The market smelled of wet earth, roasting meat, and fear.
Selene pulled her hood low and wove through the narrow lane, the press of bodies tighter than usual. Wolves bartered loudly, shouting over one another for bundles of dried herbs, loaves of bread, smoked fish. Chickens fluttered in cages. Children darted underfoot, laughing. On the surface, it was an ordinary morning.
But underneath, whispers moved like smoke.
"They say the heir looked straight at her."
"No wolf dares meet his eyes. No wolf but her."
"She'll be taken. Mark me, the goddess already claimed her."
Selene's stomach tightened. She gripped the basket at her hip until her knuckles whitened and forced herself to keep walking. The words weren't spoken to her, not directly, but heads turned as she passed. Too many heads. Eyes lingered too long on the shadow of her hood.
She stopped at a stall selling bread, fumbling with a few copper coins. The baker's wife handed her a loaf without meeting her gaze, lips pressed into a thin line.
"Thank you," Selene whispered.
The woman didn't answer. Selene moved on quickly, her pulse hammering. Every corner she turned, more whispers slithered after her. She caught fragments—heir, cloaked girl, cursed line, Duskbane—until her chest squeezed tight and her throat ached.
At the edge of the square, an old crone sat hunched on a stool, selling bundles of dried sage. Her eyes were clouded white, her hair thin as spider silk, but her voice carried clear as a bell.
"The Moonlit Heir is coming," the crone rasped as Selene passed. "Blood of curse and blood of sacrifice. No door will bar her. No prayer will save her."
Selene froze, the loaf slipping in her basket.
The crone turned her blind gaze toward her, lips curling in a toothless smile. "Run, little wolf. The prince already has your scent."
Heat surged to Selene's face. She forced her legs to move, nearly stumbling as she hurried from the square, her hood slipping lower over her eyes. The crowd blurred around her, voices buzzing, all of them too close, too knowing.
By the time she reached the cottage lane, her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped the basket. She didn't slow until the market noise faded behind her, swallowed by the rustling trees. Only then did she allow herself to breathe.
But the crone's words stuck in her ears like thorns.
The prince already has your scent.
Nyra was waiting at the cottage door. Arms crossed, braids pulled back tight, her expression sharper than any blade. The moment Selene stepped into the yard, Nyra's gaze flicked to the basket in her hands, then to her hood, then to her pale face.
"They're talking about you," Nyra said flatly.
Selene swallowed, trying to steady her breath. "They're talking about a girl. Not me."
Nyra's eyes narrowed. "Don't lie. The entire market saw you flinch when the crone spoke. Half of them will have guessed it already."
Selene pushed past her, setting the basket on the table with a thud. "Then let them guess. Rumors die faster than they spread."
Nyra followed, her voice rising. "Not when it's the heir of Veyrath. Not when it's you."
Selene stiffened, her back to her cousin. The loaf of bread in the basket blurred as her vision prickled hot.
Nyra's tone softened, but only a little. "Do you even understand what it means? Every few generations, one of us draws their eyes. Always a woman. Always chosen. And every time, it ends the same."
Selene turned, her throat tight. "How?"
Nyra's jaw worked, as if forcing the words out cost her something. "Blood. Chains. Fire. Sometimes all three."
The cottage seemed smaller suddenly, the air heavy with the weight of memory. Selene thought of her mother's hollow gaze, of the nights she'd wept when the moon was full. She thought of the stories half-whispered, half-swallowed, of daughters taken and never seen again.
Her voice cracked. "That's not going to be me."
Nyra stepped closer, eyes fierce. "Then don't give him a reason. Don't let him scent you again. If you have to leave this village, leave. Go beyond the river, into the borderlands. Anywhere but here."
Selene shook her head, defiance sparking through the fear knotting her stomach. "I won't run."
"Then you'll burn," Nyra snapped.
The words hung between them, sharp as claws.
Selene's hands curled into fists at her sides. She wanted to scream, to tell Nyra she was wrong, that she wasn't cursed, that she wasn't doomed. But the truth clung like smoke in her lungs.
The heir had seen her. And there was no undoing that.
The sun bled out across the treeline, painting the sky in streaks of crimson and ash. Selene stood by the cottage window, watching the shadows lengthen across the village lane. Chickens had been herded into pens, doors barred, shutters drawn. Wolves did not linger outside when the night pressed in this heavy.
She tried to tell herself it was ordinary. Just another dusk.
But the air felt wrong.
Too still. Too expectant.
Nyra moved around the cottage behind her, clattering pots louder than necessary, as though the noise alone could keep the dark at bay.
Then it came.
A single howl.
Deep, resonant, carrying through the forest and across the village like the strike of a war drum.
Selene's blood froze.
It wasn't the cry of a wild wolf. It wasn't the howl of any village wolf she had ever heard. This sound was layered, thrumming with power, threaded with command. It reached inside her chest, dragged at her ribs, curled hot and low in her stomach.
Another joined it, fainter, an answering call. Then silence.
The village erupted.
Doors slammed. Shutters clapped tight. Mothers yanked children inside, hissing warnings. Old men muttered prayers under their breath. Even the drunkards who usually stumbled through the lanes at dusk vanished as though swallowed whole.
Nyra appeared at Selene's side, her face pale, her eyes dark.
"It's nothing," she said, voice too sharp. "A wolf from the borderlands. Nothing more."
Selene's breath shuddered. She didn't answer. She couldn't. Because deep inside, she knew the truth.
The howl wasn't just a call.
It was a claim.
Morning broke gray and heavy. The air smelled of damp earth and smoke, though no fire had been lit in the village hearths yet. Selene stepped out with her cloak drawn tight, the howl from the night before still echoing in her bones.
The lane was too quiet.
She noticed it first in the way children lingered in doorways but did not play. The way grown wolves kept their heads down, their voices hushed. The way every gaze flicked not toward the fields, but toward the road leading from the fortress.
Then she saw him.
A rider.
Broad-shouldered, scarred, draped in the black and crimson of House Veyrath. His mount was a massive gray wolf, fur bristling, eyes sharp as knives. The rider's own face was a ruin of old battles, a jagged scar carved across his jaw, his expression cold, his gaze sweeping the lane with brutal precision.
Thorne Dravik.Dorian's warhound. The enforcer who broke bones and silenced tongues.
Selene's stomach dropped.
The wolf beneath him growled low, the sound carrying like a threat through the morning mist. Villagers bowed their heads quickly, some retreating into doorways. None dared to meet his eyes.
Thorne dismounted slowly, boots thudding against the earth. His scarred hand brushed the hilt of the blade strapped across his back as he surveyed the cottages, his nostrils flaring.
"Where is she?" His voice was gravel, rough from years of command. "The heir seeks someone. A girl. Cloaked. He scented her at the Ritual."
Selene's breath hitched. Her hood shadowed her face, but her pulse thundered in her ears.
The villagers shifted uneasily, glancing at one another but keeping their mouths shut. No one spoke. No one betrayed her.
Thorne's gaze swept the lane. His nostrils flared again, as though scent alone might drag her into the open. His golden-brown eyes lingered on Selene for a moment too long and she fought to keep still.
Then he stepped back, voice low but heavy with promise.
"The heir always finds what he claims. When he comes, no door will keep her hidden."
He mounted his wolf again, tugged the reins, and rode out the way he had come. The ground shook beneath each heavy stride.
Selene exhaled sharply, her body trembling. Her wrist burned again, as though Dorian's grip had never left it.
Nyra appeared at her side, her face pale as bone.
"This is only the beginning," she whispered.
Selene swallowed, staring at the road where Thorne had vanished. Her hands curled into fists. She wanted to deny it, to cling to the lie of safety.
But deep inside, she already knew Nyra was right.