The collar around Rayne's neck was made of silver.
Not polished. Not ornamental.
Raw.
Like it had been forged from broken shackles.
It burned her skin whenever her emotions spiked. Too little to leave a scar -just enough to remind her who was in control.
Two guards flanked her, silent and sharp-eyed, as they led her through the endless marble halls of the Araksan palace. Golden light spilled through tall, stained glass windows. The ceiling arched like a cathedral. Paintings of ancient wolves stared down at her from every angle.
She didn't belong here.
Every step echoed with judgment.
Every breath carried the weight of those who watched from the shadows.
They had chained her like a beast. Washed her wounds like a prisoner. Dressed her in soft, foreign silk that felt more like a threat than a comfort.
A symbol: You are ours now.
She touched her collar. "How long will I wear this?"
Neither guard answered.
A woman waited on the top of a spiral staircase.
Silver-haired, sharp-boned, and wearing gold and black clothing. Her eyes were cold steel.
"I am Mistress Lyselle," she said. "You will speak only when spoken to, bow to royalty, and answer with obedience. Understood?"
Rayne didn't answer.
Mistress Lyselle's eyes narrowed. The collar sparked faintly.
Rayne flinched.
"I said, do you understand?"
"...Yes," she muttered.
"Good. You are nothing now. A stray beast given the mercy of the crown. If you disobey again, I'll have your tongue removed and replaced with silence."
Rayne bit back the urge to growl.
Instead, she looked down at her hands.
The marks were still there.
Thin silver veins pulsing faintly beneath her skin. Not scars. Not bruises. Something living.
Last night, in the trial, they had shimmered like starlight. And her eyes-she remembered the way Kael had looked at her.
Glowing, he said.
Moonlit gold.
Rayne was beginning to understand something terrible.
This wasn't just about survival anymore.
This was a countdown.
Something inside her was changing. Faster than she could stop it.
Mistress Lyselle snapped her fingers. "Take her to her chambers."
The guards led her deeper into the palace.
Past more eyes. More whispers.
"She's the one."
"Veilborn."
"She should have been killed."
"She'll bring the curse back..."
The chamber doors groaned open.
Inside: velvet drapes, golden mirrors, a canopy bed too large for someone like her.
Rayne stared at it all in silence.
Luxury meant nothing when you were the enemy.
The guards didn't remove her collar. They left without saying anything.
She stood with her fists clinched at her sides in the middle of the room.
A mirror hung across from her.
She turned to face it.
And there-clear as moonlight, her eyes began to glow again.
Faint at first. Like embers.
Then brighter.
Like something ancient stirring awake beneath her skin.
With rapid breathing, she staggered back.
"No..."
She grabbed a pillow and hurled it at the mirror. It bounced harmlessly off.
Her reflection was still there.
Golden eyes. Silver veins. A girl who didn't recognize herself anymore.
Rayne backed into a corner, sliding down the wall.
What am I becoming?
She remembered the voice from the trial.
Veilborn. You are ours.
She curled up, knees to chest.
The collar sparked again. A cruel reminder: she wasn't safe, even from herself.
And still, deep in her bones, something whispered:
"The moon remembers its heir."
The next morning, the collar was tighter.
Rayne awoke with a jolt, gasping as the metal dug into her throat. The pain wasn't just from the silver-it was from the dream she couldn't escape.
Fire.
Snow.
And a voice-always the same voice: "You were not meant to live."
She stood slowly, pushing down the nausea twisting in her stomach. A soft knock came at the door.
Mistress Lyselle didn't wait for permission. She entered with two guards trailing behind, as always.
"Get up," she snapped. "You have royal duties to attend."
Rayne blinked. "Duties?"
"You will learn etiquette, control, and obedience. This is the price of your survival. Fail, and we'll drag you back to the cages."
Rayne said nothing. What could she say?
The collar pulsed faintly as they led her through another maze of halls. She passed servants, nobles, and even children-every one of them looked away when her glowing eyes met theirs.
She wasn't one of them.
She was a warning.
A mistake still breathing.
In a long marble chamber, a line of girls her age waited-dressed in soft silks and clean smiles. They all looked polished, pure. Not one of them had scars. Not one of them flinched at the presence of guards.
Rayne stepped forward. The room went silent.
Whispers slithered through the air.
"She's the wolf-blood."
"She's cursed."
"Why is she even here?"
Rayne's hands curled into fists. She felt the faint burn under her skin-like her veins were heating again.
Not now.
Not here.
She focused on breathing.
Mistress Lyselle clapped her hands. "You will not speak unless spoken to. You will walk with grace. And you will never let your beast show itself."
Rayne was pushed into line. She didn't belong here.
But she couldn't leave, either.
As the other girls learned to curtsy, she watched the windows. She wasn't planning escape.
Not yet.
She was watching for the moon.
Because every night it came, something inside her rose with it.
Something sharp. Something hungry.
By midday, her feet ached, her head pounded, and her collar had sparked twice already. She was allowed a single glass of water.
"Her posture is awful," one girl whispered.
"She smells like a stable."
Rayne turned toward them slowly, her golden eyes flaring for just a moment.