Lilith
Aeternum's Pocket space
Inner Sanctum
New World continent
April 18th 6415
Alarms screamed in the distance—shrill, metallic wails that rattled the metal walls of our room and made the fluorescent lights above us flicker. Jennifer and I sat in the same cramped space we had shared ever since the day we first met in the playroom years ago. Back then, the walls had seemed too big, the floor too cold. Now, they felt almost suffocating.
The sounds from beyond the door were not the ordinary footsteps and clipped voices of the orderlies—this was chaos. Muffled shouts, the wet thud of something heavy hitting the ground, and cries that broke into gargles before fading. Pain and terror seeped through the cracks in the walls like an invisible mist.
Jennifer crouched low on her bed, knees tucked against her chest, arms wrapped around herself so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her head was buried, but I could see the slight tremor in her shoulders. The noise outside was eating at her, and the way her fingers dug into her own sleeves told me she was trying—desperately—to drown out that terrible voice echoing through the halls.
I sat on my own bed, unmoving. The sounds—the death throes, the tearing of flesh, the collapsing bodies—they slid past me as easily as the hum of the ceiling light. My ears heard them, but my mind treated them like any other sound. Harmless. Normal.
When the corridor beyond us went still, the silence was so sudden it rang louder than the alarms. I stood, my bare feet whispering against the cold tile, and crossed to Jennifer's bed. She didn't look up until I touched her shoulder. Her green eyes met mine, wide and wet, searching for something—safety, maybe, or certainty. I gave her what I could: the smallest smile.
"It's time," I said, my voice calm enough to feel wrong in the quiet.
The door hissed—not a quick hiss, but slow, deliberate, as if whoever stood behind it wanted us to hear the sound of our world changing. The lights above flickered.
A man stepped in.
He filled the doorway like a shadow given shape. His skin was dark, his frame wrapped in plates of black armor polished to an obsidian sheen. The amber in his eyes was alive, a predatory gleam that cut straight through the room and pinned me in place.
The air changed with him inside. Cold. Sharp. The kind of presence that made other people shrink away. And yet, for me, it was the opposite—like finding the first warm ember on a freezing night.
His gaze swept down, catching my hand holding Jennifer's, then lingering on her pale face.
"So this is Jennifer," he said, voice low but carrying weight enough to still the room.
"You're late, Father," I answered.
Something softened in his stance. The predator stepped aside, letting the man through. He dropped to one knee, the joints of his armor clicking faintly. "I'm sorry, baby girl."
Then his eyes found Jennifer again. The weight of his presence didn't vanish, but it shifted—less threat, more shelter. "Jennifer," he said, with the faintest curve of a smile. "I'm Lilith's father. Jonathan Kain. I hear you'll be coming with us."
****
I woke with a jolt, breath hitching in my chest, the remnants of the dream clinging to me like damp cloth. My eyes blinked rapidly, chasing away the blur, but the memories refused to fade. They came in waves—each one sharper, heavier—until the tears began to spill.
Jennifer's voice echoed in my head, not from the present, but from a time I thought I'd buried deep.
"I was searching for someone. Or waiting. She promised to meet me here."
The way she'd said it—soft, uncertain—had felt like she was speaking to no one in particular, as if afraid of the answer.
"And did she?" I'd asked.
"I think I've been forgotten," Jennifer said, her eyes turning away, drifting somewhere I couldn't follow.
A hot sting flared in my chest. Why… why didn't she tell me? My fingers curled tight until my nails dug crescent moons into my palms. Why didn't she tell me about the past we shared? About me?
" You're awake," a voice interrupted, grounding me in the present.
I turned toward it, expecting the usual ripple of an ethereal form. Instead, Aeternum stood there in a body—its physical projection—dressed in a crisp white lab coat. On the table before it lay the gauntlet Greta had given me, its silver and crimson inlays catching the light as Aeternum's tools traced delicate lines across its surface.
"What happened?" My voice felt rough, like I hadn't used it in hours.
"Prince Erik Sterling knocked you out," Aeternum said without looking up. The precise clicks of its tools never slowed. "I kept you in my pocket space to recover faster."
I shifted, only then realizing how much lighter my body felt. The sluggish weight in my limbs was gone, my mana core thrummed with full strength, and even the deeper aches had vanished.
"Thanks," I murmured.
"You know," Aeternum continued, its amber optic lenses flicking briefly to me before resuming their work, "you could have channeled mana from me. You didn't have to use that mark."
The words hung in the air, carrying more than just a reminder—there was something almost accusatory in how it said that mark.
"I didn't want to slow you down," I said, my voice quieter than I intended.
Aeternum paused mid-adjustment, a thin tool held between its metallic fingers. Its optic lenses flicked toward me, the faintest mechanical hum filling the space between us.
"My progress," it repeated, not as a question, but as if tasting the words.
"You think I haven't noticed?" I shifted forward on the edge of the bed, my bare toes brushing the cold forge floor. "You're weaker than you're meant to be, Aeternum. Your core's running on fumes. There's barely enough energy to sustain yourself, let alone me. If I start siphoning from you, it won't just cost me—it'll cost you too."
The faint whir in its chest cavity stuttered, almost like a sigh. My eyes drifted toward the shadowed racks lining the far wall—rows of sealed shelves, their contents locked behind shimmering mana screens. The things it couldn't open anymore. The treasures and tomes that would remain untouched until it recovered.
The few artifacts scattered across the worktables—simple talismans, half-finished gauntlets, and my own forged trinkets—were the only things it could afford to keep active.
"Well," Aeternum said finally, voice edged in a thin veneer of stubbornness, "the more you progress in your cultivation, the stronger I become as well."
"Then I guess that's the problem." I leaned back, eyes tracing the blackened beams overhead. "Lately… cultivation hasn't exactly been my top priority."
The words tasted bitter. My thoughts sank to the Mark of Kain—the brand etched not into skin, but into the fabric of my soul. It pulsed there, faint but undeniable, like a second heartbeat. Just as I could cultivate my soul core, I could feed the Mark… though feeding it felt like feeding a flame that might one day turn on me.
The fight with the Lycans had made that truth crystal clear. I had gained power—inhuman speed, heightened senses, a predator's strength—but in exchange, something in me had shifted, thinned, as if my foundation itself had been carved away.
I rose from the bed, the floor biting at my feet. My gaze swept across the forge lab. On the benches lay the things I'd made—small charms, common-grade blades, nothing that would turn heads in any market. But each one carried the shape of my hands, my choices. In their imperfection, they were still mine.
"Where's Eduardo?" I asked, not turning back.
"He's safe," Aeternum replied. "With the others in Arcadia."
The name made me stop mid-step. I turned. "Arcadia? As in—the land of the Wolves?"
"Yes," it said, returning to its work as though the revelation were trivial. "It turns out the Pillar Island Dungeon is connected to their territory. Which explains the Lunar-attribute beasts we encountered."
My mouth tightened. Wolves. That explained more than I wanted to think about right now.
I glanced down at myself and noticed the black tunic shirt and long pants—fresh, uncreased, and not what I'd been wearing before. My fingers brushed the fabric. "You changed my clothes."
Aeternum didn't even look up. "Your old ones were… less than presentable."
"Thanks," I murmured, then willed myself back to the outside world where my comrades were waiting.
The shift was instant and jarring—space folding, my body reassembling with the faint snap of displaced air. Disorientation gripped me for a heartbeat, the world spinning before my senses caught up. The smell of polished silver and faint incense reached me first, then the cool bite of the air.
Before I could even steady myself, something soft and warm slammed into me. Arms wrapped around my ribs in a desperate embrace, holding me as though I were spun glass and one wrong move might shatter me. My breath caught at the familiar scent—Ella. Sweet and clean, tinged faintly with lilac. Her heartbeat thudded against mine, and in that rhythm, I felt the sharp, overwhelming relief pouring off her.
"Lilith…" Her voice cracked, a tremor running through it. "I thought you were gone. I…" The rest dissolved, stolen by the way she clung to me.
She finally pulled back, just enough for her gaze to find my face. Her eyes—those deep indigo pools—were clouded with worry, rimmed in the faintest sheen of tears. Concern radiated from her, raw and unguarded, and guilt twisted in my gut. Ella's life had already been carved hollow by loss; the thought of her enduring it again—because of me—was almost unbearable.
"I'm fine," I said, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. My arms came up to return her embrace, slower, gentler, as if to assure her I was truly there.
Over her shoulder, my eyes swept the room. It was large, almost ceremonial in its elegance—walls paneled in polished silver, the metallic sheen catching the light in soft ripples. Intricate filigree wound around the edges of the room, and in the center sat a bed wide enough to fit more than two people, its canopy draped in pale fabric that shimmered faintly.
When I looked back at Ella, I noticed the change—gone was the battle-worn gear she'd worn in the Dungeon. Instead, she was dressed in a flowing lilac gown that mirrored the scent I'd caught earlier. The fabric moved like water when she shifted, the soft hue setting off the silvery shine of her hair and the vivid depth of her indigo eyes. For a moment, the chaos we'd just come from felt impossibly far away.
"I hear we're in Arcadia," I said, the name tasting strange on my tongue. "How is that even possible?"
Ella shifted her weight, fingers brushing absently over the folds of her gown as though grounding herself before speaking. "After you and Eduardo split from us, we ran into a hunting party of Lycans. Not just any pack—they were led by the third prince of the Lycan Kingdom."
My brow furrowed. "Is he the one—"
"—Who knocked you out? Yes." Her answer was clipped, but her eyes softened as she studied me, as if making sure the memory didn't bring back any fresh pain. "You went down hard, Lilith. Aeternum pulled you back into its space to keep you from… well, from worse. We didn't have many choices after that. We followed the Lycans back to their capital."
I stared at her. "Followed them? Not fought them?"
"Not with you unconscious and Eduardo injured. Survival took priority." Her voice was steady, but I caught the faint flicker in her eyes—a brief flash of distaste, maybe even frustration.
"Huh," I muttered, glancing around the lavish silver room again. "So… are we prisoners? Because this doesn't exactly look like a jail cell."
"No. We're guests of the Royal Family," Ariella said from where she sat, her tone calm but watchful.
"Seriously?" I turned toward her, disbelief threading through my voice. "After what happened… with me…"
"The Lycans don't mind," Ella said before Ariella could answer. She stepped closer, the hem of her lilac gown whispering over the silver floor. Her fingers slid into mine, warm and certain, and she gave my hand a gentle squeeze. "You didn't kill any of them."
A hollow laugh escaped me. "But I nearly did… Ella, I wanted to." The words scraped their way out. "The thought of them killing me… leaving you alone… it was enough to make me want to tear them apart. All of them."
For a moment, she said nothing. Her eyes stayed locked on my face, steady and searching, but I looked away. I didn't want her to see me like this—stripped down to the raw, ugly parts.
"We haven't talked about what happened," Ella said at last, her voice quiet but unflinching. "I… I know you liked her. Jennifer. More than a friend."
My chest tightened. "El…" I met her gaze. There was no accusation in her eyes—only concern, only that patient understanding that always made me feel both grateful and exposed.
"Yes," I said finally. "I think so. Maybe there was something there… but we never had the chance to find out what it really was. Because I destroyed it. With my own hands. I killed her."
Ella's grip on my hand tightened, almost fierce. "No… You didn't." Her voice sharpened, not with anger at me, but at the truth she refused to let me rewrite. "Look at me, Lil. That wasn't your fault. That thing—" her voice dipped lower, the words heavy with venom—"forced your hand."
I shook my head, but it wasn't denial so much as resignation. "No… I could have surrendered myself to it. Let it take me instead of her." My voice broke for the first time. "But I couldn't. Because the thought of it using me to hurt you… I couldn't bear it. That's why I chose to do it. Because in the end… I cared more for you than I did for her."
Ella's breath caught, the faintest tremor passing through her shoulders. For a long moment, she didn't speak. The only sound between us was the soft rhythm of our breathing, steady yet uneven in the tension that hung there. Her hand never let go of mine; if anything, her fingers tightened, as if anchoring me in place.
Her eyes softened, but there was something else behind them now—a fierce, unyielding light that I'd only seen in her during battle. A quiet resolve, the kind born from knowing exactly what she wanted and daring anyone, even me, to challenge it. She stepped closer, and the air seemed to thin. I felt the warmth of her breath fan against my cheek, carrying the faint scent of lilac and steel.
"And I care for you more than anything in the world," she murmured. Her voice trembled, not with weakness, but with the weight of what she was laying bare. I couldn't tell if it was anger, relief, or a storm of both, but it struck me all the same.
I opened my mouth to reply, but no words formed. She didn't give me the chance. In the next heartbeat, she leaned in and kissed me.
It wasn't tentative, wasn't hesitant—it was deliberate. An answer. Her lips pressed warm and sure against mine, carrying every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every time we'd danced around what was between us. My hands moved without thought, cupping her face as though the moment might shatter if I wasn't careful.
My chest ached—not from guilt this time, but from the sheer, unsteady rush of being seen, wanted, and forgiven all at once.
When she finally drew back, her forehead rested gently against mine. Our breaths mingled in that fragile, quiet space between us, the world narrowing to the warmth we shared.
"If you're guilty of sin," she whispered, her voice low and steady, "then so am I. Your sin is my sin also."
The words sank into me like an oath, one I knew she'd carry to the grave if she had to. Her words burned through me, leaving no room for doubt, no room for hesitation. Something inside me—tightly wound, chained down for too long—snapped.
Before she could even step back, I closed the gap and kissed her. Not gently. Not with the careful tenderness she'd shown me. Mine was urgent, fierce, almost bruising. My hands slid to the back of her neck and into her hair, pulling her closer until there was no space left between us.
She didn't pull away. If anything, she met me with the same fire, her fingers clutching at my tunic as though to keep me from vanishing. The taste of her was dizzying—warmth and resolve and something achingly familiar I hadn't dared to reach for until now.
When we finally broke apart, both of us were breathing hard, our foreheads pressed together. Her eyes shone—not just with softness now, but with a spark that matched the heat in my own.
"Then we sin together," I said, my voice low—rough with something I couldn't, and didn't want to, name.
Ella's lips curved in a slow, knowing smile, one that held both challenge and promise. Without breaking eye contact, she gave me a firm push, sending me back onto the bed. The silver canopy above blurred in my vision as she climbed over me, the soft weight of her pressing down, her knees bracketing my hips.
Her hands moved with a deliberate slowness, fingers tracing the shape of my collarbone, the line of my ribs, before sweeping lower. Each touch was a spark, my heartbeat quickening under her fingertips. Then her lips found the side of my throat—light at first, teasing—before brushing lower, leaving ghost trails of heat in their wake.
Her breath was warm against my skin, each exhale stirring something deep in my chest. The way her mouth moved—gentle, then firmer, then barely there—pulled me into a tension that was as much anticipation as it was need.
When she finally found my lips again, it wasn't a soft press—it was a claiming. Just the lightest touch at first, but it carried the same dangerous pull as the edge of a cliff. The moment deepened, and the desire that flared inside me felt wild, uncontained… a fire I would let consume the world if it meant it could keep burning.
Ella matched me in heat, her kiss fierce and unyielding, meeting my urgency with her own. One of her hands slid up into my hair while the other found the buttons of my shirt, working them loose with practiced ease. Each undone button felt like another line crossed, another tether cut.
As her fingers slipped the last button free, my shirt fell open, and the cool air of the room met the heat between us. But that wasn't the only sensation spreading through me.
Something else stirred—deep in my chest, in my veins. A pulse that didn't belong to my heartbeat alone.
Ella's lips moved against mine, urgent, unyielding, but I could hear the rhythm beneath her skin. The steady thrum of her heart. The rush of blood just beneath the surface of her throat, where my hands had slid up to frame her face.
The Mark of Kain stirred like an old predator waking, heat unfurling in my veins, threading down my arms, coiling low in my gut. The faint scent of her blood—sweet, alive, intoxicating—filled my senses until the room, the bed, even the kiss seemed blurred around it.
I broke from her mouth, my lips tracing the line of her jaw, lower, to the curve where her pulse beat against the hollow of her neck. My breath caught, teeth grazing her skin—not enough to break it, but enough to feel the temptation sharpen like a blade.
Every instinct screamed, take it. Sink my fangs in, taste her life, let the heat and hunger drown me.
Ella's fingers tightened in my hair, but whether it was to pull me closer or keep me from crossing that line, I couldn't tell.
Her pulse pounded in my ears, matching the rush in my veins until it was all I could hear. The scent of her blood was maddening—warm, rich, the kind of sweetness that could undo every wall I'd built to keep this hunger contained.
I hovered there, lips brushing against her skin, and my fangs ached. The Mark of Kain flared hotter, urging me, whispering that she was mine to take, that this closeness meant surrender, meant claim.
My breath deepened, pulling in more of her scent, feeding the fire inside me. My fingers tightened on her waist, pulling her just that fraction closer, enough that I could feel the steady rise and fall of her breathing against my chest.
And then—just as the edge crumbled beneath me—I saw it. Not with my eyes, but in my mind. The aftermath. Her lying still. The blood cooling. The light in her eyes gone.
The hunger screamed at me to ignore it, to give in. But something louder—sharper—cut through.
No.
I shut my eyes tight, pulling back with a sharp breath that felt more like a gasp for air than a choice. My lips left her neck, my forehead pressing to her shoulder instead, the burn in my chest still raging but caged again.
Ella didn't move away. Her hand slid from my hair to the back of my neck, her touch steady, as if she'd felt the struggle but hadn't feared it.
I let out a shaky laugh that was half relief, half self-loathing. "You have no idea how close that was."
"I think I do," she murmured, her voice low but certain. A sudden knock rattled through the silver-paneled door, sharp enough to make Ella jolt back like she'd been burned. Her cheeks flushed a vivid pink as she slid off me, smoothing her gown as if it could erase what had just happened. I sat up quickly, fumbling with my shirt buttons, my fingers not as steady as I'd have liked.
"Ella, Prince Erik is here," Eduardo's voice came from the other side.
The sound of it stilled me for a moment. I hadn't expected to hear him so soon. My mind flickered back—unbidden—to the forest, to the moments we'd shared when everything had gone to hell. We'd grown closer there, more than I'd ever anticipated, and the memory now tangled oddly with the present.
"Coming," Ella called back, her voice warm but composed. She glanced at me, the corners of her mouth curling into a small, knowing smile. "Looks like the Lycans are aware you're awake."
"Makes sense," I said, fastening the last button and rolling my shoulders back. "This is their territory, after all." I let a sly grin slip through. "Guess we should go greet our… gracious host."
I crossed the room and pulled the door open. Eduardo stood there, and the moment his eyes landed on me, his brows lifted in surprise. Relief softened his expression almost instantly, the tension in his shoulders easing.
"Eduardo," I greeted.
"Lil," he said, his tone warmer than I remembered. "Looks like you're back on your feet." His gaze flickered past me into the room—just a quick sweep, but it lingered a heartbeat too long before he brought it back to my face. He didn't comment, though something unspoken hung there.
Ella joined me at the doorway, and together we stepped into the corridor. The silver decor continued here, the hall wide and polished enough to reflect our shapes in faint distortions. We followed Eduardo down into a larger space that opened like a grand receiving hall.
Greta and Ben sat at one of the long benches, deep in conversation with someone else in the room. Their words halted as we entered, though it was Greta's gaze that caught me first. Her eyes widened, and in the same heartbeat her posture shifted—spine straightening, her chair scraping softly against the floor as she rose to her feet. Relief spread across her face, open and unguarded.
"Lilith," she said, crossing the space between us. The tension in her voice dissolved, replaced by warmth. "You're all right."
"Yes," I said, offering a small nod. "I'm all good."
Only then did my attention shift fully to the third person in the room. Recognition struck, sharp and unwelcome.
It was him.
The one who had knocked me out.
This time, there was no battle armor on him. He wore a fitted silver-blue tunic suit that caught the light with each movement, a white toga draped over one shoulder in a style that looked ceremonial rather than casual. His ears were adorned with wolfish jewelry—sharp, fang-like silver pieces that marked him as Lycan royalty even without an introduction.
But it wasn't his attire that set me on edge. It was his presence. The air around him had a weight, an invisible gravity that made my senses sharpen instinctively. The aura radiating off him was controlled, deliberate—but even muted, it pressed against me with the same authority and danger I'd felt in Greta's presence. A Great Sage Expert.
I kept my stance relaxed, but inside, my instincts were already drawing lines of caution. If he had been the one leading the Lycan pack that day in the forest, the fight would have been over before it began. I would never have stood a chance. There was no doubt about it.
"Lilith Kain," the man said, his voice smooth but edged with something I couldn't quite place. "It's a pleasure to meet you officially."
"Prince Erik…" I replied, letting his title linger on my tongue.
A faint curve tugged at his mouth, though it never reached his eyes. "Ah, so you have heard of me. I'm glad my reputation precedes me." He rose from his seat in one fluid motion, unfolding to his full height—easily six feet five. The silver-blue fabric of his tunic caught the light, the white toga draped over one shoulder shifting as he moved. His gaze, however, was unwavering, cold in its precision, revealing nothing of what he thought of me.
"It is good to see you awake," he said, his tone courteous but stripped of warmth. "My father, the Emperor, has requested—no, demanded—your presence before him."
"Lil has just woken up…" Ella started, her voice carrying that protective edge I'd heard from her only a handful of times.
I reached out and caught her arm, giving it a firm squeeze. My thumb brushed over her skin in reassurance, telling her without words that I was fine—that I didn't need shielding from this.
I looked back at Erik, meeting his gaze head-on. "Sure," I said, my voice even but carrying an undertone of challenge. "Why not?"
Prince Erik inclined his head slightly—not in deference, but in acknowledgment—and turned toward the hall. "Then follow me," he said, his long strides already eating the distance before I had taken my first step.
I glanced once at Ella, catching the faint crease of worry between her brows. Greta's gaze met mine from across the room—steady, measuring—before I turned and followed Erik out into the silver-lined corridor.
The halls of Arcadia's palace were nothing like the dungeons or battlefields we'd seen. The walls gleamed with polished silver so pure it almost reflected like a mirror, engraved with curling wolf motifs and runes that pulsed faintly with lunar mana. Tall windows spilled cold, pale light onto the marble floor, the glow pooling around Erik's steps as if the moon itself followed him. Guards in silver-and-black armor stood every twenty paces, their helms shaped like snarling wolf heads.
As we walked, I could feel the palace watching us—every servant's subtle glance, every guard's steady stare. Arcadia might call us guests, but it was clear they hadn't forgotten who I was or what had happened in the forest.
At the end of the hall, massive double doors loomed—ten feet high, their silver panels inlaid with black steel shaped into the image of a wolf standing over a crescent moon. A pair of guards stepped forward, crossing their silver glaives before pounding them into the floor in unison. The sound echoed down the corridor like a challenge.
Erik slowed and cast me a sidelong glance. "The King doesn't like to be kept waiting. Choose your words carefully, Lilith Kain. You're about to stand before the Silver King of Arcadia—the Demon Wolf of the Paragon Order."
The titles rolled off his tongue with the weight of centuries behind them. Even without meeting him yet, I could feel the pulse of his presence ahead—an oppressive, lupine aura that seeped through the cracks of the door, ancient and predatory.
The guards pushed the doors open, and cold moonlight spilled into the hall.
Erik stepped inside first, his voice carrying easily into the chamber beyond. "Father, I've brought the group that came from the Dungeon."
I followed, and the first thing I saw was a throne of black steel and silver, flanked by banners bearing the symbol of the Sterling house—a wolf's head crowned by a crescent moon. And upon it sat a man whose gaze felt like it could strip the truth from my bones.
He sat with the stillness of a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike, yet his presence filled the chamber as if every inch of it belonged to him—and him alone.
The Silver king's hair was long, silver-white, and heavy, falling over his broad shoulders like a winter mantle. His eyes were a piercing, unnatural gold, glowing faintly as though lit from within, their pupils narrow and lupine. Scars marked the edges of his jaw and throat—old ones, healed over yet refusing to fade—each a testament to battles survived rather than hidden.
He wore the armor of the Paragon Order, but altered—black steel chased with lunar silver, the breastplate etched with runes that shimmered faintly when he moved. A heavy cloak of silver-dyed wolf fur draped from his shoulders, clasped at the collar by a crescent-shaped brooch forged from black diamond. Around his neck hung a torque of the same silver-blue metal I'd seen in Erik's attire, its edges worked into snarling wolf heads that bit into a central moonstone.
His hands, resting on the arms of the throne, were clad in clawed gauntlets—each talon a sharpened piece of silver-steel. When his fingers flexed, the metal whispered against itself, a sound too controlled to be accidental.
Behind him, the silver banners of Arcadia hung heavy in the moonlit air, each stitched with black thread that formed the sigil of the Demon Wolf—open maw, fangs bared, the crescent moon rising behind it. The walls here were darker than the rest of the palace, the silver inlay interrupted by black stone columns carved into howling wolf statues. I could feel the enchantments woven into them—wards, blessings, and something older, deeper, that smelled faintly of blood and frost.
When his gaze locked on us, it was like the weight of the moon itself pressing down. Not the gentle glow of night, but the cold, pitiless light that could strip the warmth from the earth.