Page 63 of The Alpha King’s Hidden Mute Mate

"Speak."

"Vela is preparing a tour."

Vela.

I first heard that name three years ago.

That year, heavy snow blocked the mountain passes near the northern Redclaw Pack border. Supply lines completely collapsed. This had happened before—morale at the garrison would drop so low you could hear rats sighing.

But that year, the soldiers' spirits stayed remarkably stable. Not because food was plentiful or fuel sufficient—because someone played Vela's recording crystals at the garrison. Her voice looped through cold winter nights, supposedly calming even the most volatile wolves, keeping homesick recruits from red-rimmed eyes.

I started paying attention to that name.

This spring, when the Silverthread Kingdom envoy visited, he mentioned this singer too. He said, "Your Majesty, if you ever get a chance to hear Vela live, you'll understand what true heavenly voice means. Her singing can smooth out the wrinkles in a soul."

I leaned against the bookshelf, thinking about all this, saying nothing. A singer.

Edmund continued, tone growing more cautious. "They say her voice has a special power—it calms people, soothes wounded hearts."

I glanced up at him. "So?"

"The elders think—just a suggestion—maybe her voice could help with your... situation."

My situation.

What a delicate phrase.

"Also," Edmund added, voice dropping lower, "the pack is really hoping to hear her perform live. These past years... everyone's been so depressed. If there's a chance to hear her sing, maybe it would lift morale."

I was silent for a long time.

Moonlight leaked through gaps in the curtains, casting a silver-white line across the floor. I stared at that line, thinking of those young wolves in Moon Valley—their confused, lost eyes, waiting for a call that would never come.

I remembered those whispers.

"Give me the file," I said.

Edmund visibly relaxed, quickly stepping forward to place the document before me.

I opened the first page.

A portrait. Simple lines, but they sketched out a woman's silhouette—standing on stage, head tilted back, lips parted as if singing. She wore an elegant silver mask covering the upper half of her face, revealing only graceful jawline and full lips.

I don't know why, but looking at that portrait, my heart felt like it had been struck with a hammer—dull, aching.

"Send the invitation," I said.

The invitation went out. Polite wording—"His Majesty the King of Moonhowl Kingdom cordially invites Miss Vela to perform at the royal palace"—that sort of thing.

The reply came three days later.

Declined.

Equally polite wording—"Miss Vela regrets she cannot accept due to scheduling conflicts, sincere apologies"—but a refusal was a refusal.

I crumpled that reply and threw it in the fireplace. Watching the paper curl, blacken, turn to ash, I suddenly felt this scene was familiar. Five years ago, I'd done the same thing—crumpled a note Mia had written and thrown it in the fireplace.

Like karma.