“So, the Kingdom changed hands?” I glance up at Kieran, seated across from me.
He doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens, eyes fixed on something beyond the window.
“Yes.” Artisem’s voice cuts through the tension. He leans against the bookshelf, arms crossed. “About seven hundred years ago.”
“Isn’t that common?” I flip a page, scanning the names of rulers. “Even alpha leadership changes hands. Packs merge, new bloodlines rise.”
“Not in this case.” Artisem’s expression darkens. “It was the Snow Mountain Pack that controlled the throne. Then, Lucian’s ancestors seized power. They were purists.”
My head snaps up. “Really? But Lucian isn’t a purist, and neither was his father.”
“No.” Artisem shakes his head. “That’s why there’s such a divide in the Umbra Council now.”
Kieran finally speaks, his voice low and rough. “Yes. But back then, they were determined to eradicate every shifter who wasn’t a pureblood.” His fingers drum against the table, a rare sign of agitation. “Witches were persecuted. Forced to swear allegiance to the new Wolf Kingdom. Those who refused were killed.” He pauses. “Or they escaped.”
His tone makes my chest tighten. I watch the way his shoulders carry the weight of this history, how his hands curl into fists before he forces them flat again.
“My family had been the ruling one,” he continues. “We were forced to flee into the mountains with our most loyal followers. That’s when we established our pack there.”
The pieces start to click together. “Were you hunted because of your claim to the throne, or because you had the ability to practice magic?”
His eyes meet mine, and the intensity there steals my breath. “Both.”
The single word lands heavy between us.
“We were proof,” he says, “that wolf shifters could peacefully coexist with others. That pureblood superiority was a lie. It’s the same issue the Umbra Council has with us now—the purist faction, at least. We’ve survived. Lived in harmony for centuries.” His voice drops. “We are the proof they want to erase.”
My stomach twists. I think of the arrows that came from nowhere. “That attack on you…Was that the purist faction?”
“We haven’t been able to find anything out about that.” Frustration bleeds into his words. “Whoever sent those assassins covered their tracks well.”
I reach for another book, this one smaller, leather-bound. The title catches my eye: A Compendium of Magical Bloodlines. I flip it open and skim the pages until two words jump out at me.
Gypsy witches.
Suddenly, there’s a stirring deep in my chest, spreading through my veins like liquid fire. Sadness crashes over me—a profound, crushing sadness that I don’t understand. And longing. Such fierce longing, it brings tears to my eyes.
“Daciana?” Artisem’s voice sounds distant. “Are you okay?”
Kieran jumps to his feet. “What’s wrong?”
I blink rapidly, forcing the strange emotions down. “I’m fine.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. I focus on the text, determined to push through whatever that was. “Who were the gypsy witches?”
Kieran goes rigid.
I look up, confused by his reaction. His gaze locks onto the book in my hands, and a dark look flashes across his face—pain, perhaps, or fear. I can’t tell.
He moves so fast, I barely register it. One moment the book is in my hands, the next he has ripped it away.
“What—”
“No more lessons today.” His voice is cold, clipped.
I stare at him, taken completely aback. Heat floods my cheeks—part embarrassment, part anger. “Excuse me?”
“We’re done.” He won’t look at me. Just holds that book like it might bite him.
“Fine.” I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the stone floor. “You don’t have to be a jerk about it.”
