The King s Chosen

The city never slept.

It beats under under his feet like a restless living machine-glowing, breathing, alive with hunger. From the top floor of Blackwood Tower, Damien Blackwood stood straight, his tall frame casted by a full pane of glass that stretched from floor to ceiling. A living symbol carved from darkness and steel.

The building structure was a sea of shattered stars-endless lights shining from windows, headlights, billboards. But to Damien, they weren't beautiful. They were distractions. Every sparkle was a reminder of the chaos below. Weakness disguised as civilization. Noise dressed as order.

He did not blink. He rarely did when he was thinking.

His hands were inside his pockets, his statue relaxed, but his unique aura carried tension like live wire. Even when still, Damien Blackwood was always in control. His aura remained in the air like electricity. Into the walls. Into the floor under his feet.

Power was an old companion. He wore it like a second skin.

Below him, the city carried on in blissful ignorance. They did not know the man who watched them from above. They did not know the empire they served, not really. They saw his name on buildings, read his titles in headlines, and whispered rumors behind boardroom doors.

But no one knew him.

And that was by design.

The office behind him was silent. Not the kind of silence that came from absence, but the kind born of precision. Every piece of furniture was angular, dark, and expensive. No clutter. No personal photos. Not even a splash of color.

His world had no room for softness.

He looked away from the window, at last, the black shinning fabric of his blazer brushing against his well ironed white shirt. The quiet sound of fabric was the only sound as he crossed the polished floor toward his desk.

He remained calm. Damien never rushed.

A decanter sat on a silver tray, half filled with rich amber whiskey. He poured a glass with one smooth motion, no ice. He liked the heat. The bite. It reminded him he could still feel.

Sometimes.

The drink touched his lips just as a familiar memory slithered into his thoughts.

Snow.

The feeling of rejection feels colder than winter wind.

A calm lady's voice, quiet just like a whisper.

"You will never be enough for me."

His grip tightened around the glass.

Isla.

He did not let himself think about her often. But sometimes-on nights like this, when the city slowed and the air shifted-she crept in.

The first mate he'd lost. Or rather, the one who'd walked away before she was ever truly his.

Her betrayal had been the crucible.

He'd been nothing then. No empire. No kingdom. Just a young wolf with too much rage and not enough armor. He remembered the way her back had looked as she turned away. The snow hadn't yet settled over the tracks her boots left behind.

She did not just leave him.

She carved the man he would become.

Damien raised the glass back to his lips, drank gently from it, then placed it down gently but it still made a little noise that echoed loudly because of how quiet everywhere was.

He wasn't that boy anymore. The one who'd begged for love.

Now, they bowed. Or they bled.

A faint knock broke the silence.

Two sharp raps.

Precise. Timed. Expected.

He did not look up. "Enter."

The door opened, and Ethan Cross stepped in, his usual confident gait unbothered by the weight of the room. Damien's second-in-command. His beta. The only person left who still called him out when he was being insufferable.

Ethan moved like a soldier who knew the war was never over. Tousled dirty blond hair, casual dark clothes, sharp hazel eyes that saw everything. Loyal by nature, but he wasn't a people pleaser.

"You came in early," Ethan said, looking at the untouched files on the desk.

"Or late."

"Hard to tell with you."

Damien said nothing.

Ethan walked to stand across from him, leaning against the edge of the desk. "You have been doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"The brooding window stare. Arms folded. Whiskey in hand. A city trembling beneath your feet. Very 'Alpha King in existential crisis.'"

Damien cut him a sideways look. "You are irritating when you try to be funny."

"I'm irritating when I succeed."

Another beat of silence passed.

"I felt it," Ethan said finally. His voice dropped, serious now. "The shift."

Damien nodded once. "Something's changed."

"Not danger?"

"No. Not yet."

"But it's close."

"Yes."

Ethan breathing heavily through his nose, his eyes looking round the room like he was expecting something to appear from out of the shadows. "I have something you will want to see."

Damien did not move. "Unless it is a threat, I am really not interested."

Ethan reached into his jacket and brought out out a slim black folder. "Depends how you define threat."

Damien arched a brow but took the file anyway, flipping it open with one hand. His eyes scanned the first page.

Serena Vale.

Executive-level recruit. Degrees in international business and behavioral psychology. Fluent in three languages. Sharp. Efficient. Brilliant.

And... something else.

Her photo stared back at him.

Long dark hair. Green eyes that held fire. Not classically beautiful, but striking. Memorable. Like someone who did not beg to be noticed but refused to be forgotten.

Damien felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest. Not attraction, not exactly.

Recognition.