The vision simply…fades. Gently. Like falling asleep.
Relief floods through me so powerfully that my head spins. The wolf didn’t suffer at the end. Whatever that bastard did, however he killed her, at least it was quick. At least Daciana won’t have to live with the knowledge that her friend died in prolonged agony.
At least I can tell her that much.
The basin disappears, the swirling images collapsing in on themselves until there’s nothing but dirt beneath the symbol again. The purple glow fades.
And then, my body reminds me exactly what I’ve just done.
My knees give way.
I barely catch myself on the trunk of the nearest tree, my palms scraping against the rough bark. The coughing starts immediately—violent, wracking spasms that tear through my chest like claws.
Forbidden magic always demands its price.
I taste copper before I see the blood spattering the ground beneath me. Each cough brings more, my lungs burning as if I’ve inhaled fire. The magic I used—looking into the last moments of the deceased—borders so close to necromancy that most practitioners won’t risk it.
The strain on my body is immense. Black spots swim across my vision. My ribs feel like they’re cracking with each breath.
Worth it, I tell myself, even as another coughing fit doubles me over. Worth it for what I learned.
When I can finally breathe again, I wipe the blood from my mouth with the back of my hand. My fingers come away crimson.
I’m not repentant. Not even close.
Now I know that the necromancer has a scar on his inner wrist. An old burn, distinctive and ugly.
It’s a start.
I push myself upright, using the tree for support. The wolves are still watching me, their eyes glowing in the dappled sunlight. They saw what I did. They know what it cost me.
But they also know I meant my promise.
I incline my head to them—a sign of respect—and begin the walk back to the palace. Each step feels heavier than the last, mybody protesting the abuse I’ve just put it through. But I’ve had worse. I’ll recover.
And now I have information. A lead.
The walk back takes longer than it should. By the time I reach the palace, the sun is lower in the sky, and my legs feel like lead. But I keep moving, climbing the stairs to my chambers with grim determination.
I need to tell Daciana what I found. Need to see her face when I tell her that her friend didn’t suffer.
I push open the door to my chambers, already knowing they will be empty.
The room feels too large without her in it, too quiet. The bed is still made from this morning, untouched. Three days ago, I stood in her room after telling her everything, and she told me that she wouldn’t die. That she refused to. That she’d fight alongside me to break this curse.
But she said nothing about…us.
My chest tightens with something I don’t want to name.
Three days, and she has resumed her duties as my liaison like nothing happened between us. Professional, efficient, focused entirely on the work at hand. We’re waiting for the gypsy witches to arrive, and in the meantime, she is throwing herself into her responsibilities with focused determination. The curse, the investigation, her duties—these are what matter to her.
Not the bond. Not us.
At the end of each day, when the work is done, she leaves. Returns to her own chambers without hesitation, without a backward glance. Like there’s nothing pulling at her to stay with me. Like the bond between us isn’t something that occupies her thoughts at all.
She has managed to control it: the fated mate bond that should be tugging at her, demanding her attention, making her wolf restless. She has somehow wrestled it into submission. Ican feel my own wolf straining against my control every moment Daciana is near. There is a constant ache to reach for her, to close the distance between us. But her? She seems completely unaffected.
This is the first life in which she is a warrior. Strong, independent, disciplined enough to control even the primal pull of a fated bond. She doesn’t need me the way the others did. And maybe she doesn’t want me, either.
