02:17 a.m. Ironhaven's reliquary vault sits quiet, buried three floors below the citadel's main hall—quiet enough that Sera Vale can hear her own heartbeat. Thud, thud, thud. It's too loud, too fast, and she presses a hand to her chest like that'll muffle it. Stupid. Wolves have better hearing than this. Even human ones, like the guards posted at the vault's entrance.
She's already taken care of them. A quick spray of moonflower extract—something her mom taught her, back before the caravan massacre—over their post, and they're out cold, heads lolled to the side, snoring like logs. The extract wears off in an hour, though, so she's got a clock. Not that she needs another one. The countdown rune on her wrist burns under her cuff, faint but persistent: 29-21-47-32.
It's been there since the coronation, since she snuck into the servant gallery to watch Lucien reject Celeste. She doesn't know where it came from. Doesn't know what it means. All she knows is that it's tied to the dagger the Council shoved in his face—and that it's counting down to the same thing.
She doesn't care about Lucien. Or the Council.
Or the stupid crown. She cares about the locket.
Her mom's locket. The one with the map to the Forbidden Forest, where the old wolves say the last of the moon-current's purest source hides. Where, maybe, she can find answers—why her mom was killed, why her blood runs silver when she cuts herself, why the Council's been hunting her like a rogue since she was twelve. The locket's in the reliquary, she'd heard the elders mutter at the coronation. "Safe," they said. "Out of reach of rogues."
Joke's on them. She's a rogue now.
And she's very good at reaching things she shouldn't.
The vault door is moon-steel, polished to a shine that reflects the faint torchlight from the corridor. It's locked with a rune-ward—complex, swirling patterns carved into the metal that glow purple when someone gets too close. Sera takes a breath, pulls her hood back just enough to expose her neck, and lets her scent drift. Winter-mint and starlight. It's always been her scent, even as a kid, and her mom used to laugh and say it was "moon-kissed." Now, it's her weapon.
She blows gently on the runes.
Her scent wraps around the door like a blanket. The purple glow flickers, then dims—slow, at first, then fast, like the runes are surrendering. There's a soft click, and the door eases open an inch, just enough for her to slip through. She holds her breath, slips inside, and eases it shut behind her.
The vault's bigger than she expected. Shelves line the walls, packed with relics: old moon-forged blades, cracked crystal orbs that hum with dead magic, tapestries stitched with scenes of wolves and moons and battles long forgotten. Torches burn in brackets along the ceiling, casting long shadows that stretch across the stone floor. In the center, on a pedestal of black marble, sits the locket.
It's small—about the size of her palm—made of the same moon-steel as the vault door, but polished to a warm glow. The chain is delicate, woven with tiny links, and the front is etched with a wolf's head—her mom's pack sigil. Sera's throat tightens. She hasn't seen it since the massacre, since she ran into the woods with her brother, Jax, and didn't stop until the citadel was a distant dot on the horizon.
"Almost there," she whispers to herself. "Grab it, get out. Disappear forever."
She crosses the room, her boots light on the stone. The locket calls to her—soft, like a voice only she can hear. She reaches out, her fingers brushing the cool metal, and—Alarm.
It's not a loud one, not the blaring kind that echoes through the citadel. It's a glyph alarm—red, glowing symbols that erupt from the pedestal, wrapping around her wrist like snakes. She hisses, yanking back, but the glyphs hold tight. They burn, not like fire, but like ice—cold enough to make her teeth chatter—and she slices at them with the small knife she keeps in her boot.
Bad move.
The knife hits the glyphs, and a shock shoots up her arm. She drops the blade, and her palm slams into the pedestal's edge—hard. Pain blooms, sharp and hot, and she pulls back, staring at her hand. A deep cut runs across her palm, and blood wells up—silver, not red. It's always silver, ever since she was a kid. Ever since the caravan.
The blood drips onto the pedestal.
For a second, nothing happens. Then the silver blood sizzles, and the pedestal's surface glows. Words appear—faint, then bright—etched into the stone by the blood itself:
ECLIPSE KEY.
Sera freezes. Eclipse Key? What the hell is that? She reaches down, trying to wipe the blood away, trying to make the words disappear, but they're burned into the stone now—permanent, glowing, impossible to ignore.
Then the shadow falls.
It's huge, swallowing the torchlight, and Sera spins around, her heart in her throat. There's no time to run. No time to hide. He's already there, leaning against the vault door, his arms crossed, his moon-steel armor glinting in the glyph light.
Lucien Blackthorn.
He doesn't say anything. He just watches her—his eyes sharp, his jaw tight, his scent wrapping around her like a noose. Smoked-cedar and lightning. It's overwhelming, Alpha power thick in the air, and she has to fight the urge to bow. To submit. Stupid wolf instinct. She's not his. She's not anyone's.
"What are you doing here?" he says, his voice low. Not angry, exactly. Curious. Like he's trying to figure out why a rogue kid is breaking into his vault at two in the morning.
Sera glares at him. She clutches her bleeding palm to her chest, hiding the silver blood. "None of your business."
He pushes off the door, taking a step toward her. The room feels smaller now, like the walls are closing in. "This is my vault. My citadel. Everything here is my business." He nods at the pedestal, at the glowing words. "ECLIPSE KEY. You know what that means?"
She freezes. Does she? No. But she's not gonna admit that. "Why do you care? You're too busy worrying about your thirty-day deadline to care about some old stone words."
His jaw tightens. So he heard that. Of course he did. Wolves hear everything. "You were in the gallery," he says, not a question. "You saw the dagger. The countdown."
Sera's throat goes dry. She backs up, her shoulder hitting a shelf. A crystal orb falls, and she catches it, her hands shaking. "I was working. Servant duty. I didn't see anything."
He snorts. "Servants don't wear cloaks lined with moonflower extract. Servants don't have silver blood. Servants don't break into reliquaries to steal locket's with Forbidden Forest maps."
Her eyes widen. He knows. How the hell does he know?
He takes another step, and now he's right in front of her. He's tall—taller than she remembered from the gallery—and broad, his armor making him look even bigger. He reaches out, and she flinches, but he doesn't touch her. He touches the locket, still sitting on the pedestal. His fingers brush the wolf's head sigil, and his eyes flick to her.
"Your mom was Elara Vale," he says. It's not a question.
Sera's breath catches. Elara Vale. Her mom's name. The name the Council banned after the massacre. The name they said belonged to a "traitor" who was "colluding with the Void."
"You knew her," she says, her voice barely a whisper.
He nods. "We were kids. Before the caravan. Before…" He trails off, looking at the locket. "She was a good wolf. Too good for the Council's shit."
Something in his voice softens—just for a second—and Sera feels her guard drop. Just a little. But then the countdown on her wrist burns, and she remembers why she's here. Why she can't trust him. He's the Alpha King. He's the Council's puppet. He's the one who rejected Celeste, sure—but that doesn't make him her friend.
She grabs the locket off the pedestal, shoving it into her pocket. "I'm taking this. It's mine. My mom's."
Lucien doesn't stop her. He just watches, his eyes dark. "The Forbidden Forest isn't what you think. It's not a safe place. It's where the Void's strongest."
"I don't care," she says. "I need answers. About my mom. About—" She cuts herself off, not wanting to say the words out loud. About the silver blood. About the countdown. About why she's been running her whole life.
He stares at her for a long time. Long enough that the alarm glyphs on her wrist fade, and the pain in her palm eases. Long enough that she starts to think he'll let her go. Then he moves.
Fast. Faster than she expects. He grabs her wrist—her bleeding one—and slams it against the pedestal. She cries out, the locket digging into her pocket, and he twists her arm behind her back. She struggles, kicking at his legs, but he's too strong. Too Alpha.
He leans in, his mouth close to her ear. His scent—smoked-cedar and lightning—fills her lungs, and she freezes.
"You just became my salvation," he whispers.
Then he snaps moon-steel cuffs around her wrists—cold, heavy, etched with runes that glow blue the second they close. They lock with a click, and Sera feels her wolf stir inside her—small, weak, but there—before going silent. The cuffs suppress her. All of her.
She stops struggling. She just stares at the wall, her eyes burning. He's not letting her go. He's keeping her. Why?
Lucien steps back, still holding her arm. He nods at the vault door. "Let's go. We've got a Council to fool."
Sera doesn't move. She just glares at him, her voice tight with rage. "What are you gonna do? Lock me up? Kill me?"
He shakes his head. "No. I'm gonna marry you."
The words hang in the air. Stupid. Impossible. Marry her? A rogue? A kid with silver blood and a stolen locket?
But the look in his eyes is serious. Dead serious. And the countdown on her wrist ticks down—29-21-42-18—and she knows. She knows he's not joking.
He traps her wrist in moon-steel cuffs and whispers, "You just became my salvation."