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Storms, this was it. I was trapped. I was going to die.

Inexplicably, amidst the fear and dread coursing through me, I thought of Alaric. I would never see him again. I would never be able to tell him how I felt.

Alaric, I thought in despair, tears burning in my eyes.

“It will be over soon,” Geraldine promised. “The siphoning spell is painful, yes, but it would have been far worse at the encampment. To distribute so much magic among so many witches would have taken hours. With me, it will be a half hour at most.” She withdrew a vial of liquid and a worn piece of parchment from her cloak. I recognized it as a page from a grimoire. She uncorked the vial, and a foul, rotten smell filled the air, stinging my nose.

As she began to chant in the witches’ tongue, my eyes shut against the pain pulsing in my head and the devastation roaring in my soul.

Alaric, I need you! I thought, my heart aching for him—just to see him one last time.

And then, somehow, Alaric’s deep, soothing voice filled my mind.

“Cerise!”

Twenty-Eight

THE WOLF

Icould have sworn I heard her voice.

I sat in the Great Hall at the head of the table, the four chiefs on either side of me. A plate of untouched food lay in front of me. My cheeks ached from the fake smiles I’d put on as each individual Mage congratulated me. Several noblemen had approached me about politics, heavily implying they could sway public opinion in my favor if I gave them what they wanted. My head was already throbbing from trying to diplomatically extricate myself from such conversations.

I had hoped to converse with each chief to gather information, to see if any of them had connections to Locke and Verne. Chief Ramathos of the Draconus tribe had offered me a stilted congratulations, his wrinkled nose indicating he still didn’t approve of my position. I had asked him about the affairs of his people and he was in the middle of describing a land dispute when we’d been interrupted by Lord Haversham, who wanted to petition for more investors for his business venture.

Chief Gorem had given me a thin-lipped smile, looking severe as always. Chief Cartier had offered to host me at one of his Vulpes tribe gatherings so I could become more acquainted with the fox shifters, who often kept to themselves. And Chief Korvus suggested I familiarize myself with the castle library to read up on the histories of his tribe, as the Rabe Mages had an extensive and complicated history.

But each time I probed them with further questions, I was interrupted again by someone offering congratulations or discussing politics.

Then, her voice pierced through the haze of it all.

“Alaric!”

I sat up straighter in my chair. At first, I thought it was Tavik finally waking up. But this voice was different.

I barely registered Chief Gorem rising to his feet, goblet in hand. “I would like to propose a toast,” he said loudly, “to⁠—”

“Alaric, I need you!” Cerise’s panicked voice rang in my mind.

My chair groaned as I jumped to my feet. Several Mages gasped, and Chief Gorem broke off and gaped at me.

“Forgive me,” I said, bowing awkwardly. “There is something urgent that needs my attention.”

I ignored the whispers and murmurs echoing behind me as I rushed out of the Great Hall. My crown wobbled precariously on my head, and I impatiently removed it along with the gold circlet, clutching both in my hands so I could move faster.

“Cerise!” I called, pulse racing as I rushed down the hall. Could she even hear me?

“Storms, Alaric, is that you?”

I almost laughed in relief. “Yes, it’s me. Where are you? Are you hurt?”

“Help me! It’s Geraldine—she found me, and⁠—”

Her words cut off abruptly.

My steps faltered as I descended the staircase leading to the entrance doors. “Cerise?”

No answer.