The sonic boom lingers in the air—thick, vibrating, like the chapel itself is holding its breath.
Sera's ears ring, and she blinks hard, trying to clear the spots dancing in her vision. The wineglass in her shackled hand is still intact, its surface cool against her palm, not a single crack marring the crystal. Every other glass in the citadel is shattered, she's sure of it—she can almost hear the servants' panicked shouts echoing from the main hall—but this one? It's fine. Like it's protected.
Lucien stares at the glass, then at her, his eyebrows drawn together. His scent—smoked-cedar and lightning—flickers, sharp with confusion. "How?" he says, quiet enough that only she can hear. "Moon-steel cuffs suppress your power. You shouldn't be able to—"
"Protect a wineglass?" she finishes, a bitter laugh escaping her. "Beats me. Maybe my silver blood's good for something other than scaring the Council."
He doesn't respond. He just takes the glass from her hand, sets it on the stone altar, and turns to Rafe. The guard is still standing off to the side, his face as blank as ever, but his eyes are fixed on the shattered windows. When Lucien nods at him, he finally moves—slow, deliberate, like every step is calculated. He pulls a length of vine from his belt, thick and green, its leaves glowing faintly silver in the moonlight.
"Moon-vine," Lucien says, noticing Sera's stare. "Binds to truth. Tightens if you lie. Part of the old ceremony."
Sera's stomach drops. Of course it is. Nothing about this wedding is easy. Nothing about this contract is fair. She watches as Rafe steps forward, his hands steady, and wraps the vine around her wrist—her shackled one—and then around Lucien's. The vine's leaves brush her skin, cool and slightly sticky, and she shivers. When Rafe tugs it tight, the leaves press into her flesh, not painful, just… present.
"Ready," Rafe says, stepping back to his post. His voice is flat, no emotion, like he's reciting a script he's memorized a hundred times.
Lucien turns to her. The twin moons cast light through the broken roof, silver and red spilling over his shoulders, turning his hair to fire. He's closer now than he was in the strategy chamber—close enough that she can see the faint scar along his jaw, close enough that she can smell the faint hint of pine in his hair (leftover from the glamour he wore earlier, maybe?).
For a second, he looks less like the Alpha King and more like a guy—just a guy, trapped in a mess he didn't ask for.
Then he clears his throat, and the moment's gone.
"The vows are short," he says, his voice steady. "Old. No frills." He pauses, his eyes locked on hers. "Repeat after me. 'I bind you to duty.'"
Sera hesitates. Duty. To what? To him? To the Council? To a realm that's hunted her since she was a kid? But the moon-vine is already tightening around her wrist—just a little, a warning—and she knows she can't lie. Not here. Not now.
"I bind you to duty," she says, her voice quieter than she means it to be.
The vine relaxes.
Lucien's jaw softens, just for a heartbeat. "'I bind you to survival.'"
She repeats that too—"I bind you to survival"—and this time, the vine doesn't just relax. It blooms. Tiny black roses push through the leaves, their petals glossy, their thorns sharp enough to catch the moonlight. Sera gasps, staring at them.
She's never seen moon-vine bloom before—her mom used to talk about it, said it only happened when the bond was "true," even if it was just a contract—but she didn't think it was real.
Lucien's eyes widen. He reaches up, touches one of the roses gently, like he's afraid it'll vanish. "It's never… done that before," he says, mostly to himself.
Rafe shifts. "Ceremony requires a kiss," he says, breaking the silence. "Legal seal. No exceptions."
Sera's face heats up. A kiss. Of course it does. She glances at Lucien, expecting him to look as uncomfortable as she feels, but he's already turning to her, his expression neutral. "Just a touch," he says, quiet. "Nothing more. Clause 9 still stands."
She nods. She closes her eyes, just for a second, takes a deep breath of the metallic-cold night air, and tilts her chin up. She feels his hand on her cheek first—warm, calloused, his thumb brushing her jaw—and then his lips.
It's not a kiss. Not really. Just a brush, his lips barely touching hers, cold from the night air. But even that is enough. Static arcs between them, sharp and electric, and the moon-vine's roses glow brighter, their petals unfurling fully. Sera's wolf stirs inside her—small, weak, but there—before the cuffs flare blue, and it goes silent again.
Lucien pulls back fast, like he's been burned. His cheeks are faintly pink, and he's avoiding her eyes, staring at the altar instead. "Done," he says, his voice a little too loud.
Rafe steps forward again. This time, he's holding a pair of silver cuffs—smaller than the ones on Sera's wrists, more delicate, etched with the same runes but in a tighter pattern. He hands them to Lucien, who takes them without looking.
"Sera," Lucien says, holding out the cuffs. "These are… additional. Suppress your wolf fully. Make sure the Council doesn't sense anything off. They'll come off after the ceremony, but—"
"But until then, I'm stuck with two sets of cuffs," she finishes, holding out her wrist. She tries not to flinch when the cold metal touches her skin, when the runes glow blue and sink into her flesh like they're merging with her. The cuffs snap shut with a click, and this time, the pain is worse. It's not physical—it's inside, like her wolf is screaming, fighting to get out, before it's smothered.
She gasps, doubling over, her hands clutching her stomach. The moon-vine tightens around her wrist, but she doesn't care. All she can feel is the emptiness—the absence of her wolf, the part of her that's always been there, even when she was running, even when she was hiding.
"Hey," Lucien says, his hand on her back. His touch is light, hesitant, like he's not sure if he's allowed to comfort her. "It'll pass. The cuffs take a minute to adjust."
She nods, but she doesn't look up. She just breathes—slow, deep breaths—until the emptiness fades to a dull ache. When she straightens up, Rafe is gone, and Lucien is staring at the chapel doors. They're old, wooden, their paint peeling, their handles rusted shut. But as she watches, something changes.
The metal handles glow red—hot, like they're being forged—and then they melt. Not dripping, exactly, but merging with the wood, sealing the cracks between the planks. The wood itself darkens, hardening, until the doors look like a single slab of stone, no handle, no keyhole, no way in or out.
Sera's heart races. "What's happening?" she says, stepping closer to Lucien. The moon-vine tugs at her wrist, a gentle reminder that they're still bound.
Lucien shakes his head, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. "I don't know. The ceremony shouldn't—"
The final rose petal falls.
It drifts from the moon-vine, slow and lazy, and lands on the stone altar. The second it touches the surface, the doors finish welding shut. A final spark leaps from the wood, then dies. The chapel is silent. Too silent.
Sera stares at the doors, then at Lucien. His face is hard, his eyes sharp, and she can see the lightning flickering along his forearms again—bright, angry, ready to fight.
"We're trapped," she says, her voice tight.
He nods. He pulls his sword free of its scabbard, the sound echoing in the small space. "Not for long."
But even as he says it, she knows. The doors aren't just locked. They're sealed. By what? By who? She doesn't know. But she can feel it—the same energy that protected her wineglass, the same energy that made the moon-vine bloom. It's here, in the chapel, wrapping around them like a blanket.
She reaches up, touches the silver cuffs on her wrist. They're cool now, the runes dim. Her wolf is silent. Her blood is calm. For the first time in years, she doesn't feel like she's running.
She feels like she's home.
But that thought scares her more than anything.
As the final petal falls, the chapel doors weld shut—no handle, no key.