Page 58

Back at the Keep, he tracked her scent from the hallway—sharp with anger, aching with confusion. It carried through the back exit, where it turned wild and fast. Into the woods. Past the herb trail.

Then it was just gone. Cut clean. Too clean.

His stomach dropped.

“Jace!”

Logan’s voice reached him through the trees.

He turned as his beta broke through the brush, eyes wide.

“I found her trail. There’s blood.”

Jace didn’t breathe. He ran.

They found it just beyond the ancient grove of twisted oaks—barely visible to a human eye, but glaringly obvious to a shifter's heightened senses: signs of a violent scuffle. Branches snapped and strewn across the forest floor. A smear of magic-soaked blood staining the rough granite of an ancient standing stone. And worst of all—the unmistakable scent of Ezra, that traitorous wolf who'd turned rogue, mingling with the wildflower fragrance that was uniquely Lyra's.

A vicious growl rumbled up from the depths of Jace's chest as realization slammed into him. "I'll tear him apart with my bare hands," he snarled, low and deadly, fingers curling into fists so tightly his claws threatened to pierce his palms.

Logan met his blazing stare, the younger wolf's eyes reflecting a mixture of shock and grim determination. "What are your orders, Alpha? Do we call the full pack?"

"No protocols," Jace snapped, impatience and dread clawing at his insides with razor-sharp talons. "Not this time. No waiting for that useless council's approval. No filing endless reports while she's..." He couldn't bring himself to voice the fear choking him. "We calleveryone. Every able wolf, every ally we can muster. Now."

His beta hesitated only a heartbeat before giving a sharp nod and reaching for the enchanted rune communicator at his belt, the intricate symbols etched into its surface already beginning to blaze with ethereal light.

Jace stood motionless at the center of the grove, his body practically vibrating with a thunderous combination of rage and something far more visceral—a cold, gnawing dread he hadn't felt since that terrible night five years ago when his father vanished.

Fear.

Lyra was his mate, bound to him by magic as ancient as the standing stones surrounding them. And he'd wasted too much precious time pushing her away, keeping her at arm's length out of some misguided sense of noble self-denial.

The moment he'd finally opened himself to the mating bond, it had flared to life like a raging wildfire through his veins, scorching away the icy walls he'd built around his heart. He could feel her essence pulsing in his blood now, could sense the brilliant warmth of her soul calling to his.

And now? Now that brilliant spark was frayed and muted, pulled taut by distance and malicious intent. She was still alive—he could feel the fragile thread of her life force, thank the ancient gods—but she was in agony, her magic bound and stifled by whatever dark forces had taken her.

Jace closed his eyes, clenching them shut against the torrent of emotions battering him from all sides as he reached inward, straining to sense her through the fraying bond.

"Hold on, Lyra," he murmured, the words torn from somewhere deep and raw within him. "I'm coming for you, love."

And this time, no misplaced pride, no ghosts of the past, no sworn oath or ancient protocol would stop him from tearing apart the world itself to bring her home.

29

LYRA

The first thing she felt was cold.

Not the kind that came from air or stone, but the kind that sankin—quiet, thick, like it was part of her now. Her magic was quiet, dull beneath her skin like a song half-forgotten.

Lyra blinked her eyes open slowly.

A room.

Circular. Carved in gray stone. Soft torchlight flickering over the high-arched ceiling. One window—barred and glowing with enchantments she didn’t recognize—and a thick door etched with layered runes that pulsed each time she moved.

She tried to sit up and hissed.

Her wrists were bound, not with rope, but shimmering golden cuffs—magic restraints, slick with Ezra’s brand of charmcraft. Her ankles were tethered too, though loosely. Enough to let her pace. Not enough to run.