Page 110 of The Alpha King’s Hidden Mute Mate

Then—

I heard a sound.

Sharp. Like stones striking together. Once, twice, three times—rhythmic, like some ancient beat.

The sound pierced the darkness, pierced the pain, pierced the consciousness swallowing me, driving like a thin needle into some sleeping region deep in my brain.

I forced my eyes open.

Mia sat beside me, holding several different-shaped stones. She was striking them together, creating clear, varying pitches—like a crude xylophone made of stone. Her movements were focused, brow slightly furrowed, like she was searching for a specific tone and rhythm.

Then she began.

No lyrics. Just a low, humming melody. But that melody—

I knew it.

That song. The one she'd written, that Leah had stolen half of, that had been sung in the square. The song about chains and freedom. The song that made my soul resonate, made me think I'd found my soulmate, made me sick with pain when I learned the truth.

But now, sung from her lips, complete, uncut, unchanged—

It felt completely different.

Not Leah's sweet, polished, carefully packaged voice. Mia's voice had a raw authenticity, like sandpapered wood—textured, warm, scarred. Every note wasn't perfect, but they were alive. They breathed, trembled, bled.

That feeling—I didn't know how to describe it. Like someone lit a lamp in my chest. Not a blinding, dazzling spotlight, but a small, warm oil lamp with a flickering flame, light faint but steady, slowly driving away the darkness occupying my body.

The pain didn't vanish. But it became—bearable. Like someone had turned down the volume from "deafening" to "just a bit loud."

My breathing steadied. My heartbeat found its rhythm. The consciousness that had been extinguishing from the edges—someone had thrown in another piece of wood, reigniting a spark.

I watched Mia. Eyes closed, completely immersed in the song. Moonlight lit her face, coating her in silver-white radiance. She didn't look like a singer, not like a star, not like Vela on stage bathed in glory.

She looked like a moon goddess.

Not the distant, cold goddess from myths. But a goddess who bled, who cried, who knelt in a damp cave striking stones for an unworthy man.

A goddess I didn't deserve.

Her voice echoed through the cave, bouncing off rock walls, creating a strange reverb. Those notes collided, wove together, merged in the darkness, like they were weaving an invisible net, wrapping me up, protecting me.

I felt something.

Something was waking inside me. Not my consciousness, not my reason, but something more primitive, more instinctive.

My wolf.

It was moving. Not that agitated, painful thrashing, but a—response. It was responding to her song. Its ears perked up, tail straightened, throat releasing a low, resonant whine.

It was humming along with her melody.

I'd never seen it like this. Never. For five years, it had curled up in me like a corpse, not eating, not moving, refusing to respond to any call. I thought it had died. I thought I'd lost it.

But it wasn't dead.

It was just sleeping. Waiting for a voice to wake it.

And now, that voice had come.