It had been three days. That was how long Aveloria had been tied to the same tree, her wrists rubbed raw against the enchanted rope that burned like acid every time she moved; the forest around her stank of rot and smoke. The campfire never stopped burning, and even the air smelled like ash.
She tried not to breathe too deeply cause it only reminded her of how dry her throat was. Her tongue felt like sandpaper, and her lips were cracked and bleeding. Somewhere to her right, her stepsister, Rowena, whimpered softly.
"Please," Rowena croaked. "Water… just a little…"
Their abductors, The Wanderers, laughed.
They are wolves who rejected the Moon's light, turning away from the mate bond, pack laws, and the cycle of rebirth. They sought power in solitude, destroying their ties to kin, lands, and the Goddess. Dark powers have corrupted their wolves. They are wolves who chose darkness deliberately. Depending on how corrupt they are, their eyes consistently glow unnaturally with sickly shades of red or tar-black. Their gaze is empty, feral, and soulless, like something dead pretending to be alive. Their scent sticks to them; they stink of decay and sulfur. Their smell could make anyone nauseous, a constant reminder that they are abominations rejected by the Moon Goddess.
They didn't look or eat like normal wolves. Aveloria had seen one tear into a dead crow with his bare teeth two nights ago.
Aveloria turned her face away as one of them, tall and gaunt, came closer. His breath reeked of decay as he stood close to her.
"Pretty one," he hissed, tracing a dirty finger along her cheek. "You'll fetch more gold if you're alive."
She flinched away, disgust twisting her stomach.
They were bound with ropes woven from moonweed and shadowthorn, materials infused with ancient spells. They cut off her wolf entirely. She couldn't shift, heal, or feel her connection to the Moon Spirit. She felt very human, fragile, empty, and powerless.
Three days ago, she was the Queen of Lycanthria. Now, she was a captive, forgotten in the woods. Aveloria's mind drifted between memories and the aching present.
Her father, the Alpha King, had fallen ill the same night her sisters were murdered. The memory of their small faces, two bright, mischievous girls barely twenty-five, still haunted her. The assassins hadn't even been merciful. Their bodies had been left in the open courtyard, throats slashed as if a warning to the throne. Her brother, Evander, had been accused of treason, rape and exiled to the Waste. She'd pleaded and tried to prove his innocence, but no one listened.
And now her. Lycanthria would lose its last true heir if the Wanderers got what they wanted.
Aveloria wanted to believe that someone was coming. That Marek, her mate, would find her. But each hour that passed made hope harder to hold.
It was nighttime when she heard the thunder of hooves in the distance. The Wanderers grew restless. They stood, weapons drawn, pale eyes gleaming in the gloom.
Aveloria's heart began to race. She knew that sound, disciplined galloping, metal clinking, formation movement. It wasn't like the Wanderers' distorted rhythm.
"Someone's coming," Rowena whispered, trembling. "Maybe they'll help us."
Aveloria didn't answer. Her body was weak, but her senses sharpened.
The riders broke through the treeline, a dozen men in black and silver armor, the crest of Lycanthria's moon etched into their breastplates. And they cleared the way to reveal their leader. Marek.
Aveloria's heart beat accelerated. Even in the dim light, she could see the sharp lines of his face, the way his cloak snapped in the wind, and his wolf-mark glowed vaguely on his neck, the same mark that mirrored hers. He had come for her.
"Marek," she whispered, relief and disbelief in her chest. Tears burned down her cheeks.
The Wanderers formed a circle, snarling. Their leader, a creature with several scars on his face, stepped forward, raising a hand.
"Varan thol draka?" His voice was hoarse and ancient, the words coming in the tongue of the first shifters, an archaic language only the old wolves used.
"Rith draka-ol; vek nex drakar thalen."
Surrender the gold, or we keep the women.
Aveloria didn't understand the words but recognized their tone, threat, demand, and power.
Marek dismounted slowly, signaling his soldiers to stay back. His eyes found hers across the clearing, and something inside her broke. He looked the same: tall and commanding, his hair swept back, and his silver eyes cold as frost. But there was something different, too—a distance.
"Marek," she rasped, her voice breaking. "I knew you'd come…"
He didn't answer her. Instead, he reached into a satchel and pulled out a pouch heavy with gold. He held it up to the Wanderer leader. "Take it," he said. "Release them both."
The Wanderer laughed, a sharp, rasping sound. "Eka. Sol-eka." Again, he replied in his ancient tongue, gesturing between the two women tied to trees.
One. Only one.
Marek's jaw tightened. Aveloria felt the air still between them.
"No," she said weakly. "You can't agree to his demands. You can't let them choose. Fight them, Marek. You have soldiers."
But Marek didn't move. He looked at her, then at Rowena. His eyes flickered, guilt, hesitation, or something darker.
Rowena sobbed. "Marek, if you have to choose, choose her. Choose your mate." Her words shook with practiced despair.
Marek clenched his fists. "Rowena…" he murmured.
Aveloria froze. Something in his tone didn't sound like pity. It sounded like affection.
"What?" Aveloria whispered. "Marek, what did you just say?"
He didn't look at her. He gestured to the wanderer leader to let him go to her. "Please. She's expecting." He ran towards Rowena.
And then Aveloria saw it for the first time, the faint curve of Rowena's belly beneath her torn tunic.
It couldn't be. Her mind reeled. "No… no…"
Rowena shook her head frantically, tears streaming. "Aveloria, I didn't mean for any of this to happen. Please, forgive me, sister."
"Forgive you?" Aveloria spat, her voice trembling. "You betrayed me. You both did."
Marek's expression hardened. "Aveloria, stop! You don't understand."
"I understand enough!" she cried, her whole body shaking against the ropes. "You…my mate…and her…my sister are having an affair behind my back? How long? When did it start?!"
"Since before you mated," Rowena whispered, almost apologetically. "I loved him first. I'm sorry."
Aveloria's world tilted. She remembered the night she was crowned as Luna Queen, Rowena smiled too tightly, and Marek avoided her eyes when the Moon Spirit marked them as mates. She'd thought it was nerves. She'd thought he was overwhelmed.
It had all been a lie.
The sickness that struck her father, the rumors that destroyed her brother, the assassins that killed her sisters, all perfectly timed? All pushing her closer to ruin.
It wasn't a coincidence. It was orchestration.
Her chest tightened. "You planned this?" she whispered. "All of it."
Rowena didn't deny it. Marek only looked away.
The Wanderer leader growled impatiently, gesturing again. Choose.
Marek stepped closer to Rowena and sliced through her ropes with his dagger.
Aveloria couldn't breathe. "No," she whispered. "No, Marek!"
He turned to her, his eyes cold. "I'm sorry, Aveloria. You were never meant to be my mate or the queen. Everything that has been happening needs to end with you."
Her heart cracked open. "You're giving me to them?"
His voice was quiet. "They wanted the blood of the Heiress. It's the only way to seal the truce."
"So you betray me to save your peace," she said bitterly. "You think they'll stop after me?" she screamed.
He didn't answer. Marek tossed the bag of gold at the Wanderer's feet, then carried Rowena toward the horses.
Rowena looked back once. Their eyes met, one full of guilt, the other hollow.
"I'm sorry," she whispered again.
Aveloria didn't reply.
The Wanderers surged forward as Marek mounted his horse. She could hear his men urging him to leave quickly, hooves retreating as her entire world collapsed around her.
The Wanderers circled her. She tried everything to summon her wolf again, tried to feel that spark of divine energy within her blood, but the ropes burned hotter, the runes glowing against her skin.
The first claw struck her side, pulling out her flesh. She screamed. Then another snapped her shoulder bones. They didn't kill her quickly. They wanted her to suffer. To bleed for what she represented.
Her vision blurred. The forest is spinning. She thought of her father's smile, her sisters' laughter, Evander's stubborn grin. Gone. All gone. And Marek, her fated mate, the one person she trusted to protect her, had left her to die.
The pain faded into numbness. The ropes slipped from her wrists as her strength failed. She fell to her knees, her body slick with blood, the earth cold beneath her.
Above her, the moon broke through the clouds, pale and distant. She stared at it, her lips trembling.
"Why me?" she whispered.
The world was quiet except for the Wanderers' devious laughter, delighted at eating at her flesh. Her body began to give out. Her heart slowed. Her vision dimmed.
And then, she heard a voice. Soft, ancient, and echoing through the darkness that began to swallow her.
Aveloria's eyes fluttered open one last time. The moonlight blazed brighter than before, flooding the forest with silver rays. Then everything went still. And darkness claimed her.