I drop my head into my hands, wishing I were born as a poor shepherd boy in the highlands.
“Maybe your wolf has…specifictastes,” he goes on, relentless, merciless. “Of a different variety. You know, your great-great-great-grandfather, King Ryane, mated with a human female.”
I turn to him in shock. Mating with a human female? How desperate is he to suggestthat?
“His mate was discovered during a centuries-old custom.”
I shake my head. “Do not say it.”
“TheVocatio Regia.”
I let out a long, frustrated breath.
The Royal Calling.
Just hearing it puts a bad taste in my mouth.
The Vocatio Regia hasn’t been used in centuries.
It’s an old barbaric custom, used back when the humans and wolves were in perpetual war. The wolves would round up human women from their villages to be paraded before the throne.
It’s unheard of these days.
It’s sick.
“And what would the humans do if the wolves crossed the sacred borders and stole their females?” I ask with a laugh. “There would be war before winter.”
“There will be war before autumn without an heir to the throne,” Rurik says. “The kingdom is on the verge of open rebellion. The noble alphas are already jostling to take advantage. They know an opportunity like this may only come along once in three generations, if that.”
I want to curse him and send him away, but I know there’s some truth to that.
Wolf shifters can be vicious and their ambition knows no bounds.
And there’s the prophecy to consider…
The one the oracle gave me as I entered the world. The one sacred truth of King Alaric’s rule.
Only the unbound will bind the kingdom whole.
Some have tried to use my prophecy against me. They claim the true ruler should be an alpha unbound to the crown.
I’m still uncertain what it means.
But I can’t help but feel that this is all related.
I focus on the thick metal of the crown digging into my scalp as I review my choices.
My choices are: Bad. Horrible. Or complete and utter shit.
That’s usually how it goes for a king.
“What will you do, my Alpha?” Rurik asks as the party delves into full swing. The music is blasting, the bonfire is roaring, and my shifters are dancing and having the time of their lives.
“I will not make any rash decisions,” I say, feeling like I’m screwed no matter what I do.
“Perhaps, a visit to the oracle will help?” he suggests.
My stomach sinks remembering how vulnerable it feels to step into that cold, dank cave and face the oracle’s ancient, scrutinizing eyes.
