The castle was quiet again with the rubble had been cleared. The blood had been scrubbed from the stone floors. The guards who had lost their heads—literally—had been replaced by fresh recruits who didn’t ask questions about the previous shift’s absence.

Tauriel stood in her private chamber, looking out the window at the setting sun. Her long red hair cascaded down her back, still damp from her bath. She wore a simple silk robe, the fabric clinging to her curves, her nipples pressing against the thin material.

Behind her, on a marble slab, lay the body of the orc that Thalion had killed.

Or what was left of it.

She had fixed the damage Thalion had caused. It had taken time, resources, and more mana than she cared to admit, but the body was intact now. Whole. Preserved. Ready for whatever came next.

The torture program would continue. Just like planned.

Tauriel turned from the window and walked to the slab, running her fingers along the orc’s green skin. "Such a waste," she murmured. "But useful nonetheless."

A knock came at the door.

"Enter," she said.

A young elf guard stepped inside, bowing low. "My lady. The werewolf elder has arrived. She awaits you in the great hall."

Tauriel’s lips curled into a smile. "Excellent. Send her in."

The guard hesitated. "To your private chamber, my lady?"

"Did I stutter?"

The guard bowed again and hurried away.

Moments later, the door opened and the elder werewolf shuffled inside. Her old body was bent with age, her fur gray and patchy, but her eyes were sharp—sharp enough to cut. Her metal fangs gleamed in the lantern light.

"Tauriel," the elder said, her voice rasping. "You look well."

"And you look old," Tauriel replied, not unkindly. "Sit. We have much to discuss."

The elder settled into a cushioned chair near the window, her claws tapping against the armrest. Tauriel sat across from her, crossing her legs, the silk robe parting slightly to reveal her pale thigh.

"Tell me everything," Tauriel said.

The elder nodded. She proceeded to update Tauriel on every detail regarding Jason and Ylva. Their movements. Their conversations. Their relationship and more importantly, Thalion leaving with them.

But the elder seemed more interested in describing Jason himself.

"His features," the elder said, her cloudy eyes narrowing. "His bone structure. The shape of his face. His ears—short, round, not pointed like yours. But everything else..." She paused. "He looks like an elf. Almost. If you didn’t look closely, you would mistake him for one of your kind. A disfigured one, perhaps. One who had his ears mutilated or removed."

Tauriel leaned forward. "Go on."

"I’ve never seen anything like him," the elder continued. "Not elf. Not dwarf. Not beastkin. Something else. Something... different." She tilted her head. "I suspect he is a deviant. A deviation from your race. Perhaps a hybrid. Perhaps something that was created."

"Created?"

"Bred." The elder’s metal fangs caught the light. "Purposefully. By someone who wanted to replicate elf characteristics without the... complications."

Tauriel’s heart raced. She had suspected it—in her gut, in the way Jason had made her feel. It wasn’t just in her head. It was confirmed. And the size of his cock was the single deviation from the male elves outside of his ears. It was massive.

Jason, even though he was not an elf, must be linked to their race. A deviant. A cousin, perhaps. A distant relative. Or maybe something closer.

Which meant he was compatible.

Tauriel smiled. A slow, wide, predatory smile.

She realized, in that moment, that she had been searching for the wrong thing. For years, she had been trying to breed the perfect mage by combining elf bloodlines—strong with strong, powerful with powerful.

But what if she had been looking in the wrong direction?

What if Jason was the product of the very thing she was trying to achieve?

What if someone else had already succeeded?

"Fascinating," Tauriel whispered, echoing Thalion’s words from across the city. "Absolutely fascinating."

The elder leaned back in her chair. "There’s more. Ylva—she is mated to him. Fully bonded. Her senses have already begun to evolve. She can track him anywhere."

"That’s fine," Tauriel said, waving a dismissive hand. "Let her evolve. Let them bond. It only makes him more valuable. A male who inspires loyalty is a male who can lead. And a male who can lead..." She paused. "Is a male who can create an army."

The elder’s cloudy eyes widened. "You’re thinking of breeding him?"

"I’m thinking of using him." Tauriel stood up and walked to the window. The sun had set, the sky now a deep purple. "But first, I need to study him. Understand him. Learn what makes him what he is."

"The elf—Thalion—tried to influence him. He failed."

"I know." Tauriel’s smile didn’t waver. "I watched through the mark. Every attempt. Every failure. It was... educational."

She turned back to the elder. "You’ve done well. Return to your hut. Continue monitoring. Report back in three days."

The elder stood, bowing her head. "As you command."

She shuffled toward the door, her old bones creaking with every step.

Before she could leave, the entire castle fell silent.

Not quiet. Silent.

The kind of silence that follows a thunderclap. The kind of silence that presses against your eardrums and makes your heart stop.

Tauriel’s smile vanished.

"What—" the elder started, but Tauriel raised a hand, cutting her off.

Footsteps. Distant at first, then closer. Running. Many sets of feet. Guards. Servants. Everyone in the castle was moving.

Tauriel strode to her chamber door and yanked it open.

A guard was sprinting past, her face pale, her eyes wide.

"What’s happening?" Tauriel demanded.

The guard skidded to a halt, gasping for breath. "The gate, my lady! Everyone is running toward the gate!"

"Why?"

The guard’s mouth opened, but no words came out. She swallowed hard, then whispered:

"The Queen, my lady. She has returned."

Tauriel’s blood turned to ice.

"The Queen?" she repeated, her voice barely audible.

"Yes, my lady!"

Tauriel stood frozen in the doorway. The elder werewolf shuffled up behind her, peering down the hallway.

"The Queen?" the elder muttered. "I thought she was dead."

"So did I." Tauriel’s hands clenched into fists. "So did everyone."

She turned back into her chamber, grabbed a robe—a proper one, not the thin silk—and wrapped it around her body. Her mind was racing, her heart pounding.

"Go," she said to the elder. "Return to your hut. Do not speak of this to anyone."

The elder nodded and hurried away, her metal fangs clicking.

Tauriel took a deep breath.

Then she walked toward the gate, her guards flanking her, her face a mask of calm.

Inside, she was screaming.

The Queen had been gone for so long. No one knew where she had gone. No one knew if she was dead or alive. Tauriel had built an empire in her absence. A breeding program. A sanctuary. A legacy.

And now, at long last, the Queen had returned.

Tauriel reached the gate just as the crowd parted.

A figure stood in the entrance, silhouetted against the moonlight.

The Queen.

Tauriel knelt. Everyone knelt.

The silence was absolute.

"Welcome, My queen,"