Nyx
I woke to the slow, nauseating certainty that the world had been inverted while I slept.
The ceiling above me refused to stay still. It tilted lazily one way, then the other, shadows along the cracked plaster stretching like fingers, then collapsing back into themselves as though the room were inhaling and exhaling in shallow, uneven breaths. My limbs felt alien, heavy, waterlogged, as if someone had siphoned the blood from them and replaced it with molten lead. Even the simple act of blinking dragged; my eyelids scraped against dry corneas like sandpaper. The air tasted metallic and antiseptic, sharp enough to sting the back of my throat, familiar in the worst possible way.
Sedative.
Of course.
My mother never traveled far without her little glass vial. It lived in the hidden pocket of her gowns, or tucked inside the velvet-lined drawer of her vanity, always within reach for precisely these moments,when her eldest, most inconvenient daughter crossed one of the invisible boundaries she had drawn around acceptable behavior. When Nyx became too loud, too visible, too much.
"Your anger is dangerous, Nyx," she would say, voice soft and reasonable, almost maternal. "Learn to keep it in check."
Strangely it's been over 3 years my mother has needed to use the sedative on me.
But if my anger was truly so lethal as they said, then why did they spend every waking hour stoking it?
Why did they corner me, provoke me, prod at every open wound until rage boiled beneath my skin and my vision narrowed to red tunnels, only to recoil in feigned horror the moment it threatened to spill over? Why awaken something they claimed to fear?
I don't know.
Maybe one day I would ask her. Maybe I would sit across from her at that long, polished dining table and force the question into the silence between us. Or better yet, maybe we could ask her together, she and I, side by side, until the mask cracked and something honest bled through.
But I already knew better.
Luna Thalira had spent a lifetime perfecting the art of twisting every truth until it fit neatly inside the narrative that kept me small. She would never give me the satisfaction of an honest answer. She would smile that serene, pitying smile and murmur something about my instability, my inability to control myself, my endless capacity to disappoint.
My head throbbed, a deep, pulsing ache that radiated from the base of my skull, down my spine, and into every joint. It felt like embers smoldering just beneath the surface of my skin, banked but nowhere near extinguished. I forced myself upright anyway, fingers clawing into the thin mattress for leverage as nausea surged hot and sour up my throat.
I swallowed it back.
I had to find Thorne.
The thought sliced through the chemical fog with brutal clarity, brighter than anything else in the room.
Earlier,right before the needle, right before the darkness swallowed me whole, there had been something in his voice. A single cracked note of concern, raw and unmistakable. No matter how many times I replayed the memory, I could not convince myself it had been wishful thinking.
Thorne would not have sounded like that if he felt nothing.
He couldn't.
I pushed off the bed. The floor rushed up to meet me; the room lurched violently to the left. For one sick second I was certain I would collapse right there, sprawled on cold stone like something discarded and forgotten. But I braced one palm against the wall, forced air into my lungs in slow, deliberate pulls until the spinning eased enough for me to take a step.
Then another.
The hallway beyond my door stretched endless and silent, stone floors stealing heat from the soles of my bare feet with every shuffling step. My body moved like it belonged to someone else, joints loose, coordination fractured, instincts howling at me to run, to sprint, to tear through corridors until I found him, while my muscles lagged behind, sluggish and disobedient.
Still, I dragged myself forward.
If my father caught me like this... swaying, disheveled, barely upright... he would curl his lip in that familiar way.
Useless.
A wolf with a vampire blood who cannot even stand straight.
Weakness was the cardinal sin in Bloodcrest. From the moment a child's wolf failed to manifest, or in my case, never manifested at all, they began measuring worth in strength, in control, in the ability to endure without complaint. I had failed every metric since I was nine.
The closer I drew to the main hall, the more the sounds of celebration bled through the walls, music swelling and receding, laughter layered over clinking crystal, voices rising in bright, artificial joy. When I finally reached the arched entrance and stepped into the light, the sight punched the remaining breath from my lungs.
The hall was no longer a hall.
It was a sea.
Guests from every allied pack spilled across the marble expanse, rich velvets and silks in deep jewel tones, gold embroidery flashing under the chandeliers, jewels at throats and wrists catching firelight and throwing it back in sharp prisms. Servants glided between them with trays of sparkling drinks and delicate canapés, faces carefully blank. Crimson-and-silver banners hung from the rafters, emblazoned with the entwined crests of Bloodcrest and Ironfang, symbols of alliance, legacy, power.
All of it for Lysera.
Their princess.
Their future Luna.
I scanned the crowd with something close to desperation, searching for one tall frame, one familiar set of shoulders, one pair of eyes that had once looked at me like I was worth seeing.
Thorne.
He was nowhere.
Swallowed by the glittering tide of people gathered to toast someone else's triumph.
Self-pity clawed up my throat, sharp, bitter, humiliating. I crushed it down with both hands.
This wasn't about me.
It was about him.
About whatever fragment of concern I had heard in his voice before the needle went in.
So I kept looking.
The main hall had been built for spectacle: soaring ceilings, a second-level balcony that ringed the entire space like a crown, allowing those above to observe... and be observed... by everyone below. If he wasn't on the floor, perhaps he had retreated upstairs, away from the crush.
I gripped the smooth marble railing and began to climb.
Each step sent fresh spikes of pain through my skull, but I climbed anyway.
Maybe when it was just the two of us, away from parents, away from pack politics, away from Lysera's perfect smile, he would explain.
He had to.
The love I had seen in his eyes over the years could not have been counterfeit. There was nothing for him to gain from me, no political advantage, no dowry, no favor from my family. I possessed nothing anyone coveted. So why would he have stayed? Why would he have chosen me again and again in secret if it had all been a performance?
Unless—
The thought squeezed my chest until breathing hurt.
Sex?
No.
It couldn't be.
Thorne had never once pressured me. Never once hinted. He had held me through nights when grief threatened to drown me, kissed me until I forgot how to hurt, and then... always... pulled back.
"I'll only touch you after we're married," he had promised, voice low and serious against my temple. "I want it to mean something. I want it to be ours."
So tell me, what had changed?
"Look who's here."
The voice sliced through my spiraling thoughts like a blade.
I didn't need to turn.
Lysera.
Still, I faced her, because turning away would have felt like surrender.
She stood at the top of the stairs like something conjured from moonlight and malice. The gown clung to her like liquid silver poured over midnight-blue silk, embroidered with constellations of tiny sapphires that shimmered with every breath she took. Diamonds glittered at her throat, her ears, her wrists, each piece chosen to scream wealth, status, inevitability. Her hair had been swept into an elaborate updo threaded with silver ribbon; her makeup was flawless, accentuating the sharp elegance of her features.
For one treacherous heartbeat my gaze lingered.
She was beautiful.
Devastatingly so.
The kind of beauty that made people forget how to breathe.
"Do you know where Thorne is?" I asked without preamble.
Her lips curved, slow, deliberate, almost amused.
"Are you stupid or just shameless, Nyx?"
The question landed like a slap I had been expecting.
I swallowed anyway.
"Why would you say that?" I asked, even though the answer was already crawling up my spine.
A few hours ago Thorne had stood in front of the entire hall and chosen her.
And here I was... still searching for him.
If that wasn't shameless, what else could it possibly be?
"Thorne told you he doesn't want you," Lysera continued, voice smooth as oil over water. "And yet here you are, trailing after him like a lost dog. Tell me, if you're not shameless, then what are you?"
I had already asked myself the same question a hundred times in the last few seconds.
I still had no answer.
So I ignored it.
"Do you know where Thorne is?" I repeated.
Her eyes gleamed, bright, cruel, satisfied.
"Why should I tell you where my fiancé is?"
Fiancé.
The word struck like a physical blow, deep, bruising, lodged beneath my ribs.
Still, I forced my spine straight. I wasn't ready to collapse. Not here. Not in front of her.
I tried to step past.
Her hand shot out and shoved me back, hard.
The sudden contact stunned me more than the force.
For the first time in eight years, Lysera had touched me with intent.
Weren't they afraid... of my anger, of what it might do if it finally broke free?
"What's your problem?" I demanded, voice low and shaking.
She laughed—soft, musical, utterly devoid of warmth.
"Do you know why Thorne was in your life?" she asked.
I stared at her, waiting for the answer I already dreaded.
"Because I put him there."
What does she mean by she put him there?
Put him where?