Chapter Text
Mack Ferran was ten when he noticed something peculiar.
It happened on a crisp, cool day on his father's farm—a day as ordinary as any in the Cold Coast. One of the horses, startled by something unseen, had bucked and slammed into him, breaking his arm with a sickening crack. The skin turned purple and ballooned with swelling. A jagged sliver of bone pierced through the flesh.
It had caused the boy unbearable pain.
He was forced to abstain from any form of labor whatsoever. However, not even a week after the incident, he had found his arm to be completely healed. No pain whenever he moved it, no purple marring the skin, nor bone jutting out.
'Strange,' he thought. Yet, he thought nothing of it, shrugging it off with a smile as he happily went back to work. Unlike his parents, who exchanged long, hushed stares when they thought he wasn’t looking.
This happened often throughout his childhood. Injuries kept happening—splinters, cuts, a burn from a blacksmith’s forge—and each time, the wounds vanished as though they’d never existed. Sometimes in hours. Rarely more than a day. His father eventually muttered that perhaps Mack had the blood of a Werelord
Mack was happy with his gift. He never thought too deeply about it.
Mack Ferran was 16 when he first enlisted in the army. The new king, Wergar, had just ascended the throne shortly after the previous king's death. The king was only a year or two older than Mack, yet had already amassed a steady following.
The army had started recruiting able-bodied men for a campaign in the North against the rebelling Werewalruses.
It was the first war Mack ever fought in. He had the honor of meeting with and fighting alongside the King.
He could've sworn that he was impaled through the stomach once—straight through the gut—but never cared about it. Wergar, on the other hand, had been left gobsmacked when he learned that Mack was human. The king had thought otherwise when he saw the seemingly reckless way the young soldier fought.
Within a year, the young King Wergar put an end to the rebellion. In that same year, Mack had been given a place in the Wolfguard.
Mack Ferran was 21 when he first met Queen Amalie.
The great hall of Highcliff was packed to the brim with lords and nobles from all across Lyssia. The stags of Stormdale, the horses and bulls of the Longridings, the bears of Dyrewoods, and the hawks of the Barebones, all and more, had come to celebrate King Wergar's wedding. The Wolflord sat in the center of the high table, surrounded by his closest friends: Bergan of Brackenholme, Griffyn of Windfell, Huth of Redmire, Henrik of Icegarden, and the Staglords: Mikkel and Manfred.
Two massive tables, laden with food, ran down either side of the room. Each bench was filled with werelords as they feasted happily, sitting shoulder to shoulder with each other as they shared stories. Everyone was dressed in their finest garb as befitting the occasion.
Mack stood by, watching as several couples danced happily, spinning and gliding across the open floor as the band played. A steady practiced waltz, in contrast to the unrefined energetic couple dances during festivals at Tuckborough,
"I've never seen you around here before," A soft, warm voice pointed out.
The young, newly promoted captain turned to find a young woman behind him. She was extraordinarily beautiful, with flawless pale skin and snow-white hair. Her eyes were deep brown and full of curiosity. She wore a long white dress, and a diamond tiara sat lightly atop her head.
The newly anointed queen Amelie.
Mack tried to bow, but the queen laughed quietly and stopped him by grabbing his arm gently. She slowly raised him back up.
"No need for that, please," she said in amusement.
"It would be improper, your grace."
"Like I said, there's no need," she reassured him. "You never answered my question."
He bowed his head, "Forgive me, your grace. I am Captain Ferran. I was promoted last month after the battle at Eastfort," Mack answered proudly.
"Eastfort?" Amalie's eyes slightly widened. "I've heard stories of what happened down there, not many came back from that," she said, impressed.
His smile faded from his face. "Aye, lots of bravelads gave their lives that day."
"I agree," she nodded solemnly. "You must be quite good with a sword," she complimented him.
Mack looked down modestly. “I manage.”
Amalie’s lips curved into a smile. “Spoken like a true soldier—humble to a fault.”
“Or perhaps cautious,” he replied, his tone dry but good-natured. “I’ve seen what happens to men who let pride go to their heads.”
“Oh?” She tilted her head slightly, intrigued. “And what happens?”
“They tend to lose those heads.”
The queen laughed softly. It was the kind of laugh that wasn’t practiced or poised, but genuine—like snow melting beneath sunlight.
“Oh my—You’re funny, Captain Ferran.”
“Only when I’m not trying to be, Your Grace.”
A brief silence passed between them, not awkward, but thoughtful. The music drifted on. The dancers twirled. Mack’s eyes flicked toward the floor, where the couples swayed in perfect step. Then back to her.
“Do you dance?” she asked.
He blinked, nonplussed. “I’ve been known to stumble through a reel or two back in Tuckborough. I wouldn’t call it dancing.”
“Good. I’m tired of perfection.” She extended her hand. “Dance with me, Captain.”
He hesitated. “Wouldn’t the king—?”
“King Wergar is entertaining Duke Bergan,” she interrupted smoothly, pointing a thumb to the table, where they cheered on Bergan as the bearlord attempted to gulp down an entire barrel of ale.
“I doubt he’ll even notice.”
Her smile was calm but mischievous, a snow fox daring a hound to chase her.
Mack took her hand.
The moment their fingers touched, something shifted. Her hand was cool, delicate, but steady. She moved with surprising confidence for a queen barely newlywed.
She moved with effortless grace, drawing Mack into the rhythm.
“You’re lighter on your feet than you claimed,” she said, amused.
“And you’re not nearly as intimidating as I expected,” he returned.
“Oh, I can be,” she warned, voice low. “You’ve simply caught me in a good mood.”
Their movements found sync, like they'd danced together before in another life. Her white dress fanned out as she spun, and for a heartbeat, Mack forgot who she was. Who he was.
“You’ve seen war, haven’t you?” she asked, quieter now, the world fading around them.
He nodded. “I have.”
“It never leaves a man the same.”
He didn’t answer immediately. Then: “No, it doesn’t.”
“You wear it well.”
“Is that a compliment or a warning?”
She met his eyes. “Both.”
The music slowed. Their final steps brought them closer than before. He could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes and the faintest scent of frost and jasmine on her skin.
She released his hand but lingered a moment longer.
“Thank you, Captain Ferran,” she said, voice like velvet. “For the dance.”
He gave the slightest bow. “It was my honor, Your Grace.”
As she turned and drifted back into the sea of silk and fur and candlelight, Mack exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of something unspoken settle between his shoulders.