Ironhaven's private strategy chamber smells like old leather and moon-steel—sharp, familiar, the kind of scent that clings to Lucien's clothes even when he's not here. The walls are lined with maps: some of the thirteen North American regions, marked with pack borders in glowing silver; others of the Forbidden Forest, edges blurred like the cartographer was too scared to draw what lay beyond.
A moon-tech hologram hovers in the center, showing the twin moons—Silver bright, Red dim, a hairline crack between them that pulses every few seconds.
Sera's cuffed to a wooden chair in the corner.
The moon-steel digs into her wrists, cold enough to make her fingers tingle, and she's pretty sure the runes etched into the metal are glowing brighter the more she fidgets. She glares at Lucien as he paces—back and forth, back and forth—his boots clicking on the stone floor like a metronome. Every time he passes the hologram, silver lightning crackles along his forearms, just below the edge of his armor, like his wolf's trying to break through.
"Can you stop that?" she snaps, nodding at his pacing. "You're making me dizzy."
Lucien stops. He turns to her, one eyebrow raised, and for a second, she thinks he might laugh. But he doesn't. His face hardens, and he crosses his arms, the lightning on his arms fading to a faint glow. "You're in no position to give orders, rogue."
"Rogue's got a name," she fires back. "It's Sera. Not 'rogue.' Not 'thief.' Sera."
He doesn't acknowledge it. He just gestures at the hologram, at the cracked moons. "The Council thinks a royal mate will fix that. Fix everything. They're wrong. But they've got the dagger. They've got the realm watching. I need a mate. Fast."
Sera snorts. "So you kidnap a rogue? Real smart. The Council'll love that. 'Oh, look, the Alpha King's marrying a thief with silver blood—problem solved.'"
Lucien's jaw tightens. He walks over to a shelf, pulls down a leather-bound book—thick, old, its pages yellowed with age—and slams it on the table. The cover is embossed with the Blackthorn sigil, and when he opens it, the pages glow with blue runes.
"Archaic statute, Section 12, Clause 7," he says, running a finger down the page. "'In times of crisis, an Alpha may wed a rogue of unknown lineage to prove impartiality to all packs—royal and outcast alike.'" He looks up at her, his eyes sharp. "The Council can't argue with it. It's older than the Council itself. Older than the split moons."
Sera stares at him. That's… actually smart. Stupid, but smart. The Council hates rogues—hates anyone who doesn't fit into their neat little boxes—but they can't ignore a statute that old. Not without looking like hypocrites. Not with the realm watching.
But why her? Why not some other rogue? Some rogue who doesn't have silver blood. Doesn't have a countdown rune. Doesn't have a locket with a map to the Forbidden Forest.
"Why me?" she asks, her voice quieter than she means it to be.
Lucien closes the book. He leans against the table, his arms still crossed. "Your mom was Elara Vale. She was loyal. She was good. The Council painted her as a traitor, but the packs—especially the outcast ones—remember her. Marrying her daughter? It sends a message. To the Council. To the packs. To the Void." He pauses. "And… you have silver blood. The runes on the cuffs—they react to it. You're not just a rogue. You're something else. Something the Council doesn't know about. Yet."
Sera's throat goes dry. He knows. He knows about the blood. About the ECLIPSE KEY. She shifts in the chair, trying to hide her hands—her bleeding palm, the faint glow of the countdown rune under her cuff—but it's no use. He's already seen.
"You're using me," she says, flat.
He doesn't deny it. "And you're using me. You want answers about your mom. About the Forbidden Forest. I can get you those. If you help me." He pushes off the table, walks over to a moon-tech terminal in the corner, and types something. A hologram pops up—this one of a contract, written in glowing blue runes.
"Twelve moons. That's the term. After that, we break the contract. You get your answers. You get to go wherever you want. I get to keep the crown. Keep the realm from falling apart."
Sera leans forward, squinting at the contract. It's long—pages and pages of legal jargon—but one clause stands out, projected in bigger letters than the rest, right in the center:
CLAUSE 9: NO INTIMACY—PHYSICAL OR TELEPATHIC—FOR THE DURATION OF THE CONTRACT. BREACH RESULTS IN IMMEDIATE TERMINATION OF THE CONTRACT AND POTENTIAL FORFEITURE OF LIFE-FORCE, PER MOON LAW.
She blinks. No intimacy. Not even telepathy. That's… actually a relief. The last thing she wants is to be mated to the Alpha King—even for twelve moons. Even if he is the only one who can give her answers.
"Twelve moons," she repeats, testing the words. "No intimacy. I get answers about my mom. About the Forbidden Forest."
He nods. "And I get a mate. A public one. Enough to satisfy the Council. Enough to buy time to figure out the Void. The moons."
She stares at the contract. At the runes. At Lucien, who's watching her like he's waiting for her to say no. Like he's half-hoping she will.
The countdown on her wrist burns. 29-20-17-43. Tick, tick, tick. Time's running out. For him. For her. For the realm, if the moons keep splitting.
She takes a deep breath. The metallic-cold air stings her lungs. "Fine. I'll do it."
Lucien's shoulders relax—just a fraction—but his face stays neutral. He walks over to the table, pulls out a quill made of moon-steel and a piece of parchment. "Sign here. In blood. Moon law requires it."
Sera snorts. Of course it does. She holds out her hand—the one with the cut, the silver blood still oozing—and he presses the quill into her palm. She winces, but she doesn't pull away. She leans over the parchment, writes her name in shaky, silver letters: Sera Vale.
When she's done, she spits on the parchment—just a small glob, a final act of defiance—and slams the quill down. "Happy?"
Lucien picks up the parchment, studies her signature. The silver blood glows, merging with the runes on the contract, and the parchment hums. "Happy's not the word." He rolls it up, ties it with a black ribbon, and slips it into his armor. "The wedding's at midnight. In the lunar chapel. No guests. Just us. And Rafe—my guard. He'll make sure no one interferes."
Sera's eyebrows shoot up. "Midnight? That's in three hours. You couldn't give me a heads-up?"
"I could," he says, "but the Council's already breathing down my neck. The faster we do this, the faster we can start figuring things out." He walks over to her, unlocks the cuffs from the chair—but leaves them on her wrists. "Come on. I'll show you to a room. You can clean up. Rest. You'll need it."
She stands up, her legs wobbly from sitting too long. The cuffs clink as she moves, and she glares at them. "Can't you take these off? They're heavy."
He shakes his head. "No. Not until the wedding. The Council can't know about your blood. Not yet. The cuffs suppress your scent. Your wolf. Keep you… normal. For now."
"Normal," she mutters. "Right. Because silver blood and countdown runes are so normal."
He doesn't respond. He just turns and walks toward the door, expecting her to follow. She does—reluctantly—her boots clicking on the stone floor. The strategy chamber fades behind her, the hologram of the cracked moons still glowing in the dark.
They walk in silence through the citadel's corridors. Torches burn along the walls, casting long shadows. Servants scurry past, their heads down, avoiding eye contact. No one looks at Sera. No one asks who she is. Like they know better. Like they've been told to stay away.
When they reach a door—wooden, unmarked, not nearly as grand as the other rooms in the citadel—Lucien stops. He pulls a key from his pocket, unlocks it, and pushes it open. Inside, it's small—just a bed, a desk, a chair, and a window that looks out at the twin moons. The sheets are plain, the walls bare. No tapestries. No mirrors. No moon-tech. Just… simple.
"Stay here," he says. "Rafe'll bring you something to eat. Something to wear. Midnight. Don't be late."
Sera steps inside. She turns to him, her hand on the doorframe. "Why are you doing this? Really. You could've picked anyone. Why me?"
Lucien stares at her for a long time. Longer than he has before. His eyes soften—just a little—and for a second, she sees something other than the Alpha King. Something like… loneliness. Like he's just as trapped as she is.
"Because you're the only one who can help me," he says, quiet. "And I'm the only one who can help you."
Then he closes the door. The lock clicks.
Sera stands there for a minute, staring at the door. Then she walks to the window, looks up at the moons. Silver and Red. Cracked. Waiting.
She pulls the locket out of her pocket, runs her finger over the wolf's head sigil. "Mom," she whispers. "What am I getting myself into?"
No answer. Just the wind, howling outside. Just the countdown on her wrist, ticking down: 29-20-12-31.
Three hours. Then she's married to the Alpha King.
Three hours. Then the real fight starts.
Later, when Rafe brings her a dress—simple, black, made of moon-silk—and a plate of bread and cheese, she eats quickly, changes quickly, and sits on the bed. She stares at the cuffs, at the runes glowing blue. She thinks about the contract. About the twelve moons. About the answers she might finally get.
Then the clock in the corridor chimes. Eleven-thirty.
It's time.
She stands up, smooths the dress, and walks to the door. Rafe is waiting outside, his face blank, his hands resting on the hilt of his sword. He doesn't say anything. He just turns and walks, and she follows.
They reach the lunar chapel at eleven-fifty. It's abandoned, its windows broken, its pews rotting. The twin moons shine through the broken roof, casting silver and red light on the stone floor. Lucien is already there, wearing a simpler version of his armor—no pauldrons, no gauntlets—his hair slightly messy, like he ran his hands through it too many times.
He turns when he sees her. His eyes widen—just a fraction—then he schools his face back to neutral. "You're on time."
"Didn't want to give you an excuse to change your mind," she says.
He snorts. He walks over to her, holds out his hand. She hesitates, then takes it. His palm is warm, calloused from his sword, and she feels a jolt—small, electric—when their skin touches. She pulls away, but he holds on.
"Just for the ceremony," he says, quiet. "Moon law. We have to hold hands."
She nods. She lets him lead her to the altar—a simple stone slab, etched with the Blackthorn sigil. Rafe stands off to the side, watching, his hand still on his sword.
There's no priest. No vows, not really. Just Lucien, reading from the contract in a quiet voice, his hand still holding hers. The moons glow brighter, and the runes on the cuffs and the contract glow in sync.
When he's done, he lets go of her hand. He picks up the parchment, holds it up to the moonlight, and says, "By the power of the twin moons, by the old laws, by the blood of the Blackthorns and the Vales—I bind us in contract."
The parchment bursts into blue flame. It doesn't burn—just glows, brighter and brighter, until it's too hard to look at. Then the flame dies, and the parchment is gone—replaced by a sonic boom that shakes the chapel.
Outside, glasses shatter. Plates crash. The sound echoes through the citadel, loud enough to wake the dead.
Lucien's eyes widen. He looks at the door, like he's expecting the Council to burst in. But no one comes.
Sera looks down at her hands. She's still holding a wineglass—Rafe gave it to her before they came in, a small sip to "calm her nerves." It's intact. Not a crack. Not a chip.
Every other wineglass in the citadel is shattered. But hers isn't.
Lucien notices it too. His eyes flick from the glass to her, then back to the glass. His jaw tightens.
The contract seals with a sonic boom that shatters every wineglass in the room—except the one in Sera's shackled hand.