I stood. The movement cost me everything because it meant releasing Mira’s stomach, and the absence of her heartbeats beneath my palms left my hands feeling severed. Percival took my place, both of his hands covering where mine had been, and I walked out of the tent with a stride that made every person in my path step aside.
The rage had nowhere to go. No target, no throat, no body to destroy. Just a clearing full of people who weren’t the ones responsible and a trail leading north that was getting colder by the second.
I grabbed the supply crate where the tea had sat and hurled it across the clearing. It splintered against a tree trunk and the sound wasn’t enough. Nothing would be enough until I had my hands on whoever did this.
A raven landed on the shattered crate. Tilted its head. Studied me with the blank, knowing stare.
My hand closed around its throat.
The bird shrieked. Wings beating against my wrist, claws raking my forearm, and the council representative nearby choked out a protest about kingdom treasure.
I didn’t hear him.
The raven was the closest living thing to my rage and my fingers were already tightening when its eyes pulsed and a crystal projection flashed to life from its pupils.
I froze.
Annora and Giselle at the eastern perimeter. Heads close.
“The children are the only protection she has.” Annora’s voice. “Without the heirs, the council’s authority supersedes the bond. Lucian can declare her mate until his tongue rots, but Veyndral law is clear. Remove the heirs and she becomes disposable.”
“And if Farmon’s medicine saves them?” Giselle’s voice.
“It won’t.” Annora produced a vial from inside her coat. Small, dark glass, sealed with wax. “Nighthollow extract. From the capital. Two drops in any liquid. The compound mimics natural miscarriage. By the time anyone identifies the agent, the damage is permanent.”
Giselle took the vial.
The image shifted. Giselle at the supply station, the cup of tea sitting unattended on the crate. Her back blocked the view for three seconds. When she stepped away, the vial was gone and the tea sat undisturbed.
The projection died. The raven blinked.
My vision went red.
“The northern ridge,” I said and threw the bird. “Now.”
Percival was already running, leaving Mira to Farmon. He was our fastest. Solomon flanked him, both moving through the forest at a speed that shredded the brush in their path. I followed, and behind me the sound of soldiers mobilizing confirmed that the camp understood what was happening.
The portal site sat in a clearing half a mile north.
The unstable crossing that had brought us to the human world, stuttering and unreliable, its energy signature visible through the trees as a faint pulse against the night.
Annora and Giselle stood at the threshold.
Annora’s composure was intact. Even fleeing, even caught. Giselle stood at her shoulder, claws half-extended, the soldier’s instinct to protect activated even now.
I shifted mid-stride. The wolf took me before I made the decision, bones cracking and reforming, my black fur absorbing the moonlight as I closed the distance.
Annora saw me coming.
Her mask failed completely. The aristocratic composure shattered into raw, animal terror as a king’s wolf bore down on her with killing intent pouring through.
I pinned her to the ground. My jaws closed around her throat, applying pressure without breaking skin.
Giselle bolted. Percival was faster. He materialized in front of her, blocking the path, and the snarl that rolled out of his chest pinned her mid-step.
Solomon came from behind. His hand closed around her throat and lifted her off the ground before she could turn. Giselle’s claws raked his forearm, drawing blood he didn’t register. Her feet kicked six inches above the forest floor.
My teeth pressed into Annora’s throat. The pulse beneath her skin was rapid, fragile, and the wolf wanted it to stop.
