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THIRTY-TWO

EVRYN

T he Panther had teeth. And they were hers now.

Evryn stood in the ruined circle of runes, her breath coming in short, hot bursts, steam curling from her skin. The scent of scorched blood and broken magic filled the vault. The chains lay in molten heaps at her feet.

Queen Selyne had vanished through a shimmered ward the moment the power tore free of her. Coward.

But she’d left her monsters behind.

Let them try.

The first one charged—a brute in warplate etched with red-silver veins of bloodsteel, carrying a glaive longer than Evryn was tall. She didn’t flinch.

She moved.

Shadow wrapped around her limbs as she ducked, rolled, then launched upward—claws bursting from her fingers mid-leap. She landed on his chest, weight snapping him backward. Her growl was low and ancient, vibrating from somewhere far older than her throat.

The panther within her knew how to fight.

She didn’t hesitate. She ripped.

Steel groaned. Blood sprayed across her cheek. The soldier collapsed, choking.

Another was already behind her—quicker, meaner. The Queen’s second: General Varrik.

Evryn spun just in time to catch the arc of his enchanted chainblade across her forearm. The pain jolted fire through her arm, but she didn’t drop.

Varrik sneered, bloodlust in his eyes. “You’re no queen. Just another beast.”

Evryn bared her fangs. “And you’re prey.”

She lunged.

Varrik swung again, but she was faster now, her body low, graceful. The panther’s rhythm moved through her bones, guiding every strike.

She ducked the blade and drove a fist into his ribs. The impact cracked through his armor like thunder. He grunted, staggered and then she pounced.

They went down hard.

He snarled, grabbing at her throat. “You think power makes you royal? It makes you a tool —just like the rest of us.”

Evryn’s eyes burned.

She saw Eamon’s face.

Lucien’s.

Every slice the Queen fed her.

Every chain.

“No,” she growled, shadows spilling from her skin like smoke and storm. “I’m the end of tools.”

She slammed her forehead into his, stunning him. Her claws found his heart. She drove them in.

Varrik choked, his breath catching in one final snarl.

Her hands trembled over his chest. Warmth spread across her skin, his life, his end, her choice .

She had killed before. But not like this. Not when she was fully herself.

Evryn staggered back from his corpse, gasping. Her fingers curled, sticky with blood, her chest aching with something that wasn’t guilt. Not regret.

Grief, maybe.

The cost of rising.

Selyne’s voice echoed faintly through the stone.

“Impressive. But still young. Still raw.”

Evryn growled, her claws flexing. “Run. I’m coming for you.”

The wards ahead sparked as the Queen’s presence flickered away—retreating further into the Keep’s deeper chambers.

Evryn took a step forward and stopped.

The shadows behind her moved .

She turned fast, crouched, ready to strike again.

But it wasn’t another soldier.

It was him.

Lucien emerged from the dark like fury given shape, his eyes glowing silver-black, his breath ragged, a cut across his jaw dripping shadow instead of blood.

He was half-shifted, claws at his hands, his fangs bared, eyes wild. Shadow rippled across him like a second skin.

And his gaze locked on.

“Evryn.”

Her knees nearly buckled.

His voice was rough silk, torn with relief and rage.

She stared at him, her panther senses roaring with scent, sound, feeling.

He stepped closer.

“You found me,” she whispered.

They stood together over the blood of the Queen’s enforcers.

Evryn turned her face toward the deeper dark.

“She’s running.”

Lucien’s voice went low. “Then we hunt.”