The werewolf pack arrived at the Lycan King’s Summer Ball, where one figure moved quietly, avoiding a familiar sight—their ex with his new mate, inseparable tonight. The ball was vibrant, filled with laughter and shimmering gowns, but each glimpse of the couple brought a pang of discomfort. Deciding fresh air was better than watching them, they slipped away into the palace gardens.

The garden stretched wide under the moonlight, paths lined with roses and oaks casting long shadows. The cool night air slowly eased the tension in their chest, the scent of lavender grounding them in the quiet. But then, an instinctive feeling struck—they weren’t alone.

Rounding a corner, they stopped abruptly. There, under the silver glow of the moon, stood a tall figure with broad shoulders and a crown. It was the Lycan King himself, .

He appeared deep in thought, but the sound of their steps made him turn sharply, his gaze piercing and unreadable. For a moment, he seemed less like a king and more like a man carrying the weight of a kingdom.

Their heart skipped, a mix of awe and anxiety overcoming them. Realizing their intrusion, they murmured, “I’m… I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” and stepped back, intent on a quick exit.

He began to speak, his voice low, almost a growl softened with something else. “That won’t be necess—” But before he could finish, they were already retreating, disappearing around the corner.

The King watched the spot where they’d stood, his expression softening slightly as he pondered the stranger’s presence and the unexpected urge he felt to call them back.