LAYLA
What was I expecting?
I should've known better. The Lycan King doesn't change. The word change? Can not be found in his vocabulary. He is chaos and destruction wrapped in a single form. So when he summoned me a few days after I had aid with his wound, I thought—just for a fleeting moment—that maybe he had grown a soul.
Oh, Layla, you absolute fool.
The day started off strange. No brooding Sabastine escorting me, no cryptic orders barked my way. Instead, a female awaited me in the grand hall—a seamstress, or something close enough. She didn't speak much, just gestured toward a side corridor as if I were late for some royal fitting.
The moment I entered the room, I was bombarded by fabric. Rich, gleaming silks, soft velvets, and lace so intricate it looked like spiderwebs spun by gods. Before I could process anything, she began pinning and measuring, muttering to herself about adjustments.
That's when it hit me.
