Chapter 1
Aurora
"Aurora, wake up!" My mum’s voice screeches through our mind link like a banshee with a megaphone.
I groan, dragging the pillow over my head. "Ugh, Mum, seriously? It’s barely morning. Can’t this wait until the sun’s actually up?"
She doesn’t miss a beat. "I need your help setting up for the mating ball" she chimes, way too chipper for someone ruining my sleep. "One day you’ll be Queen Luna, and organizing events will be your royal duty."
Great. Royal duty apparently includes being sleep-deprived and bossed around before breakfast.
"What’s the point?" I snap, rubbing my temples. "I’m not even 21 yet, so I won’t find my mate. Why am I being dragged to this thing like it actually matters?"
Her reply is clipped, no room for argument. "You have ten minutes to make yourself presentable and meet me downstairs."
Of course I do. Because apparently frustration and forced appearances are part of the package deal.
I do as I’m told, dragging myself into motion while Mum whirls around the room like a graceful storm, her movements fluid, precise, almost hypnotic. She’s in her element, weaving flower arrangements with the kind of effortless elegance that makes chaos look choreographed. The decorations bloom under her touch, transforming the space into something breathtaking. She’s brilliant at this, commanding beauty into existence like it’s second nature.
I’ve never looked much like her. I take after my father: dark hair, storm-blue eyes, tall and lean with the strength of a warrior. Mum, on the other hand, is all sharp grace. Her hair is pure white, like fresh snow under moonlight, and her eyes, green and piercing, miss nothing. She’s short by wolf standards, but don’t let that fool you. She could knock you flat with one blow and still have time to fix the centerpiece before you hit the ground.
"All right, where do you want me?" I grumble, dragging my feet like a sulky toddler. "I’m missing warrior training for this, you know. My enemies aren’t going to wait while I fluff centerpieces."
Mum doesn’t even look up from the bouquet she’s manhandling into perfection. "Aurora, you could take down an army of rogues in your sleep. Missing one training session won’t turn you into a marshmallow."
I mutter under my breath "Yeah, but marshmallows don’t have to wear heels and smile at strangers."
"I want you to start with folding those napkins over there" Mum says, already halfway across the room, her hands full of ribbons and eucalyptus sprigs. She gestures toward a mountain of fabric waiting to be transformed into delicate swans or whatever shape she’s decided screams ‘elegant but not desperate.’
I sigh and trudge over, eyeing the pile like it personally offended me.
"Once you’re done with those" she continues, spinning on her heel with the grace of someone born to command chaos, "all the glasses, cutlery and plates need to be arranged exactly like this." She points to a single place setting that looks like it was curated by a royal butler with OCD, crystal glass angled just so, cutlery spaced with surgical precision, and a napkin folded into what might be a phoenix rising from the ashes.
I blink at it. "You want me to recreate that?"
She doesn’t even pause. "Yes. Hundred times. And make sure the forks don’t look like they’re judging the spoons."
Of course. Because nothing says ‘mating ball’ like passive-aggressive silverware.
"There is no way I can get all this done on my own" I protest, staring at the mountain of napkins like they’re plotting against me.
Mum doesn’t even flinch. "Christina will help you once she’s finished finalizing the menu for tonight."
Oh, great. Christina. The Royal Beta female and Mum’s perfectly polished mini-me. She probably folds napkins with military precision and alphabetizes herbs for fun.
I glance at the seating chart and frown. "Why only a hundred seats? There’s like five hundred wolves coming."
Mum sighs, patient but clearly tired of repeating herself. "Those seats are reserved for the Alphas, Lunas, and Betas, honey. I’ve told you this."
Right. The VIPs get chairs. The rest of us get sore feet and polite smiles.
I stop complaining, grudgingly. If it’s important to Mum, then I guess it’s important to me. Even if it involves napkin origami and plate choreography.
"Can we at least put some music on?" I ask, already halfway to dramatic collapse. "It’ll help me work. Maybe even survive."
"That I can do" she says with a grin, plugging her phone into the stereo like she’s about to drop the hottest playlist of the century. "What are we feeling today?"
"Club music" I declare. "Something to jam to. Maybe even.."
She cuts me off with a raised brow and a smirk. "A Queen doesn’t twerk, honey."
I snort. "Well, this queen folds napkins like a DJ folds beats, so let’s get the party started."
Eighties disco hits start blaring from the stereo, and Mum, bless her starts shimmying like she’s auditioning for a retro dance-off. She’s got a ribbon in one hand, a centerpiece in the other, and somehow still manages to throw in a shoulder pop that would make Donna Summer proud.
I stare, horrified and mildly impressed. It’s going to be a very long day.
"Please tell me this isn’t the playlist for the party, Mum" I say, watching her moonwalk past the dessert table.
She grins without missing a beat. "Now you’re just being silly. We’ve got a live band coming."
Thank the Moon Goddess. I don’t think the guests are ready for a conga line led by my mother and a bouquet.
I force myself to focus on the task at hand, folding napkins like my life depends on it. Eventually, I find my rhythm, and to my horror, I’m dancing along to this ridiculous disco playlist. I’m talking full-on shoulder shimmies and toe taps. The napkins are judging me, I can feel it.
Then, like a divine answer to my silent cries for help, Christina graces us with her presence. Regal, composed, and armed with a clipboard, she starts arranging the silverware with the precision of a royal assassin. I silently thank the Moon Goddess. If anyone can tame the chaos of this glitter-infested battlefield, it’s Christina. And her perfectly symmetrical spoon placement.
By midday, my stomach is staging a full-blown rebellion, sending out mayday signals like I’m stranded on a desert island made of napkins.
"Mum, I’m going to grab some lunch and come back before I pass out dramatically on the centerpiece" I call out, already halfway to the kitchen.
She doesn’t even look up. "Okay, but wash your hands before you comeback. I don’t want greasy fingerprints on my napkins. They’re swans, not smudged pigeons."
I laugh, shaking my head, and head to the kitchen.
The kitchen is alive, pots clanging, spices flying, and Clarise, our head omega, commanding it all like a culinary sorceress. Honestly, I don’t know how she does it. Feeding five hundred ravenous wolves sounds like a logistical nightmare, but she’s breezing through it like she’s prepping for a cozy dinner party.
The entire estate is being scrubbed to perfection, every surface gleaming, not a speck of dust daring to linger. It’s more than just preparation; it’s ritual. A reflection of how deeply we’ve learned to adapt, to blend, to survive.
For generations, we’ve hidden among humans, cloaking our instincts behind charm and civility. But technology moves like wildfire now surveillance, biometrics, drones. The dance of secrecy grows harder with every leap forward. Many packs have struggled to keep pace, their traditions fraying under the pressure of modern exposure.
My grandfather saw it coming. Long before the world became so connected, he moved the royal pack deep into the mountains and carved out a sanctuary a sprawling resort town built to house two thousand wolves. In summer, it’s quiet, serene. But in winter, when the snow blankets the peaks and the elite humans seek luxury and isolation, the resort thrives. It’s one of our most lucrative sources of income, a clever mask for what lies beneath.
Beyond the resort, our reach stretches across the country. Businesses, investments, silent partnerships, we’ve woven ourselves into the fabric of the economy. Some packs root their enterprises in the land itself: forestry, farming, trades that keep them close to nature and far from suspicion. Every venture is a shield, every storefront a story. It’s not just survival it’s strategy. And it’s the only way our kind continues to walk unseen in a world that’s always watching.
"Aurora, don’t touch anything" Clarise calls out without even turning around, probably sensing my snack-hunting energy from across the room. "Lunch is set up in the courtyard. Eithan’s already out there stuffing his face."
Of course he is.
Eithan, the future Royal Beta, my best friend since we were toddlers, and the reason I started noticing abbs in the first place. He has the kind of striking presence that turns heads before he even speaks. His features are sharp and sculpted, high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and a smirk that seems permanently etched into his lips, like he knows something you don’t. His eyes are a piercing blue, intense and expressive, often flickering with mischief or brooding charm depending on the moment.
His hair, usually styled in a tousled, effortless way, ranges from dark brown to nearly black, adding to his rebellious edge. He’s lean but athletic, with a frame that carries both elegance and strength, like he could walk a runway or throw a punch, depending on the occasion. Whether dressed in leather or tailored suits, he wears confidence like a second skin.
Eithan turned twenty-one last week, which means he could find his mate tonight. At the ball. In front of everyone.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve daydreamed about it being me. Us. The moment. The bond. The look. But for now, I’ll settle for lunch.
"There she is" Eithan calls out with a grin "living her best life as the royal party planner."
I roll my eyes "Don’t mock , Eithan."
"You missed an epic training session this morning" he continues, clearly enjoying himself. "Your dad went full beast mode. I’m pretty sure my dad’s going to be limping for the next decade. Might need a cane. Or a wheelchair. Or a personal apology."
I snort. "Sounds like I missed a bloodbath and gained a centerpiece. Lucky me."
"You might find your mate tonight" I tease, nudging Eithan with a grin. "How do you feel about that, huh?"
His face twists like I just suggested he marry a tax form. "Ugh" he groans, clearly horrified at the idea of being emotionally tethered to one body for eternity.
The future Royal Beta, ladies and gentlemen, brave enough to face rogue wolves, but terrified of commitment and cuddles.
I polish off my grilled cheese like it’s the last meal before battle. "Later, alligator" I call out dramatically "I’ve got swan napkins to fold and a kingdom to impress."
Just to be safe, I mind-link mum before she assumes I’ve fled the scene. I’m coming back, promise.
Her response is instant and classic. Wash your hands. Not I love you, not thank you for your service, just hygiene-based micromanagement.
Right. Off to the bathroom I go, the unsung hero of party prep. Swan napkins await, and they demand clean fingers.
I was only gone for twenty minutes but when I return, the ballroom looks like it leapt straight out of a romance novel. Sparkles, flowers, and drama. Christina, of course, has already finished the place settings with extreme precision. All that’s left are the napkins, which I now regard as my sworn enemies.
"We’re almost done, honey!" Mum practically twirls past me, radiating glitter-fueled joy.
Then she stops, eyes narrowing like she’s spotted a fashion crime. "Aurora, I want you to shower. And wash your hair."
Ugh. It’s not like I’ve been rolling in dirt, I’ve just been folding fabric birds and dodging emotional trauma.
"I’ll be up in an hour to style you" she adds, already plotting my transformation. "I will not have you looking like some hussy.
Fantastic. From napkin goblin to royal debutante in sixty minutes. Someone cue the makeover montage.
