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Thorne’s first kill was a moment he would never forget, nor fully understand.

He was just fourteen when it happened, barely old enough to grasp the weight of life and death.

The captain in question, a man of power and privilege, used his position to terrorize his subordinates, bending them to his will with cruelty and disdain.

His authority had become a weapon, wielded not to protect or serve, but to dominate.

He’d pushed and prodded those beneath him for years, tormenting his second in command the worst.

The man had no redeeming qualities, and yet, he was untouchable—favored by the king himself.

The rumors surrounding him were numerous and unkind, but the king’s ties to the man ensured that he remained in power, his actions unchecked. The king, for all his supposed strength, would not risk losing his fragile influence by removing the captain, even if he knew the truth of his actions.

Seraphina, ever the enigma, saw something in the situation that Thorne hadn’t.

She, too, was only fourteen, but there was a depth to her that belied her youth.

With a quiet urgency, she’d asked him, even begged him, to kill the captain.

To end the suffering of the man’s victims and put an end to the reign of terror he’d inflicted on the people under him.

It was a request that rattled Thorne to his core.

He hadn’t been prepared for something like that.

The knife in his hand felt like an alien object, cold and foreign as his fingers shook.

He couldn’t stop thinking of the consequences, the horror of it all.

But in the end, Seraphina’s plea was more than he could refuse.

His stomach twisted as he carried out the act, vomiting for two nights straight afterward, unable to escape the brutal reality of what he’d just done.

The king mourned the loss of a key supporter, but it wasn’t the tragedy it seemed on the surface.

The captain had long been a liability, and his death was merely a symbol of the power struggles at play within Tarvela.

A new captain was soon appointed—someone from outside the tangled web of politics, a graduate from Rhyndor with a family of high-standing military distinction.

And the second in command, the young woman who had suffered the most under the captain’s rule, was promoted to Seraphina’s personal guard, eventually rising to become its captain.

As he looked back, Thorne thought he had done it all for Seraphina, but part of him knew it wasn’t as simple as that.

It wasn’t entirely for her, not in the way she might have expected.

He did it because he couldn’t bear to see the quiet, calculated way she tested him.

It was like she had known something about him, something hidden, and she had pushed him into this corner to see how far he would go.

He wondered if she had planned it all along, orchestrating the situation with a precision that only she could.

She could have had Dawna do it—Dawna, who would do anything for Seraphina, and who had already killed before without hesitation.

She could have done so much more—hardened her heart, turned away from the situation, never let it affect her. But instead, she had turned to Thorne, the boy who wasn’t yet fully formed, to carry out this gruesome task.

To this day, Thorne couldn’t remember the moment Seraphina became aware of his abilities.

They had known each other their whole lives, their families intertwined through service and loyalty.

His father worked in her father’s court, a humble position in comparison to the grandiose power that surrounded them.

Despite this, they weren’t close, not really.

Seraphina, the beloved princess, had few friends, and after the sudden death of her brother, her circle had shrunk even further.

Thorne had always admired her from a distance, but he never considered that she might see something in him.

It was only one day in the palace’s training grounds that it all shifted.

Thorne had been going through his basic forms, the rhythm of his sword swinging through the air offering some relief from the simmering frustration within him.

Orion, his older brother, was leaving for a trip, and Thorne, too young to accompany him, had to stay behind.

It was the kind of thing that stung more than it should have.

Seven years between them felt like an eternity, and the feeling of being left behind weighed heavily on Thorne’s chest.

It was in that moment, lost in his own thoughts, that Seraphina appeared.

She watched him from the shadows, silent as ever, her pale face drawn and gaunt, the toll of her recent illness evident in every line of her face.

Thorne had seen her once before, a strong, capable young woman, but now, she was a ghost of that version.

She hadn’t trained, hadn’t touched a weapon in months.

The girl he remembered had disappeared, replaced by someone else—fragile, distant, almost ethereal.

That day, Seraphina had made no move to pick up a sword, nor an axe, nor any of the weapons she had once wielded with such lethal grace.

Instead, she had chosen to spectate, sitting quietly on the stairs leading down into the coliseum.

Her arms and legs were crossed with the kind of careful primness that made her seem more like an object—fragile, porcelain, untouchable—rather than the girl who, since she was small, had been hefting blades so effortlessly that they made grown men flinch and step back.

She was a warrior in every sense, but in this moment, she seemed as delicate as the finest porcelain doll, almost too beautiful to be real.

Thorne had noticed her presence from the corner of his eye, but he’d been so consumed with his training that he hadn’t thought much of it.

His movements were sharp, precise, each stroke of his sword cutting through the air in frustration.

Orion’s absence had left him restless and irritated.

The journey, the separation—it all gnawed at him, the years between him and his older brother pressing down on him with the weight of something much more than just time.

He was too young to go on the trip, too inexperienced to join in, and it hurt him in a way that he didn’t yet understand.

Still, the familiar rhythm of his practice helped him ignore it, at least for a while.

But then, after some time, Seraphina’s voice broke through the focused silence.

She called out to him.

It was soft at first, a simple request to come over to her, and without a second thought, Thorne complied.

There was something about her that always had the power to pull him in, something he could never explain.

Perhaps it was because of the years they had spent in each other's orbit—two children born into different worlds but tied together by their shared experiences, even if they never truly understood each other.

They spoke for a while, casually at first.

She asked about his day, about his training.

She didn’t say much about herself, though.

Her illness, which had kept her from training for so long, hung between them like an unspoken truth, but neither of them addressed it directly.

They talked about Orion’s trip, and when Thorne spoke of it, his voice wavered with the kind of raw emotion he had never allowed to surface before.

The excitement of seeing his brother, the frustration of being left behind, it all spilled out in huffs and barely contained tears.

And yet, Seraphina listened without judgment, offering no comfort but somehow, in her quiet way, making him feel less alone.

And then, out of nowhere, came the question that would change everything.

“Your magic.

Is it what makes you so strong?”

she asked, her tone almost casual, but the weight of it settled on Thorne’s chest like a stone.

He froze, a cold shiver running down his spine as the reality of what she was asking hit him.

His secret—his magic, something he had kept hidden from everyone, including his closest friends and family—had been noticed.

And not by just anyone, but by Seraphina, of all people.

The girl who had always seemed so untouchable, so beyond reach, had seen through the facade he had carefully built around himself.

She had noticed something.

She had known.

Thorne’s mind scrambled for an answer, but there was no way out.

No way to deny it without outright lying.

The horror of it all churned in his stomach, but Seraphina only smiled in response.

It wasn’t a mocking smile or one laced with malice.

It was small, almost imperceptible, and there wasn’t a hint of teasing in it.

It was, in fact, the most honest expression he had ever seen from her—strangely gentle and completely devoid of the usual layers of deception she wore like armor.

It took Thorne a long time to understand that the question hadn’t been as simple as it appeared.

At the time, it had seemed like a passing inquiry, a mere curiosity.

But in hindsight, he would realize that it had been an inquisition—a probe into the depths of his secrets.

A test, one that he had failed to even recognize at the time.

His answer had been automatic, defensive: “No.

It’s not.”

He had said it without thinking, desperate to protect the one thing that had been his for so long—his power, his magic, and the secret that kept him safe.

But even as he said it, something in the air shifted.

They both knew it wasn’t the truth, but neither of them pressed the issue further.

The conversation moved on, as these things often did, until Seraphina suddenly brought up the captain—the one who had been abusing his soldiers, the one whose cruelty had infected the military like a disease.

She told Thorne how, with her limitations, she was unable to do anything about it.

And then came the request—the simple, chilling request that would bind them together forever.

“Would you do it?”

she asked him, her voice quiet but carrying an edge that made Thorne’s blood run cold.

“Would you kill him for me? Even if you get caught?”

There it was.

The first step into the darkness.

Thorne didn’t hesitate, even though part of him screamed that he should.

The words came out of him with certainty he hadn’t known he had, and with that certainty, he sealed his fate.

“I won’t get caught,”

he told her, his voice firm, his mind already racing through the plans he would need to make, the steps he would need to take to ensure everything went according to Seraphina’s design.

And he didn’t get caught.

He did exactly what she asked, and the captain was gone before anyone could react.

The world continued to turn, and life moved on, but everything had changed in that one moment.

Thorne had crossed a line, and there was no going back.

From that moment on, he belonged to Seraphina.

She didn’t trust him, not really.

But then again, she didn’t trust anyone.

She never told him more than he needed to know, always keeping her secrets close to her chest.

But in return, she protected him, kept him in her corner when the world seemed intent on tearing them apart.

In Seraphina, Thorne found something he had never known before—purpose.

She showed him a way forward, even if it was one filled with shadows and dangers.

Seraphina could have used her knowledge of his magic to bind him to her.

She could have chained him in fear, controlled him with the threat of ruin, used his abilities to her advantage at any moment.

But she didn’t.

She never wanted blind loyalty.

No, Seraphina craved something deeper—a loyalty born from respect, from shared goals, and from the understanding that those who followed her did so because they chose to.

She wanted people who would stand beside her, not out of fear, but out of a shared belief in what she was doing, what she was becoming.

And that made her dangerous.

Not just to her enemies, but to everyone around her.

Thorne knew that well.

He knew that his knowledge of her deeds—of the soldiers, judges, and servants she had moved, displaced, or even murdered in the shadows—could ruin her.

He could destroy her reign before it ever began, expose everything that she had done, everything she was capable of.

And the court, with all its scheming and power struggles, was a beast that would not be tamed by a mere king.

They had bowed to him because appearances demanded it, but once Seraphina ascended the throne, they would attempt to bind her, too. And if the truth of her actions came to light, they would use it against her, manipulate it to their own advantage.

It wasn’t just her life at risk.

It was Tarvela.

Thorne understood this well—the weight of all the things his father had done, all the secrets he had carried, and the careful maneuvering required to keep his family safe within the dangerous web of the court they had served for so long.

It wasn’t just the rumors that spread through the halls of power that they were traitors, those ugly accusations that clung to their names like shadows.

It was the deeper, darker truths of what they had become.

His father, for all his skill and medical prowess, had spent decades walking a tightrope to ensure that their family was never fully exposed.

He had healed the sick and alleviated pain, had worked tirelessly on the homefront during the War, all while ensuring his family’s survival within a court that saw their history and their origins as a threat.

The people they had once served, the ones who whispered about their supposed betrayal, would always remember the shift in allegiance, would always fear the possibility that the family could flip once again.

And if they had done it before, if they had chosen a new side when it served their survival, there was nothing to stop them from doing it again.

It was in the bloodlines, in the traditions that clung to them like chains.

Without a magical heir, they were nothing but pawns in the game of power.

The very customs they followed—Erethosian naming conventions for their children—were proof enough.

It was a strange, archaic tradition that still tied them to a past they could never fully escape, even as it painted them as outsiders in the eyes of the Tarvela they had once been loyal to.

They weren’t trusted with their own lands because of it.

They were soldiers, killers, trained from birth to follow the codes and customs of Erethos, not those of Tarvela that they now served.

Thorne could see it clearly now, the inevitable truth that had always been hovering just beneath the surface: they had never been fully accepted.

Their allegiance was always in question, and as long as there was power to be had, as long as there was influence to be gained, the family would always be under scrutiny.

But Thorne was different.

He wasn’t loyal to tradition.

He didn’t have the same reverence for the codes that bound his family.

He had no love for a system that treated them as expendable, no affection for a society that glorified sacrifice and masked it as sustenance.

The court would never be their home, and Tarvela would always be a place that would demand more from them than it was willing to give in return.

His loyalty, if it could be called that, was to something else entirely.

He was loyal to Seraphina.

He hadn’t been her confidant, not truly.

He didn’t know the intricacies of her plans, nor could he begin to fathom the depths of her ambitions.

But he believed in her vision.

He had come to see her as more than just a princess—she was someone with a purpose, with a direction that transcended Tarvela’s crumbling walls.

And though his role was small, he would play it to the fullest. He would sacrifice his own secrets, his own safety, over and over again before he ever considered betraying hers.

Because that was the truth of it—he wasn’t loyal to Tarvela.

He wasn’t loyal to the court or to its dying systems.

He was loyal to her.

When Thorne returned inside, the ballroom was as abuzz and glowing with anticipation as it had been when he’d left, but there was something different in the air now.

A new energy had overtaken the space, a frenetic hum that seemed to crackle in the very atmosphere like the electric charge before a lightning strike.

The musicians had stopped playing, the melodies fading into an unnatural stillness, their instruments left leaning against their bodies as they peered down toward the guests with quiet curiosity.

The crowd, once scattered and floating in their own small groups, had begun to gather before the stairs leading to the mezzanine.

It was as if the guests were drawn together, consolidating like blood clotting around a wound.

In the absence of music, the hum of conversation had escalated, becoming louder and sharper, a serrated edge cutting through the air as excited whispers echoed around the room.

The swirl of fur, fabric, and masks did little to dull the rising intensity of the clamor.

Everywhere Thorne looked, there were whispers—small, nervous, hungry words that darted through the crowd like fireflies.

“A speech,”

one voice cawed, its words sharp and urgent.

“He wants to make a speech.” The other guests, eager to catch every tidbit of information, leaned in closer to hear more.

“He wants to make a toast,”

added another voice, this one a little more melodic, as it wove through the crowd like a secret passed from one to another.

“The prince will make a speech.

The prince will make a toast,”

came the chorus of excited confirmations, each one more eager than the last.

The anticipation in the room became palpable, thick with expectation.

Thorne felt himself grow still as he moved through the crowd, his mind sharpening.

His pulse quickened, but there was a calmness that settled over him, a strange peace that filled the pit of his stomach.

It had been a long time coming—this moment, this shift, this turning of the tide.

For all the court’s whispers, for all the expectations and games they played with each other’s fates, Thorne knew what was happening.

At long last, the time had come.

The prince would speak, and with his words, a new chapter would begin—one that might not include Tarvela as it had been known.

It was a slow burn, this moment, but Thorne could feel the heat rising, an inevitable change on the horizon.

And with it, Seraphina’s vision was drawing nearer to fulfillment.

It’s about damn time.

Thorne’s thoughts were sharp, his mind already shifting to the next steps.

He came to stand at the edges of the gathering, slipping easily into the crowd, unnoticed yet unimportant.

The thrumming din of voices swirled around him like a maelstrom, and Thorne found himself adrift in it, carried along in the tide of anticipation that surged through the guests.

Each individual conversation seemed a hazy blur, their words mingling into an indistinguishable, vociferous mire.

It was as if the very air vibrated with the collective excitement of the assembly, leaving Thorne feeling utterly superfluous, a shadow among shadows, moving in a direction he couldn’t control.

The sounds of laughter and whispered speculations lapped at his ears, but he remained still, swaying with the tide, no more significant than the rest of the spectators.

But then, as the minutes passed, Thorne’s mind snapped back into focus with an unsettling jolt.

His eyes flicked across the crowd, and suddenly, he remembered.

He blinked, sharply pulling his attention to the task at hand: finding the beast.

Thorne’s gaze cut through the gathering like a blade, scanning for any sign of the familiar, hulking form.

But there was nothing.

No towering shape, no jutting horns, no sharp fangs that would mark him unmistakably.

Thorne’s stomach tightened, a prickle of unease creeping along his spine.

The beast, so audacious, so unpredictable, and yet now, here in this crowd of aristocrats and dignitaries, there was no trace of him.

Not a single sign of his looming presence.

A sickening thought flashed through Thorne’s mind—was he too late? Had something gone wrong?

His suspicion rose quickly, a tide of frustration swelling in his chest.

If the prince was about to give a speech… Thorne couldn’t help but roll his eyes, his irritation curling into something sharper, more tangible.

What did that blasted fool think he was going to do? Come swinging in on a chandelier, perhaps? Crash the crown prince’s toast like some unruly animal? The idea seemed so absurd it was almost laughable, but then, a flicker of unease gnawed at him again.

Could it really be that reckless?

Fool.

The beast was a fool, Thorne thought with bitter clarity.

Perhaps I’ve been the fool for encouraging him.

But even as he mulled over the consequences of the beast’s likely impetuousness, the sound of boots clicking swiftly upon marble shattered the momentary silence in the room.

The noise rang out through the hall, sharp and deliberate, slicing through the ambient chatter like a knife.

Thorne’s thoughts stopped cold as his eyes instinctively flicked toward the sound, his heart leaping into his throat.

It was a tall form, moving with a grace that was unsettling in its confidence.

The figure was unmistakable, its presence too singular to be anything but one.

The beast had arrived.

The crowd seemed to pause, as though the air itself had thickened with the weight of expectation.

The murmur of conversation died down gradually, ebbing away as all eyes turned toward the staircase that led to the mezzanine.

The figure, moving with a slow, deliberate stride, came around the bend, blocking out the immediate candlelight, creating a shadow that stretched across the gathering like an eclipse.

The subtle, dangerous aura of the beast lanced through the room in a rush of tension.

Thorne froze.

There was no other word for it—he simply stopped, his breath caught in his chest.

He had been prepared for many things, but nothing had quite prepared him for this.

The figure paused at the landing at the summit of the staircase, every inch of them radiating authority and dark power.

It was him.

The wolf was the prince.

Thorne’s calm shattered in an instant, like glass breaking into a thousand irretrievable pieces.

Everything inside him snapped into sharp clarity—every thought, every emotion, every ounce of anger and fear surged forward at once.

The deep, primal part of him that had so often been on edge when the wolf was near rose to the surface, his pulse pounding in his ears, the weight of the situation suddenly crashing over him.

“Good evening, everyone.

I hope your night has been pleasant.”

The voice of the man rang out, smooth and velvety, a calm ripple cutting through the growing murmur of the crowd.

He spoke with ease, his voice carrying effortlessly across the entire room, drawing every ear.

There was a peculiar power in the way he spoke, as if each word was a key that unlocked the space, allowing his presence to expand in a subtle yet undeniable way.

More spectators began to push into the throng, hungry for a better view, for a chance to hear him more clearly.

And Thorne, who had been trying to maintain some semblance of distance, was helpless to stop the wave.

The press of bodies behind him pushed him forward, deeper into the sea of eager faces, further than he had ever intended to go, caught in the current with nowhere to escape.

The man raised his hand, a slow, deliberate gesture that beckoned the crowd, an offering, an invitation.

It was the same kind of gesture he had extended to Thorne time and time again—compelling, magnetic, and loaded with unspoken promises.

He had always drawn Thorne closer, even when the young man had wanted nothing more than to step back.

“I endeavor not to keep you from them for too long,”

the man continued, his voice lowering slightly as he spoke, keeping the crowd hanging on his every word, “but seeing as you have all gathered here in my honor, it would be remiss not to thank you all for your attendance, as well as all the warm words and advice I have been given, this the eve of my coronation.”

A servant appeared beside him, holding a flute of champagne, which the man accepted with a quiet murmur of thanks before turning back to the assembly.

His fingers wrapped delicately around the glass, his posture straight and poised, as if the entire room had shifted to center around him.

“I propose a drink, to—oh, this,”

he said, reaching up with his free hand to touch his snout.

His expression was playful, and though he spoke of the inconvenience of his features, his eyes glinted with something far more mischievous.

“It gets in the way, you see.” He lightly tapped the edge of his champagne flute against one of his fangs, a soft clink that reverberated slightly in the air, breaking through the tense silence that had settled upon the room.

A ripple of laughter cascaded through the crowd, quiet but growing, as the guests relaxed for a moment, enjoying the unexpected levity in the air.

The tension was momentarily lifted, replaced by a collective ease, like a shared inside joke that only those in the room could truly appreciate.

The man’s charm was undeniable.

Raising his free hand, he continued, gesturing broadly to those gathered before him.

“If we may, would you do me the honor of removing your masks as well?”

His voice was sincere, but there was an edge to it, a command that no one could ignore.

“So that we may all toast together, men and women of Erethos, and our allies beyond, as equals and friends!”

A single voice, clear and resolute, rang out from the crowd, Huzzah! It was the first stir of enthusiasm, the spark that set the rest of the gathering ablaze.

The guests, eager to comply, began to remove their masks, one by one.

The rustle of cloth, the tug of ribbons, the subtle scrape of lace and velvet being lifted off faces created a wave of movement that flowed across the ballroom.

Thorne could hear the murmur of approval as people shed their anonymous facades, revealing themselves to the light.

Diamonds, lace, and flowers—all the delicate touches that had concealed their identities—fell away, leaving faces exposed and exulting in the revelatory light.

Thorne felt a sharp pull in his chest, the unmistakable sensation of needing to comply with the moment, of being swept along.

He nearly tore his mask from his face, the fine material slipping from his fingers as his eyes remained glued to the spectacle unfolding on the mezzanine.

His heartbeat quickened.

No.

It couldn’t be.

This wasn’t possible—how could he have—

The man, the wolf, began to undo his own mask.

Thorne’s stomach dropped as the realization struck him like a blow.

Unseen ties were pulled with a smooth motion, the skull of the beast lifting away from its nest upon the man’s head.

It wasn’t the gentle removal Thorne had expected.

It was sharp and decisive, as if the mask had outlived its usefulness.

The spine and skull separated with a sound that resonated in the silence, a finality that sent a shiver through Thorne’s veins.

The golden head that emerged from beneath the grotesque mask was regal, proud, and far more human than Thorne had ever allowed himself to believe.

Like something out of a fairytale, the beast had transformed before their eyes, revealing his true face.

Strong jaw, broad nose, golden hair cut in layered edges that caught the light.

His ice-azure eyes—so cold and yet so stunning—met the gaze of those in the room, sparkling with an unsettling mix of power and control.

Every inch of him was an Olivet, and he wore it with the kind of ease that took Thorne’s breath away.

There was no denying it.

The wolf had been more than a simple monster; he was every bit the prince he had been hiding beneath that terrifying exterior.

He was dreadful and beautiful, breathtaking in his perfection.

Thorne’s mind whirled as he watched, his gaze locked on Kaelen.

The man—no, the prince—tucked the beastly mask under his arm with a careless grace before raising his champagne flute to the room, his golden hair shining under the lights.

Every eye in the room seemed to reflect the glow of the lights that clung to him, eager to consume him whole.

He was the focal point, the center of everything.

“To all my friends, my family.

My advisors, generals, guests, and peers,”

Kaelen said, his voice resonating with a weight that seemed to reach deep inside each person in the room.

He took a breath, steadying himself, and then he made the pronouncement that sealed the night.

“To Erethos!”

he declared, lifting his glass high.

“To Erethos!”

came the roaring response, the chorus of voices swelling as the guests raised their drinks in unison.

“Long live the king!”

A single voice pierced the growing excitement, a cry that rang out from the crowd, echoing like a wave crashing upon the shore.

The rest of the room followed suit, their voices growing louder, more fervent, as the chant spread like wildfire.

“Long live the king!”

the cry repeated, reverberating through the room, shaking the very foundations of the hall.

Thorne could feel the momentum building, the energy of the crowd surging around him, but there was something hollow in it.

Something missing.

The king-to-be had toasted his champagne, and the room followed in perfect synchrony, throwing back their drinks in blissful agreement.

Yet Kaelen, the prince, remained motionless, his lips curling into a thin smile.

He did not drink.

His eyes, sharp and knowing, surveyed the crowd, his gaze cutting through the revelry as if he were examining every person before him, dissecting them one by one.

Thorne felt the weight of Kaelen’s gaze as it shifted downward, falling directly upon him, as though the prince had known all along that he was there.

The air seemed to freeze for a heartbeat, and then Kaelen’s smile deepened—real and true, a smile that stretched wide and full of teeth.

Fangs.

All fangs.

The room seemed to fall silent for a moment, as if the space itself was holding its breath, awaiting the next movement, the next command.

And then the roar returned, louder, even more forceful than before.

“Long live the king!”

The cry reverberated again, this time louder, more intense.

It was a heartbeat.

It was an hourglass.

It was a song that would not end.

“Long live the king!”