Lak's POV
The scaffold reeks of blood. His blood. The blood that is permanently etched to his hands.
The blood of everyone who ever dared defy King Varun Bannister and now, I have earned my place in it.
Splinters dig into my knees, but I don't let myself slump. Not even when the executioner tightens the rope around my wrists.
The rule is simple. Don't let them see you break.
The crowd stretches below me, faces I recognize.... people I care for.
Old Nira, who taught me to braid wheat crowns when I was a girl.
Jivan, the blacksmith's son, his arm still bandaged from where Varun's guards broke it for singing rebel songs.
And then little Meera, clutching the doll I stitched for her when the winter starved her village.
They are here. They all came for me.
Why did you come? I want to scream. Run. Forget me.
Varun's boot slams into the back of my legs. My knees buckle, pain shooting up my thighs.
The crowd hisses. A child's voice pierces the silence: "Let her go!"
Easy Meera, don't draw attention of the evil king. I almost yell out.
Varun seizes my hair, wrenching my head back, violently. Spite and rage lining his voice like a king scorned.
"Look at your queen," he sneers. "No crown. No throne. Just a slave."
A rotten tomato arcs from the crowd and bursts at his feet. Varun's guards lunge, but the crowd swallows the thrower.
My throat burns.
Stop. Don't die for me.
"Still loyal?" Varun presses his dagger to my throat. The blade bites, warm blood trickling down my neck. "Beg for her life. Grovel, and I'll make it quick."
Silence.
Don't you dare beg. Don't you dare grovel . Head high, shoulders straight.
Then—
Old Nira steps forward, shoving her sleeve up to reveal the faded sun-and-sword crest tattooed on her wrist. My crest.
"I'll beg for your death, worm," she spits at Varun. "Long live the legitimate Queen Lakshmi"
The crowd erupts in cue. "*Lakshmi! Lakshmi!*"
Varun's face twists. He backhands me. My head snaps sideways, my vision blurring. "Cut her tongue out!"
The executioner leers and pulls out his pliers. I brace myself, ready to launch myself at him if he dared to touch Old Nira.
Boom.
The gates explode.
Warriors on wolves flood the square. At their head rides a woman with antlers in her hair, veiled in red silk.
The crowd freezes. Even Varun stumbles back. They are Werewolves and we were pets and food to them.
"Alpha Queen Zoya," he croaks.
Coward. Quaking at the sight of Zoya.
Everyone quakes at the sight of the wolf Queen but we always have the spine to hide it well.
Zoya dismounts, her wolves circling the scaffold. "I'll take the girl."
The girl - me.
Why? I want to ask but the gag on my mouth prohibits me.
Varun laughs, trying to hide his fear. Too little...too late.
"She's nothing! A traitor!"
"Yet you're terrified of her." Zoya flicks a glance at the crowd, still chanting my name. "Give their little Queen to me"
"Why?"
"For my husband, of course. Kael collects broken things that refuses to crack. He'll enjoy breaking her. Take her"
"No! Lak!" Jivan lunges, tackling the executioner. The crowd surges—fists, rocks, teeth. Varun's guards raise swords, but they're outnumbered ten to one.
No. No. No.
"Stop!" I scream, my voice raw after chewing through my gag. "Don't fight! Stay alive!"
The crowd stills. Meera sobs, clutching her doll.
Zoya smirks. "How noble." She tosses a bag of gold at Varun's feet. "The girl. Now."
Varun hesitates, eyeing the furious mob. "Take her."
Old Nira throws herself at Zoya's wolf. "Don't you touch her!"
Zoya sighs. "Tedious." She snaps her fingers.
A wolf's jaws clamp around my waist, hauling me into the air.
Meera darts forward, her doll raised.
"For you, Queen!"
"Wait!" I thrash, reaching for Meera.
The wolf bolts. I catch the doll mid-air, its button eyes staring up as the wind steals the crowd's cries:
"Come back to us! Come back for us!"
---
Hours Laters
The wolf's fur stinks of musk and blood. Every gallop jolts my broken ribs, but I clutch Meera's doll like a lifeline.
My name is Lakshmi Vasumathi. Daughter of King Abhay Vasumathi, rightfully queen to the Jharna tribe.
Memories claw at me— my Father's head on the palace gates.
Varun burning the archives where I hid as a child.
The night I carved my crest into my arm with a shard of glass, blood dripping into the dirt, with the ghost of my dead father keeping watch.
"A queen bleeds with her people," Father whispered. "But never breaks."
The wolves stop at a fortress of black stone. Zoya drags me down by my hair. "Welcome to the Den of Ashes, little martyr."
I swing at her. She catches my fist, laughing. "Good. My husband hates fragile toys."
The gates creak open. Firelight glows against weapons lining the walls. A shadow moves in the hall—tall, broad, claws glinting.
Alpha Kael .
He steps into the light. Scars map his chest, his eyes molten gold. Another monster.
Zoya shoves me towards him. "A gift, husband. The Thorn Queen."
Kael's gaze pins me. I lift my chin, blood crusting my lips. "Kill me. Let this end"
He grips my throat. For a heartbeat, I think he'll crush it. Then his thumb brushes the bruise Varun left, his touch shockingly soft.
"No," he growls.
Zoya's smile dies. "What?"
Kael yanks me against himself, his heartbeat thunder under my ear. "She's Mine."