Page 2 of The Shifter's Queen

A lump formed in his throat, and he offered a curt nod. “Thank you, Annie. Oliver, Polar, please accompany me.”

“Yes, sire.”

He made his way up the castle steps, crossed the foyer, and pushed open the large double oak doors to enter his father and mother's library. The walls were lined with tomes, the spines of the books whispering tales of forgotten times, collected by his parents over their lifetimes. Despite his efforts, he had read just a third of the books on the shelf.

He paused in the doorway, his eyes fixed on the old shifter as he walked along the far wall, his gnarled hands brushing against the leather-bound volumes. The shifter paused, squinting at a worn title, before moving on. The old shifter mumbled quietly, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips, then turned to face them.

“Yes, he is the one. He is the one.”

The shifter’s words were meaningless to Or’Ang, leaving him perplexed. He entered the room, his eyes drawn to the shifter’s features. He couldn't help but stare at the old shifter’s markings, their unique and captivating pattern completely unfamiliar to him. The shifter's gaze was unwavering, fixated on him, before it shifted towards Polar and Oliver.

“This is good. Yes, this is good. The power of three,” the shifter muttered.

“Welcome to my home. Annie tells me that you were on the ship that sank carrying my parents. May I inquire as to how you were able to survive? I was under the impression that there were no survivors?” he said.

The shifter, his cane tapping a rhythmic beat against the stone floor, shuffled toward a chair set before the roaring fire. He sank down with a sigh, the plush fabric yielding beneath his weight. Or’Ang circled the chair, his movements slow and deliberate, before coming to a stop in front of the crackling fireplace. With weathered hands, the old shifter carefully adjusted the worn leather satchel he carried, making sure it settled comfortably on his lap.

Only when Or’Ang drew near did he notice that the shifter's human form still held traces of his animal features. A flash of white fur peeked out from under his tousled red and white hair, like a fluffy cloud nestled in the fiery sunset. His face was marked with streaks of red, creating a tragic mask, stretching from his eyes down his cheeks. It was as if the earth itself had wept tears of red clay, leaving him with a sorrowful expression.

“Your father and mother were good souls. Your father, Goddess bless him, saved my life. A beam had fallen over my leg and trapped me. Your father heard my cries and came to my aid. He freed me, but we were both washed overboard as we tried to return below deck. I fear I lost sight of the ship… and your father. I clung to a barrel that had washed overboard with us and used it and a piece of wood as a paddle. I washed ashore yester’ day.”

The old shifter's words painted such vivid images in his mind that he swallowed, Or’Ang’s heart was heavy with the hope that his parents hadn't suffered in their last moments. The old shifter, his fingers gnarled with age, opened his satchel and fumbled inside. The familiar bone handle of his father’s favorite blade sent a jolt of recognition through him, and he froze in place, his body stiffening with a mixture of sorrow and longing. His father had cherished it, and the weapon was always close at hand, a reminder of who he was before he was king.

“This was your father’s. He used it to free me,” the old shifter said.

Or’Ang carefully lifted the knife, his fingers tracing the intricate carvings on its hilt as he felt the weight of its history in his hands. He ran his finger over the carved handle, feeling the intricate details of the design. The tusk, found on the beach by his father as a boy, held a story carved into its surface—a narrative of his father's life, from his youthful days to his reign as king. He ran his fingers over the intricate carvings, each delicate line bringing back a flood of memories, and his vision blurred with tears.

“Th-thank you. This means a great deal to me. If there is any way I can repay you, please ask and I will do my best,” he replied.

“My name is Red Panda, young sire. All I ask is a place to rest my weary bones, share some fine wine and food, and a tale or two that you, Polar, and Oliver might find interesting,” Red Panda said.

He started and looked over at Polar and Oliver who had remained silent, engrossed in the old shifter’s story. A look of bewilderment crossed their faces as they shrugged their shoulders in response. Or'Ang couldn't fathom how the old shifter knew Polar and Oliver’s names unless Annie had told him.

Red Panda chuckled softly, his hand reaching into his satchel to retrieve a stunningly beautiful book. To the casual observer, the book appeared to be an old, worn journal, its cover cracked and faded with age. Yet, those who were truly worthy could discern the gold embossed cover, shimmering in the firelight, the sparkle of the embedded jewels, and the gold-edged paper containing the magic sealed inside.

Intrigued, Or’Ang settled into the chair opposite Red Panda, while Polar and Oliver brought over extra seating. The old storyteller, with a touch of magic in his words, regaled them with tales of a world where reality and fantasy merged. With a gentle push, he passed the book to Or'Ang, inviting him to discover the tales within.

A satisfied smile spread across Red Panda's face as he settled back in the chair, enjoying the rhythm of the deep voices. Unaware of the spell growing around them, Or'Ang, Polar, and Oliver read aloud in turns, their voices weaving together. The friendship and trust between them amplified the magic, making it even more powerful.

Yes, they are the ones. The power of three will make them free, Red Panda thought, listening to not only the spoken voices of the young king and his royal advisors, but to the goodness in their hearts as well.

Chapter 1

Present Day:

* * *

“The agenda for the day, your grace.”

“Thank you, Bobbin,” Or’Ang murmured.

He took the sheath of paper from his advisor, the crispness of the parchment a mere whisper against the rustling of the accounts he was reviewing. A frown creased his brow, the silence of Bobbin's stillness jarring him back to reality. He looked up, observing the short, portly man whose eyes darted nervously, avoiding any direct contact. He sat back, crossed his arms, and let out a weary sigh.

“What is it?”

Bobbin cleared his throat, the sound a tiny, nervous rasp in the quiet room. “The Countess of Lyons requests an audience with you, sire. As does the Duke and Duchess of the Hyenas, the Earl and his ladyship of the Cougars, as well as the?—”

Bobbin's voice trailed off as Or’Ang waved his hand, his chair scraping against the floor as he stood up. He knew he was in serious trouble when the antelope shifter gave him a smile that was as unsettling as it was apologetic. Every corner of the town was filled with hushed voices and furtive glances as rumors of his search for a bride spread like wildfire, shattering any hope of secrecy. It would appear that wildfire had become uncontrollable if the list of names was anything to go by.

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