The farther Lena walked, the more the palace behind her blurred into a half-remembered nightmare. Torches, chanting, a blood-slicked chamber—it all faded beneath the dense canopy of ancient trees and curling mist. Moonlight filtered through the branches in pale, trembling strands, painting the forest floor in silver and shadow.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
Her gown snagged on brambles, its hem torn and muddy. Bare arms were scratched raw by branches that clawed at her like the forest itself wanted her to turn back.
She didn't. Couldn't.
The tower lay ahead hidden deep in the cursed woodlands, past the river of bone-white stones and the ruins of the old chapel. She knew the way.
She'd written it.
Unfortunately, she hadn't written a shortcut.
Lena stopped, bracing her hands on her knees. "God, why couldn't Selene have left behind a broomstick? Or a teleportation circle? Or—I don't know—a conveniently parked magical carriage with emotionally unavailable horses?"
Silence. Just the wind rustling through dead leaves.
Worth a shot.
Her fingers twitched. She remembered the palace—how panic had cracked something open inside her. Raw magic had surged then, wild and instinctive. Maybe she could summon it again.
She lifted a hand, narrowing her eyes at the path ahead. "Take me to the tower."
Nothing.
She tried again, louder. "Selene's Tower. The one with four very angry ex-boyfriends. Preferably before I freeze to death or get eaten by woodland creatures. Please and thank you."
Still nothing.
She opened her eyes. "Okay. Rude."
Grumbling, she pushed forward. "Thrown into a fantasy as a witch-queen and I don't even get basic teleportation. Ten out of ten stars for immersion. Zero for usability."
The snark didn't quite smother the dread coiling in her gut.
She knew who waited at the end of this path.
Ronan first, her thoughts whispered.
The Alpha. The king. The one who had once trusted her.
She'd made him believe she was capable of love just to tear his pack down and chain him in silver.
Then Dante.
The vampire with a velvet voice and a heart carved from ice. He'd knelt for her, bled for her—and Selene turned him into a puppet strung up on blood-curse threads Lena could still recite in her sleep.
Kael…
Feral and Fae, magic gleaming in him like wildfire before Selene drained it from his veins and left him to rot.
And Elias.
The hunter. The only one who never bent. Who vowed to end her—and she made him hers anyway.
When the structure came into view—black stone rising like a claw from the earth—Lena froze. A chill slid down her spine. The air here felt thicker. Older. Soaked in spells and whispers.
The tower knew her.
Or at least, it knew Selene.
She stepped closer and pressed her palm to the iron door. Cold pulsed beneath her skin. Her breath fogged as she whispered the unlocking spell, voice barely steady.
The lock groaned.
Chains stirred.
A low, guttural growl split the silence making her stand still, waiting for something to happen that would give her enough reason to turn back.
When nothing happened, she continued walking further in.
Lena noted how the tower responded to her every step. "If it could teach me how to use this magic, that'd be fantastic," she muttered to herself even though she knew there was no way the tower could do that.
But it appeased her to know it would keep her safe.
Lena suddenly stopped when she got to the main entrance. She glanced back once.
"I could turn around. Flee to the mountains. Change my name. Start a bakery. Villain-turned-breadmaker. People love a redemption arc."
Nothing but the rustle of trees responded.
"Fine. In we go. Maybe they're asleep. Or unconscious. Or cursed into a charming magical coma."
Her hand hovered on the handle.
"Okay, Lena. You can do this. You're smart. Adaptable. You've emailed editors. You know how to handle emotionally volatile men with power issues."
A shaky breath.
"You survived publishing. You can survive this."
Maybe.
She stepped inside.
Her footsteps echoed too loud against the stone. The air was damp. Stale with memory. The corridor spiraled downward in a long descent carved from obsidian-black rock. She remembered writing this staircase. It had felt poetic once. Now it felt like a descent into hell.
A sound—chain dragging.
Then another. Taut. Straining.
Someone was testing their bindings.
Don't flinch. Don't blink. Be the nightmare they remember.
She reached the final step.
Four figures waited in the dark. Each chained to a corner, glowing runes binding them like cursed stars in a constellation of fury.
They were awake.
Their eyes burned. She didn't need light to feel it—hatred pressed against her skin like heat.
No one spoke.
That was worse than screaming.
She stepped forward carefully, trying not to trip on her shredded hem. The floor was slick—moisture or blood. She didn't want to know.
Still, no one moved.
Say something. Break the silence. Take control.
Her voice came cool. Measured. A mimic of the queen they remembered.
"I see none of you escaped. Pity."
Chains snapped taut.
Ronan lunged. Kael too. Elias bared his teeth in the dark.
Only Dante stayed still—elegant and terrifying in his quiet. His red eyes glowed faintly, unreadable. But his fists were clenched.
Even he wanted her dead.
None of them spoke.
They didn't need to.
But none of them called her bluff either.
She drew a breath and looked at Ronan.
Then it hit.
Heat. Raw and magnetic, rolling through her like a pulse. The awareness buckled her knees for a split second.
No. No, no. This wasn't right. Selene never felt the bond. She controlled it. She wielded it.
But Lena wasn't Selene.
And whatever ancient force tied them together didn't care.
The scent of him—smoke, cedar, stormlight—hit her like memory.
She tore her gaze away, jaw tight. Everything in her buzzing with heat she didn't ask for.
None of them moved.
But something in the room shifted. Not rage. Not yet. Just a flicker of confusion.
Maybe recognition.
They could feel it too.
That was how Selene had controlled them.
She straightened. Cold voice. Controlled breath.
"Well," she said, voice steady. "I'm here. I assume you have questions."