The coronation-masque at Ironhaven Citadel isn't just a party—it's a performance. The kind where everyone's wearing a mask, even if it's just polished armor or a smile that doesn't reach their eyes. Waiters glide between tables, their moon-silk vests shimmering under torches that crackle like angry wolves, and nobles preen like peacocks in gear buffed to mirror the twin moons hanging low outside.
The air's thick with champagne fizz and something sharper—nerves, maybe, or the metallic-cold bite that clings to Ironhaven's nights, the kind that sinks into your bones even when you're surrounded by fire.
No one's saying it, but everyone's staring at the dais. There, on a velvet pillow, sits the Blackthorn crown: twisted moon-steel, inlaid with shards of the original moon, glinting like frozen starlight. It's been empty since Lucien's father was assassinated six months ago—since the night Lucien found him in a pool of his own blood, the same blade that now hangs at Lucien's hip protruding from his chest.
Lucien's not thinking about the crown. He's thinking about the way Celeste DuVal's smile doesn't reach her eyes as she stands by the dais, her gown stitched with black roses—her house sigil—thorns sharp enough to look like they could draw blood. She's been clinging to his arm all night, her fingers cold even through his armor, and every time she leans in to whisper something about "duty" or "the realm," he has to fight the urge to snarl.
Then the sky cracks.
It's not a sound—not really. It's a vibration, deep enough to rattle the crystal chandeliers until they sing. The mirrored ceiling above the ballroom spiderwebs into a thousand tiny pieces, and through the gaps, a blood-red aurora bleeds down.
It paints the marble floors crimson, turns champagne flutes into liquid fire, and every conversation dies. For three heartbeats, no one moves. Then the double doors at the back of the hall slam open, and Lucien walks in like he owns the place.
He does, technically. But right now, he looks like he's here to burn it down.
His moon-steel armor doesn't just reflect the light—it drinks it, turning the aurora's red glow into silver lightning that crawls along the edges of his pauldrons.
His jaw is set so tight his cheekbones bulge, and his eyes—pale, sharp, and flecked with the same lightning as his armor—scan the room like he's searching for a fight. He doesn't glance at the elders, who've shot to their feet so fast their chairs scrape the floor. He doesn't look at the crown. He locks eyes with Celeste.
She freezes. For a second, her composure slips—just a flicker of panic in her gaze—before she smooths it over with that same cold smile. "Lucien," she says, stepping forward like she's going to greet him. "You're late. The elders were just—"
Lucien doesn't let her finish. He reaches over his shoulder, his fingers wrapping around the hilt of the ancestral blade, and pulls. The sword slides free of its scabbard with a sound like thunder, and the runes etched into the steel glow bright silver—responding to his touch, to his Alpha power. The room holds its breath.
The aurora flickers brighter, painting his face red.
He turns to the banner behind Celeste. It's a massive thing, silk dyed black and silver, emblazoned with their combined sigils: a black rose wrapped around a lightning bolt. The Council hung it this morning, talking about "unity" and "securing the throne." Lucien stares at it for a beat, then swings the blade.
The silk splits. Clean, sharp, no hesitation. The two halves fall like spilled mercury, pooling at Celeste's feet. Gasps ricochet around the hall—loud, sharp, impossible to ignore. Lady Elara drops her fan; it clatters to the floor, its feathers splayed like broken wings. Lord Thorne's wine glass slips from his hand, shattering on the marble, and the red liquid mixes with the banner's threads, looking for all the world like blood.
Celeste's face goes white. Not with fear—with rage. Her hands curl into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms hard enough to draw blood (though no one sees it, not with her gloves on). "Lucien," she says, her voice tight, "you can't do this. The Council—"
"The Council can go to hell." He grabs the moon-tech microphone off the dais—sleek, silver, designed to carry his voice to every corner of the citadel—and holds it up. The metal is cold against his palm, but he doesn't flinch. "I reject Celeste DuVal."
The words hang in the air. The elders start yelling—something about "tradition" and "treason"—but Lucien cuts them off with a glare. His Alpha power rolls off him in waves, thick and heavy, and every wolf in the room freezes. Even the nobles, who think they're above such things, shift uncomfortably, their eyes darting to the door like they're considering running.
"Let every rogue, every outcast, every wolf this realm's turned its back on," he says, his voice rising, "witness that the Blackthorn throne bows to no pact made in fear. I will not mate because the Council says so.
I will not mate to keep a crown I never asked for." He slams the microphone down. It crackles, then goes silent.
Celeste steps closer. Her voice is quiet now, almost a purr, but there's venom in it. "You think this is about choice? You think you get to walk away from your duty? The moons are splitting, Lucien. The Void's getting stronger. We need—"
"We need truth," he snaps. "Not a marriage built on lies." He sheathes the blade, the sound echoing like a final verdict. "Now. If anyone has a problem with that… step up."
No one moves. Not the elders, red-faced and sputtering. Not the nobles, who're staring at their shoes. Not even Celeste, though her hands are still fisted so tight her knuckles are white. Then, slowly, a single tear rolls down her cheek.
It's not a human tear. It's liquid silver, thick and glowing, and when it hits the marble floor, it ignites. The flame is bright blue, hot enough to make the air waver, and it burns a perfect circle into the stone—small, precise, like a brand. Lucien's jaw tightens. He stares at that circle, then at Celeste, and for a second, there's something like regret in his eyes. But it's gone before anyone can name it.
He turns his back on her and starts toward the dais. Toward the crown. Toward the mess his life's become.
That's when the torches go out.
All of them, at once. One second, the hall's lit by the aurora and the chandeliers; the next, it's pitch black, except for the red glow seeping through the ceiling. A collective gasp goes up. Someone screams—high, shrill, terrified. Then, in the middle of the darkness, the Council seal materializes above Lucien's head.
It's a circle of seven stars, each one representing an elder, and in the center, a tiny clock ticks. The numbers are glowing silver, counting down—slow, steady, unforgiving. Lucien freezes. His hand tightens around the hilt of his blade, his knuckles white. The room stays silent. The only sound is the tick of the seal, echoing like a blade being sharpened.
Every torch in the hall snuffs out at once—only the blood-aurora remains, and in its glow the Council seal materializes above Lucien's head, ticking like a clock.