<h4>Chapter 203: No One Leaves</h4>


    <strong>Zane~</strong>


    The moment Natalie and Jacob vanished before my eyes—just like Maeron had—it was like someone had tossed gasoline onto a bonfire.


    The hall detonated into pure chaos.


    Shrieks erupted like fireworks, piercing the air with raw panic. Somewhere in the madness, someone cried out, <i>"She’s a witch!" —</i> and that’s when the real witches in the room bristled. You could feel it — a sudden pulse of offended magic, quiet but furious. To them, being a witch wasn’t an insult. It was power. Legacy. Identity. And now people were flinging the word around like it was something dirty. As if calling Natalie a witch exined away the fear in the room. As if being a witch was something shameful.


    A man nearby went stiff, then crumpled to the marble floor like a puppet with cut strings. Gasps rippled. A woman, wide-eyed and stumbling, backed into a tall statue — it crashed down behind her with a thunderp, stone shattering on impact. tes hit the floor like rain, sses toppled, red wine crawling like blood across the white linen. Chairs scraped back in a wild chorus as people tripped over themselves, scrambling for the exits.


    <i>"She’s not even a wolf!"</i> someone shouted from behind, their voice trembling like a struck bell.<i> "Did you see that? That girl’s a witch!"</i>


    Another voice broke through the noise, raw with desperation: <i>"We need to leave — now! Get out!"</i>


    I watched in stunned silence as panic tripled. Triple. Like people had been waiting for one more crack in reality to tear the room apart. And Natalie vanishing into thin air—without even a sound—was exactly that crack. They didn’t know her. Not like I did. Not the way I loved her.


    I snapped out of my stupor as bodies surged toward the grand exit, elbowing and jostling each other. But before they could even reach the door—


    "HALT!" boomed amanding voice that silenced the hall like a whip crack.


    I whipped my head around, heart hammering, just in time to see the pce guards move fast—blurs of muscle and steel closing off every single exit. They formed walls of bodies, shields drawn, spears and guns held in perfect discipline.


    <i>"Block the doors,"</i> the king had ordered through the mind link a split second before. He was standing tall at the podium, not a single thread out of ce in his golden ceremonial armor.


    Pride swelled in my chest. I moved toward him, slipping through the panicking crowd like a knife through butter.


    <i>"Smart move, Dad,"</i> I said through our link, stepping up beside him at the podium. <i>"They were about to turn this ce into a riot."</i>


    <i>"I know," </i>he responded calmly. <i>"That’s why I’ve ruled thisnd longer than you’ve been alive, son."</i>


    He raised one hand.


    Still.


    Commanding.


    Regal.


    "Enough," he said aloud—his voice rolling across the hall like thunder.


    It was magic. I don’t mean actual spell-casting, I mean sheer power. Just his voice, his presence—like a wall had dropped over the madness.


    Bodies froze.


    Screams dwindled into silence.


    People who had reached the doors turned, slowly, hesitantly, to face him. Even the most defiant among them—yes, even Darius—lowered their gaze under my father’s scrutiny.


    I saw Darius and his pack huddled near one of the side exits, trying to disappear into the crowd. Timothy stood beside him, shifting nervously. Cowards. Rats caught in a flood. But my father had been faster than them.


    King Anderson Moor’s voice dropped into something almost gentle now, but still brimming with authority.


    "I apologize," he said. "For the chaos. But it couldn’t be helped. You have all witnessed something unprecedented. And I must tell you now..." He paused, gaze sweeping over the stunned crowd. "What you witnessed was not a curse. It was a blessing."


    Murmurs followed.


    Tension curled.


    Confusion heightened.


    He raised both arms like he was inviting the moon itself into the room.


    "The Moon Goddess has smiled upon this kingdom," he dered. "She has returned to us the Celestial Princess."


    There was a beat of silence.


    Then—


    "Is what Maeron said really true?!" someone gasped.


    Another voice rose from the crowd, rough with disbelief. "But... but the prophecy said she would be born of royal blood!"


    "Yeah!" another shouted. "Natalie Cross isn’t royalty! Her parents were just normal wolves from the Silverfang Pack!"


    Voicesyered over voices. Angry. Confused. Suspicious.


    Before the roar could rise again, my father lifted his hand once more, and silence obeyed.


    "Let me ask this," he said calmly. "Is the Iron w royal family present?"


    Gasps rippled through the room.


    From the back of the hall, footsteps echoed against marble. Heavy. Purposeful.


    A tall, imposing man with shoulder-length red hair stepped forward. He was dressed in formal ceremonial wear—ck and crimson, embroidered with iron wolves. His face was unreadable, but his presence alone wasmanding.


    Beside him walked a woman whose beauty could silence storms. Blonde hair swept into a regal bun, eyes like blue diamonds, a silver gown flowing around her like starlight. Her expression was cautious, but her chin was high.


    Behind them, ten more individuals followed—elegant, powerful, silent.


    The man bowed deeply. "I am Vincent Charles of the Iron w royal family," he said, voice crisp. "This is my mate, Fiona Charles. And behind us are our blood. The Iron w House stands present, Your Majesty."


    My father gave a nod, then signaled one of the guards. A tall guard stepped forward from his position, carrying a dark leather folder in his gloved hands. He bowed, then approached Vincent and handed it over with utmost care.


    I watched Vincent open the folder.


    His eyes scanned the first page.


    He froze.


    Audibly gasped.


    Fiona leaned in to look.


    Her hands flew to her mouth. "Oh my goddess..."


    The whole room held its breath.


    My father’s voice rang out again. "Do you recognize the person in the photograph?"


    Vincent’s voice cracked as he answered. "Yes. That... that is our daughter. Katrina Charles. She vanished from our lives many years ago."


    A stunned silence followed.


    Mouths opened, but no one dared speak.


    Everyone was waiting for what woulde next.


    My father nodded solemnly. "She ran away," he said. "Because of a broken heart. She had been rejected by her fated mate—Michael ckthorn—because he deemed her too weak."


    Gasps. Sharp and loud.


    "Poor girl..." someone whispered.


    "She didn’t deserve that."


    I turned to the corner of the ballroom, and sure enough, Michael ckthorn stood there with his father, Owen. Both of them pale. Frozen. Shocked. Probably wondering how the hell the king got this information they’d buried so deep.


    Vincent’s eyes flicked toward Michael.


    He didn’t say anything.


    His jaw clenched. His entire frame tightened like he was holding back the urge to lunge.


    But then—he exhaled. Steady. Resigned.


    He turned his attention back to the king.


    And my father continued. "Your daughter... Katrina... found her way to the Silverfang Pack."


    More gasps echoed.


    Voices now murmuring fast, confused.


    <i>"The Silverfang Pack again?"</i>


    <i>"What is going on in that cursed ce?"</i>


    <i>"That pack is tainted..."</i>


    My father raised his hand once more, silencing the whispers.


    "There," he said clearly, "she met Evans Cross. A good man. A man whose fated mate had died too young. They formed a bond... chose each other. And she took a new name. I Cross."


    The silence this time was different.


    It wasn’t fear.


    It was revtion.


    Realization.


    Tears shimmered in Fiona’s eyes. "She’s been alive and suffering this whole time... and we didn’t even know."


    Somewhere behind me, a woman gasped. "Wait—I Cross... is that..."


    "Yes," my father said with gravity. "Natalie Cross is her daughter."


    Gasps. Cries.


    I turned toward Darius and his pack.


    They were pale.


    Sweating.


    Shaking.


    Their Alpha—the mighty Alpha Darius—looked like a man moments from execution. Even Timothy had taken a step back, like he didn’t want to be too close when lightning struck.


    And as the truth settled like thunderclouds over the ballroom, I realized something:


    The past wasn’t justing back to haunt them.


    It was here.


    It was alive.


    It was Natalie.


    And she was everything they feared.