The air smelled of smoke and blood.
Selene Duskbane pulled her hood tighter around her face as she slipped into the outer courtyard of Veyrath Fortress. The towers loomed like black fangs against the swollen full moon, their gargoyles watching with empty eyes. The fortress itself looked half-ruined, half-eternal, its walls scorched with old fire, its banners torn by centuries of storms. Even standing near it made her chest ache, as if the stone itself pressed against her lungs.
She shouldn't be here. She knew it. Wolves like her, low-born, unblessed, descendants of a disgraced bloodline, were forbidden from stepping foot inside the fortress on ritual night. The Moon fire belonged to the pure-blooded dynasties, the heirs, the nobles, the chosen of the goddess.
But Selene had never been good at staying where she belonged.
She ducked past a pair of guards distracted by a goblet of mead and moved deeper into the press of bodies. Wolves of every rank filled the courtyard: warriors with scarred throats, nobles dripping with furs and jeweled collars, drunk younglings howling into the night. At the center, torches ringed the sacred circle of stone where the ritual would take place.
The air shimmered with heat from the braziers, the smoke spiced with herbs meant to call down the goddess. Shadows leapt across the walls as the moon cultists raised their arms, their voices swelling in a chant older than memory. The sound vibrated through Selene's bones, both beautiful and terrifying, like a lullaby sung at the edge of a grave.
Her pulse raced. She should have turned back. One glimpse of the ritual would be enough. But her feet carried her forward, step after step, as if something unseen tugged her closer.
A howl tore through the night. The crowd erupted in answering roars. Two warriors stepped into the fire-ring, bare-chested, their bodies gleaming with oil and sweat. They bowed to the moon, then launched at each other with claws and teeth. The sound was sickening. Bone snapped like dry wood. Blood sprayed against stone. One wolf fell to his knees, howling as the other sank fangs into his shoulder.
Selene flinched but couldn't look away.
The fights weren't duels. They weren't contests. They were sacrifices. Wolves tearing each other apart to prove to the goddess and to their Alpha that their blood was worthy. The crowd drank it in. They howled and cheered, their eyes glowing in the torchlight. To them, this was beauty. This was devotion.
To Selene, it was madness. And yet…
Her breath quickened. Her skin prickled. Something deep inside her, something she didn't want to name, stirred at the violence, at the heat, at the raw display of power. The Duskbane line had always been cursed that way. Bound to the goddess not by blessing, but by sacrifice.
She forced her gaze away, clutching the edge of her hood. She needed to leave before someone recognized her. Before the fortress swallowed her whole.
Then the crowd hushed.
It wasn't silence, not exactly. It was the sharp inhale of hundreds of lungs, the scrape of claws retreating into palms, the heavy weight of heads lowering.
He had arrived.
Dorian Veyrath.
Heir to the throne. Prince of the cursed bloodline. The wolf every whispered rumor feared and desired.
Selene felt him before she saw him. His presence pressed against her chest, made the hair on her arms rise. Then he stepped into the circle, and the courtyard bowed to him as if the goddess herself had descended.
He was taller than she expected. Broad shoulders, a chest carved with muscle and scars, black hair brushing his jaw. His cloak trailed behind him like shadow made flesh. But it wasn't his body that held her, it was his eyes.
Golden. Burning.
The moment his gaze swept across the circle wolves dropped to their knees.
Selene froze.
Dorian didn't need to roar. He didn't need to posture. His aura filled the courtyard like smoke, like fire, like something ancient and inevitable. Even the elders in their jeweled collars lowered their gazes.
A challenger stepped forward.
The wolf was huge, scarred, drunk on his own arrogance. He bared his teeth and spat blood onto the stones at Dorian's feet.
The crowd gasped. Challenging the heir of Veyrath was death.
Selene's stomach twisted as the fight began.
The challenger lunged. Dorian didn't move until the last instant, then sidestepped with inhuman grace. Claws flashed. Flesh tore. Blood sprayed into the firelight.
It was over in heartbeats.
The challenger collapsed, throat ripped open, eyes staring blankly at the moon. Dorian straightened, blood dripping from his claws, and the crowd roared in savage ecstasy.
Selene couldn't breathe.
She told herself it was horror. That the trembling in her limbs was fear. That the heat pooling low in her stomach was disgust. But she couldn't look away.
She should have bowed her head. She should have turned and fled. Instead, she stared at him like a fool.
And then his head lifted. Golden eyes burned across the courtyard, slicing through torchlight, smoke, and shadows.
They found her. Selene's heart stopped.
The heir of Veyrath saw her. And in that instant, it felt as though the night itself had chosen her, dragged her into its jaws, and refused to let go.
The crowd's roar still echoed against the fortress walls when Dorian Veyrath lifted his blood-streaked hand. Silence fell as if the sound had been cut away by a blade.
Selene's lungs locked. Every instinct screamed at her to bow, to drop her gaze, to hide in the press of bodies but her feet wouldn't move. She stood frozen, the hood of her cloak shadowing her face, praying he hadn't truly seen her.
But she felt it. The weight of his stare. Heavy. Burning. Inescapable.
She tried to shrink back into the crowd, pushing between broad shoulders and furred cloaks, but her chest heaved as the chant rose again.
"Veyrath. Veyrath. Veyrath."
The sound wasn't just voices it was worship, devotion, fear wrapped into one name. The name of a dynasty cursed by the goddess herself.
Dorian stepped from the circle. He didn't walk. He prowled. Each stride sent ripples of silence through the wolves around him. Warriors bowed. Nobles pressed their foreheads to the stone. Even the elders bent their spines.
Selene's hood slipped.
Her pulse spiked. She yanked it lower, but too late. His gaze sharpened. He saw her.
Move. Move.
Her boots scraped stone as she shoved her way toward the courtyard's edge. Torches blurred past. The press of bodies closed in. She tried not to panic, not to draw more attention than she already had. If she could reach the gate before he—
He was there.
Dorian Veyrath stepped from the crowd as if shadows had carried him, blocking her path. The torchlight painted his jaw in gold and fire. His chest still gleamed with another wolf's blood. He didn't look winded. He didn't look mortal.
Selene froze.
Every instinct screamed at her to flee, but her knees wouldn't bend. Her wolf, the part of her bound to blood and moon, cowered inside her chest, pressed flat beneath the weight of his aura.
He looked down at her. Slowly. Deliberately.
"You don't belong here."
His voice wasn't loud, but it threaded through the noise, silencing every sound inside her. It was a growl and a command, velvet laid over iron.
Selene swallowed hard. "Neither did you," she managed, her voice a whisper she hoped the crowd couldn't hear. "Until the goddess cursed your bloodline."
Golden eyes narrowed.
The space between them hummed, thick with danger.
He stepped closer. Not fast. Not threatening. Just… inevitable. The heat of him reached her, smelling of smoke, steel, and something wilder.
Selene forced herself not to retreat, though every muscle screamed. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She lifted her chin, trying to mask the tremor in her body with defiance.
Dorian studied her like a predator studies prey. Not hungry, not rushed, patient. Certain the chase was already over.
"Tell me your name."
The words weren't a request. They were law.
Selene's lips parted, but no sound came. She bit down hard, refusing. If she gave him her name, she gave him power. Wolves knew that much.
His mouth curved. Not a smile. Something sharper. Crueler.
"Defiant little wolf," he murmured, his hand rising slowly toward her hood.
Selene's breath caught.
No. She couldn't let him see her face. Couldn't let the heir of Veyrath, prince of monsters, heir to the curse know who she was.
Her hand shot up, grabbing his wrist before he could tug the hood back.
For an instant, the world stopped.
Gasps rippled through the nearby crowd. Touching him, defying him was unthinkable. Wolves fell silent, their eyes darting between the heir and the foolish cloaked girl who had dared to catch his hand.
Selene's palm burned against his skin, his heat searing through her. The strength in his arm was terrifying, a restrained storm she couldn't hope to match.
Dorian leaned closer, golden eyes blazing. His voice slid low enough for only her to hear.
"You've made a mistake."
Selene's heart hammered.
But she didn't let go.