Cassian's POV
The screams were muffled. Guttural. Hoarse from hours of pain. But Cassian stood there, untouched, unmoved, his expression carved in stone as the rogue thrashed beneath silver cuffs.
"You were supposed to leave the scroll and disappear," Cassian said, crouching in front of the half-broken man. "What part of that did your primitive mind not understand?"
The rogue spat blood. "I did what I could. They were prepared."
Cassian's jaw ticked.
"You were sloppy," he hissed. "And sloppiness… deserves reminders."
The whip crackled with enchantment, lit with a faint red glow from Cassian's magic, and licked the rogue's back one last time before Maelin stepped into the dungeon chamber.
"That's enough," Maelin said, voice cold as frost.
Cassian turned, annoyed. "He failed—"
"I said enough," Maelin snapped. His eyes, once calm pools of calculation, were now storming. "We don't have time for your rituals. The signs are shifting."
Cassian stepped back, the whip retracting like a serpent to his belt. "What signs?"
Maelin paced, brow furrowed. "The scroll—it carried more than a message. It carried a mark. One I didn't authorize."
Cassian narrowed his eyes.
Maelin continued, "A sigil. Faint but ancient. Black Fang."
Cassian's blood ran colder than the walls around them. "They're dead. They were wiped out in the Great Rebellion."
Maelin looked at him. "Apparently… not all of them."
The silence that followed was heavy with implication.
"And the Book of Nivorien?" Cassian asked.
Maelin's eyes gleamed. "It's not just a guide. It's a key."
Cassian chuckled, dark and slow. "Then let them play house. Let them plan their precious wedding…"
He stepped closer to the rogue, now unconscious from the pain.
"…because when the key is in our hands, I'll be there to bless their union…"
He turned, his grin sharp as a blade.
"…in blood."
******
Jamie's POV
The wind was different out here. Calmer. Quieter.
Away from the crowded courtyards, the endless footfalls of warriors, the calls of strategy and steel… away from Andrew's constant meetings and the politics that clung to this rising storm like fog on the moors—here, just outside the eastern edge of Furstone, the world was still.
I sat near the cliff edge, knees drawn close, just above the treetops where the view stretched so wide it felt like the land bowed beneath the sky. The valley below shimmered under the amber glow of sunset. Golden hues met darker purples at the edges. It was breathtaking. A place untouched.
The Book of Nivorien sat heavy on my thighs—old leather cracked, the gold-etched rune on the cover faint but still pulsing faintly like it remembered me.
I ran my fingers along its spine, feeling a strange connection. Not warmth. Not comfort. But recognition.
Like it knew it.
Like it had been waiting.
I exhaled slowly and opened it.
The pages smelled ancient, like smoke and dust and secrets. I flipped carefully, past faded ink drawings of shifting rituals, sigils, spells, lineages long forgotten. Some of the language was strange—old runes mingled with were-tongue and high wolf glyphs I could barely understand.
But I was looking for something. Anything.
A sign.
That same one that had appeared on my wrist when the lightning surged from me like wildfire. A symbol that glowed with white-blue heat for only a moment. Laurette hadn't said much, but I saw the way she looked at me—like I was more than I even knew.
I wanted to understand. To be prepared. To shift.
Gods, how I wanted that.
To feel what Andrew felt when he became one with his wolf, complete. Untouchable. Untamed. I'd seen them—pack warriors training in wolf form, their bodies like muscle and grace fused into deadly art. Mates running together in wolves form beneath moonlight, laughter echoing through the trees.
And me?
I was still in between.
The closest I'd come was riding Andrew in his wolf form—arms around his neck, cheek buried in his thick, smoky fur as he sprinted beneath the stars. I'd never felt so free. So safe.
But lately, even that had stopped. The world was shifting too quickly.
I pushed those thoughts down and focused on the book.
My eyes caught a passage halfway through. Not what I was looking for—but something else.
A page edged in black.
"The Black Fang."
The ink bled across the page like it had been written in something darker than blood.
I read:
An ancient court. Shunned. Erased. Once the hidden blade of the wolf realm. Their creed was fear. Their throne, shadow. Believed to have gone extinct after the Eldritch Uprising, but their mark remains—a sigil twisted from ancient Alpha blood, born to consume all. If awakened… they do not come to conquer. They come to an end.
My breath hitched.
My pulse surged.
I slammed the book shut so fast that dust billowed from the pages. My hands trembled slightly.
The Black Fang. I'd heard whispers before. Ghost stories warriors muttered over campfires. A court darker than even Maelin's twisted ambitions. But to see them written about like this… in the Book of Nivorien?
Why now?
Why did it feel like everything—me, the sign, the rogue, the scroll, the attack—was converging toward one terrifying answer?
I sat still, heart pounding like a drumbeat in my chest. Then I felt it—
A presence.
Low. Steady.
Watching.
I turned sharply, nostrils flaring slightly. My wolf rising in my skin, close enough to lend me his senses.
There.
At the edge of the trees behind me.
A wolf.
Not rogue. Not Furstone.
But something in between.
Their pelt was sleek brown with a red-tipped tail, glinting like flame in the fading light. They hadn't moved yet. Just watching. Calculating.
I stood slowly, my hand moving away from the book on the ground.
I faced them. Took a warrior stance, just as I'd learned.
They emerged, step by step, like a predator choosing its moment. Then the eyes caught me.
Poison green.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
The wolf snarled lowly—but it wasn't rage. It was a warning.
I shifted my stance.
The wolf's gaze flickered. Past me. To the book.
The Book of Nivorien.
They wanted it.
I summoned the sparks instinctively—light crackled from my palms, lightning dancing like liquid silver up my arms.
"Don't," I warned.
The wolf circled.
I mirrored the movement, each of us stepping slowly. Calculating. Waiting.
Then it lunged.
I raised my hand—light sparked out in a crackling blast, hitting them mid-leap. The wolf yelped, thrown back into the trees. It shook itself, growling, but didn't run.
That's when I saw the eyes again—more clearly now.
I swallowed.
"Lilith," I said, almost without meaning to.
The wolf froze.
A second passed.
Then another.
I knew I was right.
"Lilith, I don't want to hurt you," I said. "Why are you here? Why do you want the book?"
But she didn't shift.
Didn't speak.
Instead, her eyes flicked again to the trees, listening.
So did I.
Footsteps.
Patrol.
She snarled once, like a warning, then turned and bounded into the woods.
Gone.
As if she'd never been there.
I stood there, breath still short, chest rising and falling.
I bent to pick up the book, holding it tighter now. My knuckles pale. As if someone might come again.
A rustle behind me.
"Your Gracious?"
I turned—Philip. One of our patrols. Loyal. Fiercely protective.
He looked at me with concern.
"Are you alright?"
I nodded. "Yeah. Just needed air."
He frowned, glancing at the tree line. "Are you sure? You looked like…"
"I'm fine," I said gently. "Just… thinking too hard."
He nodded, though uncertainty flickered in his eyes.
As we walked back, I held the Book of Nivorien tighter to my chest.
Because whatever secrets it held, they were no longer just history.
They were now.
And they were no longer safe.