San Qi lay half-buried in the shadows of his chamber, watching helplessly as the flickering torchlight carved long, trembling shapes across the cold stone walls. The room smelled of smoke, sweat, and sickness. His body—once hardened by years of battle and discipline—now lay weak beneath layers of silks soaked through with fever. Heat burned under his skin, yet chills racked him without warning. Every breath scraped his throat, shallow and uneven, as though even the air had turned against him.
A thin veil separated his bedchamber from the adjoining quarters. It was meant for privacy, for comfort. Tonight, it served only as a cruel reminder.
From beyond the curtain came laughter.
Soft at first. Familiar. A sound that once eased his mind after long councils and bloodied campaigns. His fiancée's laugh.
Then another voice joined it—lower, steadier, filled with an ease that made San Qi's chest tighten. San Lang. His younger brother.
Their shadows moved together behind the veil, close enough that their outlines merged. Intimate. Careless. Unforgivable.
San Qi's jaw tightened as anger flared within him, sharp and blinding. But the fury had nowhere to go. His muscles refused to answer. His body trembled, not with rage, but with weakness. The sickness had stolen more than his strength—it had stripped him of dignity, authority, and hope.
He had been the firstborn son of the Mystic Wolves Clan. The chosen heir. Raised from childhood to command, to protect, to lead. Centuries of sacred bloodline power had flowed through him, binding him to the clan's fate.
Now, he was hidden away like an embarrassment. A relic of a past the clan was eager to forget.
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Another sound slipped through the veil—a soft, breathless cry. It shattered what little composure he had left. His eyes burned, tears gathering not from pain, but from humiliation so deep it hollowed him out.
He turned his face toward the wall, pressing his cheek against the cool stone as if it might absorb his shame.
But the cruelty did not end there.
San Lang's voice rose, clear and deliberate, no longer bothering to keep its distance.
"Look at him now," his brother said with a quiet sneer. "The mighty heir, reduced to a ghost under his own roof. And they still dare to call him the Alpha?"
A hushed giggle followed—light, indulgent, approving. His fiancée did not protest. She did not defend him.
San Qi's fingers curled weakly into the sheets, nails scraping against damp fabric. His hands had once wielded blades that turned the tide of battles. Now they could barely grip cloth.
His mind drifted back to a time that felt impossibly distant. Five years ago, his presence alone could still a crowded hall. His voice carried weight. His steps inspired fear in enemies and loyalty in allies. The blood of the Mystic Wolves had burned hot and fierce in his veins.
Then came the changes.
At first, they were easy to ignore—fatigue after council meetings, restless nights, aches that lingered longer than they should. He told himself it was the burden of leadership. The price of wearing the crown.
But the weakness deepened. His strength faded. His senses dulled. Training left him exhausted. Battles became impossible. No healer could name the cause. No ritual brought relief.
By the time he understood that this was no ordinary illness—that something far darker had taken root within him—his position had already begun to crumble.
San Lang had stepped forward, smiling, offering help, whispering reassurances to the elders. Promises spoken softly. Lies spoken smoothly. And slowly, the clan turned its eyes away from San Qi.
Even the woman he loved no longer looked at him with concern—only disappointment, and then ambition.
Bitterness surged in his chest like a trapped storm, but his body remained still, useless, betraying him once again.
"Five years…" San Qi murmured, his voice barely more than breath against stone."And I still don't know why."
