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THIRTY

SELENE

T hey gathered the court at dusk, once the Rising Flame had been pushed back—at least for now.

The battle-scarred keep stood like a wounded beast, walls singed and crumbling in places, the banners of House Fenrir hanging limp and torn.

Fires had been extinguished, but smoke still laced the air, acrid and clinging to every breath.

The surviving warriors—both noble and common-born—filed into the fractured war chamber in armor dulled by soot and blood.

Advisors, emissaries, and old court figures stood along the edges, tense, bruised, and waiting.

No one spoke above a whisper.

The weight of what had just happened—the breach, the casualties, the betrayal from within—had changed the air. And they were waiting now, waiting for Kael to make the next move. To claim his place fully. To become the Alpha not just by blood, but by command.

Selene stood beside him.

Their fingers had brushed briefly when they entered, and she thought— hoped —it was a silent promise.

He said nothing at first.

Just moved slowly around the war table, eyes scanning the wreckage of maps and reports and the ceremonial blade still resting in its sheath. His jaw worked like he was grinding gravel between his teeth.

Selene glanced at Nyra across the table. The woman’s face was unreadable—tense, but calm, like she was bracing for something.

Selene turned back to Kael.

He still hadn’t looked at her.

She told herself he was just overwhelmed.

Of course he was—he’d just lost a father, a home, nearly lost her, and had stepped into a role none of them had been truly ready for.

So when he finally stepped forward, standing behind the war table like a general before a firing squad, she straightened too. She expected him to rally the court. To speak of unity. Of them .

Instead, the room went silent when he cleared his throat—and spoke to everyone but her.

“To secure peace,” Kael said, voice level, “and preserve the structure of House Fenrir through this war, I will fulfill the rite of leadership and complete the formal bond.”

Selene blinked.

Wait.

What?

A soft rustle rippled through the court. Heads turned. Even the walls seemed to lean in.

Kael’s hand closed over the ceremonial blade.

She felt her chest clench. “Kael?—”

But he didn’t turn.

“I will do so,” he continued coldly, “with a consort chosen from within the court. Not from the human alliance. Not from outside blood.”

No.

No. That wasn’t what this was.

That wasn’t what they were.

The ache started low in her ribs and bloomed outward like poison.

“My relationship with the envoy was forged in necessity,” he said. “But she does not represent this court. Nor this throne.”

Selene stood frozen.

There was no disbelief in the room. No outcry. Not even a raised voice. The court accepted it. Like it was expected.

Even Nyra didn’t speak. Her gaze flicked briefly toward Selene—but there was no warning in it. Just… sorrow.

Selene’s throat burned.

Kael didn’t look back once.

Not when she shifted her weight forward, not when her lips parted in disbelief, not when her hands slowly curled into fists at her sides.

A blade through the heart would’ve been kinder.

He had just thrown her to the wolves.

And done it with a voice so smooth, so practiced, she couldn’t tell if it had been real. Any of it. The kiss. The bond. The fucking second bond. The promises.

Had it all been part of the game?

She stumbled back, breath catching as humiliation and rage rose like wildfire.

The nobles whispered now, not in horror—but strategy.

Of course. He’d made himself the noble hero. Rejected the foreign threat. Claimed a court-born consort. Secured legacy and bloodline.

The perfect play.

And she had been the perfect pawn.

She didn’t stay.

Didn’t wait for the seal of office. Didn’t wait for him to name the new bride.

She walked out.

Head high. Shoulders set. But fire boiling beneath every step.

And when she reached her quarters—still barely intact from the assault—she shut the door and let her body collapse against it.

The walls blurred. Her knees hit the stone. And everything inside her screamed.

Because he hadn’t just broken her heart.

He’d done it publicly .

And worse?

He made it look like it had never been whole to begin with.

He used me.

The thought wouldn’t stop circling. It gnawed through her bones, coiled in her chest like venom, whispering and whispering until it drowned everything else.

She tried to breathe past it. Tried to summon the rational voice that told her Kael had done this to protect her. But that voice was quiet now. Silenced by the weight of his words still ringing in her ears.

Forged in necessity. She does not represent this court.

She replayed everything.

The kisses—rough and reverent. The way his fingers had lingered when he thought she was asleep. The ache in his voice when he said he was falling for her. The bond. The second seal. The way their magic had locked together like puzzle pieces finally finding home.

The way he’d looked at her after she tore open the Veil. Like she was something rare. Sacred. The way he’d held her in the forest—wrapped in his arms, his hands trembling against her skin.

Like she was his.

It had to have been real.

It had to have been.

Unless… Unless it was all part of the plan. Forge the bond to solidify the alliance. Make her feel safe. Make her fall. Win her loyalty, her trust, her power.

Then, when the Rising Flame closed in—cut her loose. Make a public show of it. Distance himself to shield the throne, the court, the name. Remove the stain of human-blood ties before he claimed the mountain.

Before he claimed a new bride.

Someone noble-born. Someone unburdened by prophecy and politics. Someone clean.

Selene swallowed hard, her stomach lurching.

She knew Kael hated the prophecy. Had seen the way his jaw clenched whenever someone dared to name it aloud.

Had heard the bitterness when he talked about fates chosen before birth.

But had he really hated her for being a part of it?

So much that he’d played her from the beginning?

So much that he’d let her think— hope —that what they had was real, only to cast her aside in the name of strategy?

Her eyes burned.

She stood and paced, her hands shaking, her breath catching like it didn’t know whether to break into sobs or screams.

Keep the throne clean. Unmarked. Untainted by her bloodline.

Because she wasn’t just inconvenient now—she was dangerous. She was power he couldn’t control. Fire he couldn’t cage.

Her hands curled into fists. She pressed them against her chest, over the place where the bond mark still pulsed faintly beneath her skin.

Still there. Still tethered. But now? Now it felt like a chain.

Cold. Heavy. Branded onto her not by love or fate, but utility. And it disgusted her.

She didn’t cry.

Gods, she wanted to. The burn behind her eyes swelled so hot it made her vision blur. Her chest ached from holding it back. But her rage was louder. Hotter. Sharper.

Her mother had once told her, “Tears are just unspent fire, Selene. Let it burn. Let it melt everything that tries to break you. And when they think you’ve turned to ash, rise hotter.”

Selene looked at the cracked glass of the window. At the bed where he’d whispered her name like it was the only truth he knew when she was healing.

And she smiled. A slow, dangerous thing.

If Kael had wanted to protect her through betrayal, he’d succeeded. Because whatever they’d had— He had just killed it in front of everyone. Publicly. Deliberately. With a blade of words that cut deeper than steel.

And Selene? Selene would rise from it. Not as a pawn. Not as a relic of prophecy. Not even as his. But as the threat they all should’ve seen coming.

The woman with Veilwalker blood and nothing left to lose.

The reckoning in a silk dress and a blade in her boot.

And the next time Kael looked at her, he would know what he’d created. He would see it in her eyes.

Maybe then, he’d understand the cost.