I pull the knife free and stab again. And again. Warm blood, thick and dark, spills over my hands. The beast staggers, its powerful legs trembling. It takes two more steps and then crashes to its knees, finally collapsing onto its side with a shuddering sigh.

Silence descends on the forest, broken only by my own ragged breathing. I slide off the carcass, my legs shaking. Finn rushes to my side, his eyes wide with terror.

“You’re hurt. Gods, Willa…”

“I’m fine,” I say, pressing a hand to my side. It comes away bloody, but the cut isn’t deep. It will need stitches. Another scar to add to the collection. “Help me with this. We have to get it back before the scavengers arrive.”

“We shouldn’t have taken the risk. A blighted animal…”

“We had no choice, Finn.” I cut him off, my voice harder than I intend. I look down at the massive stag, its green-tinged eyes now glassy and dull. “Now we have a choice. We can eat tonight.”

He doesn’t argue. He just nods, his young face looking old in the fading light. We work together, tying the stag’s legs and hoisting it onto a heavy branch to carry between us. The journey back to the caves is long and grueling. The weight of the stag is immense, and every step sends a jolt of fire through my side. My mind starts to drift, the pain and exhaustion pulling me under.

And the dream comes back. Not in sleep, but in flashes behind my eyes. A woman with hair like spun silver, her face beautiful and kind. She lies bleeding on a stone floor, her life fading. A man kneels over her, his face lost in shadow, but I can feel his agony. It’s a vast, empty ocean of despair. He is a king. I know it somehow. I can see the weight of a crown on his shadowed head. His voice echoes in my head, a single word of rejection that sealed her fate.

“Willa? Are you with me?” Finn’s voice pulls me back. “You’re swaying.”

“Just tired,” I lie, shaking my head to clear the images. I’ve been having the dream for almost a year. It’s always the same. The silver woman, the shadowed king, the suffocating grief. It feels more real than my own memories.

When we finally reach the edge of our camp, a cheer goes up. Our people emerge from the caves, their faces thin and pale in the torchlight. Seeing the kill, seeing the hope, it’s worth the pain. It’s worth everything.

My father, Lycus, the Alpha of our exiled Crescent Fang pack, meets us. His face is a roadmap of worry, but his eyes shine with pride when he sees me. He looks from the stag to the blood on my tunic.

“You are your mother’s daughter,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. He places a hand on my shoulder. “Brave, but reckless.”

“We needed the meat, Father,” I say, leaning into his touch.

“I know.” He sighs, a sound that seems to carry the weight of all our pack’s suffering. “Take her to Mara. Get that wound cleaned. The rest of you, let’s get this dressed. Tonight, we feast.”

Later, after Mara has stitched my side with a neat, practiced hand, I sit by the fire. The smell of roasting meat fills the air, a scent we haven’t enjoyed in what feels like an eternity. Finn sits beside me, cleaning my bloodied knives.

“You saw it again, didn’t you?” he asks quietly, not looking at me. “The dream.”

I don’t answer. I just stare into the flames.

“It’s getting worse,” he presses. “You cry out in your sleep. You barely rest. What is it you see?”

“It’s nothing, Finn. Just a nightmare.”

“It’s not nothing if it’s killing you from the inside out.”

Before I can respond, my father’s voice silences the camp. “Gather around,” he calls out, his tone serious. The quiet celebration fades. Everyone turns to face him.

“I have news,” he says, his gaze sweeping over all of us. “News that will be difficult to hear. We are to have a visitor.”

An uneasy murmur ripples through the pack. We are exiles. We don’t get visitors. Not here, in the forgotten lands.

“Who is it?” someone calls out.

My father’s jaw tightens. “Alpha King Theron.”

The name lands like a stone, sending shock and fear through our small gathering. King Theron. The Alpha of Alphas. The man who cast our pack out generations ago for refusing to bend to his family’s rule. The cursed king.

“Why?” I ask, my voice cutting through the stunned silence. “Why would he come here?”

“The blight,” my father answers, his eyes finding mine. “It is not just our lands that are affected. It spreads through all the territories. He believes the source is somewhere in these eastern mountains. He is coming to seek our guidance.”

“Our guidance?” Finn scoffs. “He exiled us, and now he needs our help?”

“Yes.” My father’s voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. “He arrives in three days. We will treat him with the respect his station demands. This could be our chance. A chance to end our exile. To reclaim our honor.”

The next three days are a blur of frantic activity and simmering tension. The caves are cleaned. Our meager supplies are organized. We act like we are preparing for an honored guest, but the fear is palpable. Everyone knows the stories of King Theron. The Sleepless King, they call him. Cursed by the Moon Goddess herself for rejecting his fated mate decades ago. They say he never sleeps, that his wolf is a raging beast just beneath his skin, that his cruelty is matched only by his sorrow.

On the third day, they arrive. They don’t come to our caves. They make their camp in a clearing a mile away. A formal summons is delivered, requesting our Alpha’s presence.

My father goes, taking me and Finn and two of our other best warriors with him. We walk in silence, the weight of our pack’s future on our shoulders.

We emerge from the trees into the clearing. It’s filled with a dozen Royal Guards in shining silver armor, their banners bearing the crest of the Onyx Moon pack. They are so clean, so well fed. They look at us like we are wild animals.

And then I see him.

He stands in the center of the clearing, a map spread on a makeshift table before him. He is taller than I expected, with broad shoulders and a presence that commands the very air around him. His hair is as black as a moonless night, and his face is harsh, carved from stone. But it’s his eyes that capture me. They are the color of a stormy sky, and in their depths, I see an exhaustion so profound it feels like a physical wound. It’s the same hollow grief from my dream. A grief that has been festering for half a century.

As if he feels my gaze, he looks up. His stormy eyes lock with mine across the clearing.

Something happens. A jolt, like lightning, arcs between us. The air crackles, and the hairs on my arms stand on end. It’s not a challenge, not a threat. It’s… a recognition. My wolf, usually a calm and steady presence within me, stirs restlessly, pacing the confines of my soul.

He inhales sharply, his entire body going rigid. The deep lines of torment etched on his face seem to soften, just for a fraction of a second. The ever present storm in his eyes quiets to a low hum. For a fleeting moment, I see a flicker of something I cannot name. Not peace, but the possibility of it. A deep, instinctual part of me feels an inexplicable pull toward this cursed, broken king.

He doesn’t understand what is happening. I can see the confusion warring with shock on his face. But I can also see the undeniable change in him. The gnawing curse that I can almost feel radiating from him lessens its grip in my presence.

I am a warrior of an exiled pack. He is the king who holds our fate in his hands. And in this moment, I know, with a terrifying certainty, that our meeting is not by chance. He doesn’t know it yet, but he has been searching for me just as surely as my dreams have been searching for him.

Chapter 2

Theron

Fifty years. Fifty years of a beast clawing at the inside of my ribs. Fifty years of a ceaseless, grinding roar in my skull. Sleep is a forgotten country I was exiled from long ago. My world is gray, a landscape of duty and guilt, each day bleeding into the next, marked only by the slow decay of my own sanity.

Then she steps out of the trees.

And for the first time since the Goddess cursed me, there is quiet.

The beast in my chest stops clawing. The fifty-year roar in my skull fades to a whisper. It is so sudden, so absolute, that I stumble a step back. My Royal Guard, Darius, puts a steadying hand on my arm.

“My King?” he asks, his voice low and concerned.

I don’t hear him. I can’t hear anything but the sudden, shocking silence in my own mind. My eyes are locked on her. A woman. A warrior. She stands behind the aging Alpha of this forgotten pack, her chin high, her hand resting on the hilt of a knife. Blood stains the side of her leather tunic. Her hair is the color of dark earth, braided back from a face that could have been carved from the mountain itself. Fierce. Unyielding.

And so painfully familiar.

Lyanna.

The name is a shard of glass in my throat. My wolf, a creature of endless rage and sorrow, stirs for a different reason. He doesn’t howl in grief. He… settles. He lifts his head, sniffing the air, a low hum of something akin to contentment vibrating through me. A feeling I had forgotten existed.

It can’t be. Lyanna is dead. I watched the light leave her eyes. I held her body until it grew cold. This is a trick. A new, exquisite torture from a cruel Goddess who is not yet finished with me.

Alpha Lycus of the Crescent Fangs steps forward, bowing his head in a gesture of reluctant respect. “King Theron. You honor our territory with your presence, though the circumstances are grim.”

I tear my eyes from the woman, forcing myself to focus on the Alpha. The effort is monumental. With my gaze off her, the roar begins to creep back in, a distant thunder. My jaw clenches.

“Alpha Lycus,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend. “The blight respects no borders. It poisons your lands as it does mine. I did not come for honor. I came for answers.”

“We have few answers to give,” the old wolf says, his eyes weary. “We have survived. That is all.”

“My scouts report the blight’s corruption is strongest here. That its source may be in these mountains.” I gesture to the map on the table, a useless piece of parchment. My true map stands behind him, watching me with eyes the color of a forest shadow.

I can feel her gaze like a physical touch. It doesn’t soothe. It burns. It is not the gentle gaze of Lyanna, full of moonlight and misplaced hope. This is different. This gaze is full of suspicion and steel. It challenges me. It assesses me. It finds me wanting.

And my wolf loves it.

*Ours*, he rumbles in my mind, the first coherent thought he’s offered in decades that wasn’t a scream of pain.

*Be silent*, I command, but there is no force behind it. The quiet she brings is too seductive.

“We can show you where we have seen the worst of it,” Lycus says. “Our hunters know these lands better than any map.”

“Your hunters,” I repeat, letting my gaze drift back to her. I cannot help it. It’s like a parched man seeing an oasis. “This one?”

I see a flicker of defiance in her eyes. Lycus glances back at her, a mixture of pride and fear on his face.

“My daughter, Willa. She is our lead hunter.”

Willa. Not Lyanna. The name is foreign, yet it feels right on my tongue. She is not a ghost. She is a living, breathing fire. Where Lyanna was soft moonlight, this woman is the heart of a forge. The resemblance is a cruel coincidence, nothing more. It must be.

But the silence she gives me is not a coincidence. It is a fact. A miracle. An addiction taking root after a single taste.

“The blight is a complex problem,” I say, my mind racing. I need to keep her close. I need to study this phenomenon. That is the logical, kingly reason. The man inside me, the beast, simply needs to breathe the same air she does. “It will not be solved in a day. I require a delegation from your pack to return with me to the capital. To advise my council.”

The Alpha’s eyes widen. “To the capital? My King, we are exiles.”

“And I am your King,” I state, letting a sliver of the royal authority I so rarely use anymore lace my voice. “The blight threatens us all. Old grievances are a luxury we can no longer afford. Your knowledge of these lands is invaluable.”

His son, a young man standing beside Willa, scoffs. “Our knowledge was not so valuable when your grandfather cast us out.”

“Finn,” Lycus warns, his voice a low growl.

I ignore the boy. My attention is solely on Willa. She hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken, yet she commands the entire clearing. The roaring in my head has completely subsided again, just by the simple act of looking at her.

How is this possible?

Is she the cure? Or is she the final, killing blow of the curse?

I don’t care.

“I will need your best,” I say, my voice dropping, the words meant for Lycus but aimed directly at his daughter. “Your most skilled trackers. Your most experienced warriors. Those who understand the taint firsthand.”

Lycus bows his head again, a gesture of submission, but I can see the conflict in his eyes. To be brought back into the fold is what his pack has dreamed of for generations. But to send his daughter into the heart of the court that cast them out… it is a father’s nightmare.

“We will assemble a delegation, my King,” he says, his voice heavy.

“Good.”

I cannot let him choose. I cannot risk him leaving her behind. This quiet… I will not lose it. I will not return to the unending torment. Not now that I know relief is possible.

I take a step forward, closing the distance. I stop a few feet from her. I can smell the scent of pine and blood and something else, something wild and uniquely her. It’s intoxicating.

Her eyes narrow. She does not flinch. She does not bow. She meets my gaze head on, a wolf facing down a predator, unafraid.

She is magnificent.

“You will lead them, Willa,” I say. It is not a request.

The silence in the clearing is absolute. Her brother looks ready to lunge. Her father’s face pales. The members of my own guard shift uncomfortably behind me. A king does not single out a warrior of an exiled pack in such a way.

But I am not just a king. I am a man who has been screaming in silence for fifty years. And I have just found the one thing, the one person, that can make it stop.

She looks from me to her father, then back to me. A silent conversation passes between them. I see her give a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

“As you command, my King,” she says, and her voice is like gravel and honey. It does not soothe me. It rakes across my senses, awakening parts of me I thought had long since turned to dust.

I give a curt nod, turning away before I do something foolish. Something like reaching for her. Something like begging.

“We leave at dawn,” I call over my shoulder to Alpha Lycus. “Be ready.”

As I walk back toward my camp, Darius falls into step beside me.

“Theron,” he says, using my name now that we are out of earshot. “Are you well? You seemed… distracted.”

“I am better than well, old friend,” I murmur, a strange, unfamiliar feeling rising in my chest. It takes me a moment to identify it. Hope.

“That woman…” Darius begins, then trails off, unsure how to continue.

“Looks like her,” I finish for him. He is one of the few old enough to remember. “I know.”

“Is that wise? To bring a ghost into our court?”

I stop and turn to face him. “She is not a ghost, Darius. She is fire and steel. And for the first time in fifty years, the beast is quiet.”

He stares at me, truly seeing me for the first time in years. He sees the change. The flicker of life in eyes that have been dead for half a century.

I dismiss his concern with a wave of my hand. He does not understand. He cannot. He has not lived with the constant gnawing, the endless rage. He has not prayed for the release of death every single night.

I do not know if Willa is a blessing or a damnation. A cruel trick or a path to redemption. I only know that I cannot let her go.

She is my quiet. And I will chain myself to her if I must to keep it.

Chapter 3

Willa

The King's command echoes in the silence of our departure. It is not a request. It is a re-chaining. My father’s face was a mask of grief as he watched us leave. Finn walks beside me now, his jaw set so tight I fear it will crack. He, my cousin Roric, and two of our steadiest warriors, Lyra and Kael, are the chosen 'delegation'. We are five exiles walking into the heart of the kingdom that threw us away.

We do not travel for days. We simply arrive. One moment, the scent of pine and wild earth is my only comfort. The next, it is gone, choked out by the stench of too many people, of woodsmoke, and something cloying and sweet, like rotting flowers.

The capital is a wound of sharp stone and glittering glass. Towers pierce the sky, arrogant and proud, casting long shadows that swallow the sun. The people here move differently. Their steps are quick but aimless, their eyes darting, never settling. They stare at us as we follow the King’s Royal Guard through the streets. They see our worn leathers, the scars on our skin, the wildness that clings to us like a second pelt. They see primitives. Savages.

They do not see the hunger in our children’s eyes or the strength it took to survive in lands they abandoned.

The royal castle is an obscenity of wealth. Polished marble floors reflect the light from impossibly high windows. Tapestries depicting great hunts and forgotten wars cover the walls. Every surface gleams. It is beautiful, and it makes my skin crawl. This is not a home. It is a cage made of gold and lies.

King Theron leads us into a vast hall filled with people. Men and women in silks and velvets stop their quiet conversations to turn and stare. Their faces are a mixture of shock, curiosity, and undisguised contempt. The air grows thick with their judgment. My wolf paces, wanting to bare her teeth at the pack of peacocks who dare to look down on us.

I keep my chin high. I meet their gazes one by one, letting them see the predator behind my eyes. I am not prey to be cornered.

Theron seems oblivious to the tension. He stands taller here, the weight of his crown invisible but felt by everyone. The restless energy that clung to him in the forest has settled. He looks at me, a brief, fleeting glance, and I feel that strange pull again. The quiet in his eyes is unnerving. It is a quiet he draws from me, and I do not know what he leaves in its place.

“My King, you have returned,” a voice says, smooth as honeyed wine.

A woman detaches herself from the crowd. She moves with a liquid grace, her gown a river of deep blue silk that clings to every curve. Her hair is a cascade of spun gold, intricately braided with pearls. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and her eyes, the color of a summer sky, are as cold and hard as ice.

She glides to Theron’s side, placing a delicate hand on his arm. It is a gesture of casual ownership. He does not pull away, but I see a muscle twitch in his jaw.

“Lady Seraphina,” he says, his voice flat. “We have guests.”

Her gaze sweeps over our small group, a flicker of distaste crossing her perfect features before it is smoothed away. Her eyes land on me. They linger, sharp and assessing. She sees more than the others. She sees a threat.

“So I see,” she murmurs, her lips curving into a smile that does not reach her eyes. She steps away from Theron, closing the distance between us. She stops a few feet away, tilting her head. “The Alpha King travels to the blighted lands and returns with… curiosities. How wonderful.”

Finn takes a half step forward, a low growl rumbling in his chest. I put a hand on his arm, a silent command to stand down. This is not a fight for fists or claws.

“I am Lady Seraphina,” she says, her voice loud enough for those nearby to hear. “And you are?”

“Willa of the Crescent Fang,” I say. My voice is steady. I will not let her see how this place constricts my throat.

“Crescent Fang,” she repeats, tasting the words as if they were poison. “Ah, yes. The exiled pack. I had heard the stories. I must say, they do not do you justice. You smell of the wild. Of blood and dirt. How very… authentic.”

Her followers titter behind her, their laughter like the chipping of ice.

My hand rests on the hilt of my knife. The worn leather is a comfort against my palm. “Where I come from, we call that the smell of survival.”

“Survival,” she muses. “A rather base instinct, don’t you think? Here, we prefer to thrive. To cultivate beauty. To engage in pursuits more refined than… digging for roots and wrestling beasts in the mud.”

Her blue eyes rake over my scarred knuckles, the mended tear in my tunic from the stag’s antler, the dirt beneath my fingernails.

“Our beasts are blighted,” I say, my voice dropping. “They are twisted with a sickness that spreads across this land. A sickness that will not care how refined your pursuits are when it starves your people and poisons your wells.”

The laughter dies. Seraphina’s smile tightens. Her polished mask has cracked, just a little.

“The King has brought you here to advise him on this… unpleasantness, I take it? A pack of outcasts to solve a problem his own council cannot?” She shakes her head, a gesture of mock pity. “He must be more desperate than we imagined.”

“Desperate men often see solutions others are too proud to acknowledge,” I reply.

“And you believe you are the solution?” Her voice drips with condescension. “A wild girl with a knife and a chip on her shoulder? Tell me, what wisdom can you possibly offer the Alpha King?”

I meet her cold gaze without flinching. “I can offer him the truth. It is a language this court seems to have forgotten.”

A gasp ripples through the onlookers. Finn’s hand grips my shoulder, a silent message of support. I can feel Theron’s eyes on me, heavy and intense.

Seraphina’s beautiful face contorts for a second, a flash of pure venom, before it becomes a mask of serene superiority once more. “The truth, from a savage? How novel. We shall see how long your truth serves you here, Willa of the Crescent Fang. The wolves in this castle have sharper teeth than any you have faced in your forest. And they have learned not to growl before they bite.”

She turns her back on me, a deliberate, final dismissal. A queen turning from a peasant. She moves back to Theron’s side, her expression shifting to one of sweet concern.

“Theron, you must be exhausted from your journey,” she says, her voice soft again. “Let me have your guests shown to their quarters. They must be… overwhelmed. I am sure they will want to wash the road from themselves.”

Her meaning is clear. Wash the wilderness from yourselves. Wash the stink of your exile away before you dare to walk these halls.

Theron looks from her to me. For a moment, I think he will agree, that he will let her win this first skirmish. But then he speaks, his voice a low rumble that cuts through the whispers of the court.

“No.”

The single word hangs in the air. Seraphina freezes, her hand still on his arm.

He takes a step away from her, toward me. He stops before our small group, his stormy gaze sweeping over us before settling on me. The raw power emanating from him silences the entire hall.

“These are not just my guests, Lady Seraphina,” he says, his voice ringing with royal authority. “They are my chosen advisors. They will be treated with the respect due to their position. A position granted by me.”

He looks directly at me. “Willa will sit at my council. She will have a voice in all matters concerning the blight. Her word will carry the weight of my own.”

Stunned silence. Seraphina’s face is a storm cloud of fury. I feel the weight of a hundred hostile eyes on me. He has not just welcomed me. He has placed a target on my back.

He did it to keep me close. I know this with a sudden, chilling certainty. His cure. His quiet. That is all I am to him.

“A servant will show you to your quarters,” Theron says, his tone softening slightly as he addresses me. “They are in the Royal Wing. Near my own.”

Near his own. I am no longer just a guest or an advisor. I am a possession. A remedy to be kept within reach.

He turns and strides from the hall without another word, leaving a wake of chaos and speculation behind him. The courtiers erupt in a buzz of scandalized whispers. Seraphina stands rigid, her eyes fixed on me with an expression of pure, murderous hatred.

I have been in this gilded cage for less than an hour, and I have already made a powerful enemy.

I look at Finn, at Roric, at the strained faces of my pack. I led them here, into this den of shimmering, smiling vipers. Survival in the forest was simple. You fought, or you died.

I am beginning to think this place is far more deadly.