Page 1

CHAPTER 1

Lexa

The burning started in the middle of the night.

Not the kind of burn that fades with time or eases under breath. No—this was fire beneath the skin, hot brands etched in bone, screaming their defiance through the dark inked runes carved into my back. I woke with my jaw clenched tight, a muffled gasp behind my teeth. The pain was familiar, and that made it worse. I knew what came next. The full moon hung heavy beyond the wooden slats of the shuttered window, pouring its silver gaze through the cracks like it knew my secrets.

The boy beside me stirred, curling tighter beneath the patched wool blanket we shared. Tiny, warm breaths brushed against my arm. I didn’t dare move fast. Slow, deliberate, silent—the way I’d learned to move after years in hiding. My feet touched the dirt floor without a sound, and I wrapped the threadbare shawl tighter around my shoulders before rising.

The cottage was barely more than a shack, leaning like an old drunk into the northern wind. Every floorboard groaned with memory, every nail rusted in place by sea air. The hearthwas long cold, only ash and ghost heat left from the evening’s fire. Our walls were more patch than plank, stuffed with reeds and old cloth to keep the worst of the drafts out. A single iron pot hung over the dead fire, and beside it sat the bundle of herbs I kept for nights like this. Nights when the magic waned, and my body remembered what it was.

I lit the oil lamp with trembling hands, shielding the flicker of flame from the window. The light painted the room in gold and shadow. It caught the hollow of my cheeks, the dark circles under my eyes, the white scars peeking above the edge of my torn chemise. Each rune carved into me had cost more than just coin.

Four more silver pieces. That’s all I needed. Four more to give to the witch in the marsh so she could press her cold hands to my back and write the dark language again, tie my instincts in chains, cage the wolf forever. I would not shift. I would not feel the pull of the pack or the sting of heat.

I hated wolves. I hated what they made ofus.

I sat at the wobbly table, the tin cup clutched in both hands as if its warmth could root me. I dared not lie down again. If I shifted in bed, even the slightest twitch might wake him. He deserved peace. Dain was only four, and though not born of my body, he was mine now in all the ways that mattered. His real mother had died two winters ago, taken by a fever that swept through the village like fire through dry brush. I had watched her waste away, helpless to stop it.

Pity. That’s what started it. A tiny, frostbitten thing left in a world too cruel for the soft-hearted. Any other wolf would have marked him, claimed him as theirs. But I was not like them. I never would be. I didn’t want to be.

He called meLexi.

I stared into the dark liquid, letting the bitter taste of frost-leaf and sorrow settle on my tongue. I whispered a prayer togods I didn’t believe in anymore, begging them to let the runes hold, to keep me tethered one more night. Just until morning.

Somehow, they listened. When the first blush of sunlight crept through the cracks in the wall, the burn dulled to a low ache. I exhaled slowly. My spine still throbbed, but the worst had passed.

A rustle behind me made me turn. Dain sat up, rubbing his eyes with tiny fists, his brown curls sticking up in all directions. He blinked at me, then smiled, gap-toothed and warm.

“Lexi,” he mumbled sleepily.

I smiled, something small and secret tugging at my chest. “Morning, cub.”

He padded over barefoot, and I frowned. He’d outgrown his shoes again. Just last week, I’d found a second-hand pair in the market—a little too big, but lined with fur and good against the cold. I could have gone to the witch then, but his feet were more important.

Always him first.

I ruffled his hair, then turned back to the hearth. The tea had long gone cold, but it didn’t matter. I reached for the oats and the last of the dried berries, scraping together something that would pass for breakfast. We ate together in silence at first, chewing slowly, still waking. Then he started chatting, his voice bright and eager, telling me about a dream he had where he caught a fish as long as his arm and rode it like a pony.

I laughed, quiet but real.

“Let’s go check the nets,” I said, brushing crumbs from his cheek. “With luck, your dream came true.”

The moment I opened the door, the sharp brine of the sea rolled over me. I gagged, just a little, then buried it behind my scarf. The scent of fish, rotting wood, salt, and seaweed clogged the air. I hated it. Most wolves did. It masked our scent, twisted it into something foul and human. That was precisely why I hadchosen this place.

The village slouched along the coast like a dying beast, its spine made of twisted alleys and sagging roofs. Shacks and huts leaned on each other for balance, their wood dark with age and damp. Nets hung from every porch, and broken crab pots littered the muddy paths. Children chased gulls barefoot, and smoke rose from chimneys like thin prayers.

People watched us as we passed, some with wary eyes, others with the dull indifference of the overworked. They knew me asLexa—the reclusive woman who took in a dead woman’s child and spoke little. That was fine. Mystery was safer than familiarity. Safer for everyone.

The land here belonged to the Crescent Moon pack. Even the humans knew that. The fishermen paid their tithes in blood and silence, hoping the wolves would take what they needed and leave the rest. So far, they had.

This village was never meant to be a home.

It was meant to be theend of the road.

I came here many years ago, half-starved, half-feral, with nothing but the clothes on my back and a pouch of stolen coin I’d nearly died earning. Before that, I crossed hundreds of miles of wilderness and war-torn roads, ducking patrols, sneaking past rogue dens, keeping my head down and my scent masked beneath fire ash and saltwater.

I still remember the moment I left home. I was fifteen. My sisters were already spoken for, branded with heat collars and caged smiles, taught to kneel pretty and speak softly. The elders called ittraining. The alphas called it preparation.I called it death.