The shadows of the Lycan Palace had always been Drew's playground, but tonight, they felt like a shroud.
Drew was the Wind-Bender, the Scout of the Seven, and the youngest of the elite circle. He was a man built of lithe muscle and kinetic energy, usually found perched on rafters or moving so fast he was little more than a blur in the corner of one's eye. To the court, he was the joker- the obnoxious, flippant brat who made light of every tragedy and turned every serious council meeting into a contest of wits. But the goofy persona was a thin veil over a heart that felt everything too deeply. Drew was emotional, a romantic trapped in a warrior's body, and the "bad trait" of being sensitive was something he'd spent centuries burying under layers of snark.
His Lycan, Draven, was not helping. Draven was a creature of the high peaks and rushing gales, but for months, he had been pacing in the back of Drew's mind with a heavy, leaden despair.
We are the last, Drew, Draven's voice was a low, mournful howl in his head. Jax has found his Siren. The water has met the shore. But the wind... the wind blows over an empty world. Selene is a Queen, but she is not the Fate. She lied to keep us quiet.
"She didn't lie, Draven," Drew whispered into the collar of his charcoal tunic, though his own faith was crumbling like dry parchment.
He stood on the edge of the ballroom, watching the spectacle. The Mating Ball was a masterpiece of light and life. He saw Jax- his brother in "unmated" misery, spinning a teal-haired Siren named Marina with a look of such raw, unbridled relief that it made Drew's stomach turn with a sharp, jagged spike of jealousy. It wasn't that he begrudged Jax his happiness; it was that the silence in his own soul was becoming deafening.
He watched the other couples. Christian and Madeline, Leah and Carys, John and Elena... even Mack and Violet. They were all anchored. They were all whole. Drew felt like a ghost haunting his own life, a draft of air in a room full of solid stone.
As Leo's voice boomed across the hall, announcing the Queen's pregnancy, the joy in the room reached a fever pitch. Drew couldn't take it anymore. The scent of dozens of different species, the cloying perfume of the flowers, and the suffocating hum of completed mate-bonds became too much.
"I need air," he muttered to no one, slipping through the heavy velvet curtains and out onto the terrace.
The Royal Gardens were a labyrinth of silver-leafed trees and night-blooming jasmine, bathed in the pale, ethereal glow of the moon. Drew moved through the paths with the silence of a predator, his feet barely touching the gravel. He wandered deep into the Neutral Zone-a section of the gardens designed for the visiting dignitaries who preferred quiet over the raucous celebrations of the ballroom.
He stopped near a weeping willow whose branches dipped into a small, koi-filled pond. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes, trying to quiet the frantic beating of his heart.
There is nothing here, Draven whimpered. Just the scent of old dirt and stagnant water.
Drew was about to agree when the wind shifted.
It wasn't a gust; it was a sigh. A soft breeze drifted from the direction of the elder-hedges, carrying a scent that shattered Drew's world into a thousand brilliant pieces. It was the smell of fresh rain on mountain stones, of wild lavender, and the soft, sweet musk of a winter forest. It was heavenly. It was home.
Drew froze. His heart stopped, then restarted with a violent, rhythmic thud.
No, he thought, his breath catching. I'm hallucinating. I've finally lost my mind.
"Draven?" he whispered mentally.
The wolf didn't answer with words; he let out a mental roar that made Drew's vision swim with golden light.
MATE. SHE IS HERE. FIND HER.
Drew was terrified to move. He was the Wind-Bender, the master of the air, and for the first time in his life, he used his power with a delicate, desperate precision. He flicked his wrist, summoning a soft, focused gust of wind. He sent it swirling toward the hedges, swirling around whoever was hidden there, and then pulled it back to him.
The wind returned, laden with the scent. It wasn't a trick. It was her. The mate-scent was so thick it felt like honey on his tongue.
Drew didn't walk. He didn't even run. He used the wind to surge forward, his body becoming a streak of shadow and air. He rounded the hedge and saw her.
She was a Lycan, but she bore none of the jagged, battle-hardened edges of the palace guards. She was dressed in a simple, modest gown of pale moss-green, her chestnut hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders. She was standing by a stone pedestal, her back to him, looking at the moon with a quiet, contemplative stillness. She looked shy, small, and like someone who preferred the company of stars to the noise of a crowd.
Drew's instinct took over. He didn't think about introductions or the 'goofy' mask. He surged forward, the wind at his back, and wrapped his arms around her from behind.
He didn't just hold her; he anchored himself to her, his face burying in the crook of her neck as he breathed her in.
The woman let out a startled, sharp gasp, her body tensing like a frightened deer.
"Sorry," Drew rasped, his voice cracking with a century's worth of repressed emotion. "The wind... it's very strong tonight."
The moment his hands touched the silk of her dress and the skin of her waist, the tingles began. It wasn't just a spark; it was an electric current that flooded through both of them, a golden warmth that raced up Drew's arms and settled deep in his marrow. The void in his soul- the one he had carried since the day King Spear sent him into the mountains, was suddenly, violently filled.
The woman didn't pull away. The tension left her body as the mate-bond recognized its other half. She leaned back into his chest, a soft, shaky breath escaping her.
"The wind..." she whispered, her voice like the chime of a silver bell. "I thought I was the only one who felt it."
Drew turned her around in his arms, his hands moving to frame her face. Up close, she was breathtaking. Her eyes were a soft, soulful hazel, her features delicate and kind. She looked like the very concept of peace.
"I'm Drew," he said, his golden eyes searching hers, his usual obnoxious bravado replaced by a raw, trembling vulnerability. "I'm the Strength of the Wind. And I think I've been waiting for you for four hundred years."
The woman's eyes filled with tears, a small, shy smile touching her lips. "My name is Hope. I'm from the Neutral Territories. I... I didn't want to come to the ball. I don't like crowds. But my father said the Moon had a reason for me to be here."
"I'm going to have to thank your father," Drew murmured, his thumb brushing a tear from her cheek. "Hope. It's a perfect name. It's exactly what I almost lost."
Hope looked at him, her gaze traveling over the scars on his neck and the intensity in his eyes. She didn't see the 'goofy' jester. She saw the man who had been lonely in a crowded room.
"You're the Scout," she whispered. "The one who moves like the breeze."
"I'm whoever you want me to be," Drew replied.
He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers. The silence between them was sacred, a bubble of peace in the middle of a chaotic night. But the Lycan blood in both of them was beginning to stir, the primal need for the mark becoming an ache that couldn't be ignored.
To Drew's absolute surprise, Hope didn't wait for him to lead. She reached up, her small, soft hands tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. With a sudden, fierce strength that belied her shy exterior, she pulled his head down and tilted her own.
"Mark me, Drew," she whispered. "But first..."
Before Drew could react, Hope leaned in and sank her teeth into the junction of his neck and shoulder.
Drew let out a strangled, shocked cry- a mix of pain and pure, unadulterated ecstasy. The marking of a male by a female was a rare, powerful thing, a sign of total claim. Her fangs were small but sharp, and as she bit down, a wave of her calm, lavender-scented essence flooded his system, soothing every jagged edge of Draven's spirit.
MINE, Draven roared, no longer mournful, but triumphant. THE WIND HAS FOUND THE LIGHT.
Drew didn't wait. He shifted his grip, his hands sliding down to support her back as he tilted her head. His fangs descended, and he returned the favor, sinking them into the soft, white skin of her throat.
The world exploded in a gust of white light.
A literal whirlwind erupted around them, picking up the fallen willow leaves and silver petals, spinning them in a glittering vortex that shielded them from the rest of the garden. The bond snapped into place- a tether of gold and air that tied their souls together for eternity.
The mark appeared on Hope's neck: a swirling cyclone centered with a small, blooming lavender sprig. On Drew's neck, the same mark appeared, the lavender glowing with a soft, protective light.
When they finally pulled apart, both of them were gasping for air, their eyes glowing with the fierce, amber light of the Lycan.
"Well," Drew panted, a slow, cocky, and genuinely happy grin spreading across his face. "You certainly aren't as shy as you look, Hope."
Hope blushed, her hazel eyes shimmering with a new-found confidence. She reached up, tracing the mark she had left on his neck. "I've spent my life being quiet, Drew. But when I saw you... I didn't want to be quiet anymore. I wanted to make sure you knew you weren't going anywhere."
Drew laughed, a rich, emotional sound that echoed through the garden. He picked her up, spinning her around as the whirlwind around them settled into a gentle, cooling breeze.
"I'm not going anywhere," he promised, setting her back on her feet but keeping her tucked close to his side. "I'm the wind, Hope. And I've finally found the only thing that can catch me."
He looked toward the ballroom, where the music was still playing and the other members of the Seven were celebrating. He didn't feel the jealousy anymore. He didn't feel the restlessness. He felt solid. He felt seen.
"Come on," Drew said, taking her hand. "I want to introduce you to the family. They're a bit loud, and one of them is currently pregnant and probably crying over a meat pie, but they're mine. And now, they're yours."
Hope squeezed his hand, her shy smile returning, but this time, it was backed by the strength of the mark. "I think I can handle loud. As long as I have the wind with me."
As they walked back toward the palace, the two "leftovers" were gone. The Seven were finally complete. The circle was closed, the anchors were dropped, and for Drew, the youngest of the warriors, the air was finally, beautifully still.
He didn't need to be the joker tonight. He just needed to be Drew.
And as he looked at Hope, he knew that the best chapters of his four-hundred-year story were only just beginning.