Chapter 1

Silver dust covered my fingers as I worked the final curve into the blade.

The forge was hot enough to make the air shimmer, but heat, smoke, and the sharp bite of heated iron were as familiar to me as my own skin.

My father had raised me to be an Alpha—not merely the daughter of one, but a true heir to the Fenwick Pack. That meant mastering our laws before I fully understood their weight. It meant pushing my wolf past exhaustion, wielding an Alpha’s command, and understanding borders, rank, and duty.

It also meant learning the forge.

My mother had taught me that part. She used to say a true leader needed to know how to build, not just destroy. I believed her, even after she died.

I turned the blade under the firelight, inspecting the smooth edge.

Then came the shatter of glass.

My fingers locked. The hammer slipped, clattering against the stone floor. When I turned toward the doorway, Edith stood near the threshold, looking down at the broken pieces surrounding her shoes.

The urn holding my mother’s ashes was shattered across the floor.

The air left my chest. Inside me, my wolf went dead still.

"No," I whispered.

Edith looked up. A slow smile spread across her face—not one of regret or accident, but pure satisfaction.

"I didn’t see it," she said.

I stared at the pale dust scattered over the stone. Three years I had guarded that urn. Three years I had refused to let anyone touch it. It was the only tangible piece of my mother I had left, and Edith knew it.

"You did that on purpose."

Her smile widened. "Careful, Edrys."

My wolf growled, a low vibration deep in my chest. The scent of her satisfaction—sweet and sharp— provoked my fangs. Edith was an Alpha heir too, trained under the same laws for the same succession. She knew what those ashes meant. She simply didn’t care.

"Get out," I said.

She stepped casually over the broken glass. "I only came to see what you were working on."

"I said get out."

Her eyes drifted to the blade resting on my workbench. "Still wasting your time in here? Do you really think Father will choose a blacksmith over me?"

I didn't answer.

Alpha Cedric had opened the succession trials to multiple heirs, setting us on a path to the throne. Edith believed she deserved it.

So did I.

But unlike her, I had poured my entire life into preparing for it.

I took a single step forward. Edith stood her ground, dropping her gaze back to the floor. "Your mother would probably be disappointed in you."

The thread snapped. My wolf surged forward, and I crossed the space between us before I realized I had moved.

Edith shrieked as I grabbed her. She tried to yank away, but my grip held firm.

"Don’t you dare speak about my mother."

She shoved me hard, but I threw her back against the wall.

"You’re crazy!" she spat, swinging a hand toward my face.

I caught her wrist in mid-air. For a split second, our eyes locked.

"Father will never choose you," she hissed.

I twisted her arm. A sharp crack echoed off the stone walls.

Edith screamed, collapsing into a heap on the floor while clutching her arm.

Heavy footsteps thundered down the stone corridor.

"EDRYS!"

My father’s voice rang with an Alpha’s command, striking the room with a force that pressed against my bones. My wolf instinctively bowed her head, but my fury burned right through the compulsion.

Alpha Cedric burst through the entrance, his eyes locking immediately on Edith sobbing on the floor.

"My arm," she wept. "She broke my arm."

I looked at my father. "She destroyed Mother’s urn."

His expression remained unreadable. "I asked what happened."

"She smashed it on purpose."

"I didn't!" Edith cried, shaking her head.

"You’re lying."

"Enough!"

The pressure of his command hit me again, hard enough to make my knees tremble, but I clenched my fists and held my footing.

Father glanced between us, his gaze settling back on Edith. "Call the healers."

Nothing else. No questions about the urn. No mention of my mother. Just Edith.

"She destroyed the only thing I had left of her," I said, my voice tight.

Father finally looked down at the pale dust on the floor, his face completely blank. "You attacked an Alpha heir."

"So did she."

"You broke her arm."

"She shattered my mother's memory."

He stared at me for a long moment, then turned to the guards standing in the doorway. "Take Edrys to the border outpost."

"Father—"

"Now."

The guards stepped forward. I didn't resist—not because I agreed with his ruling, but because fighting now would only give him an excuse to do worse. As they pulled me from the forge, I looked back at the gray dust on the floor.

My mother’s remains were still lying there in the dirt, left behind like trash.

The border outpost was cold and damp. They secured my wrists to the wall using heavy wolfsbane iron. The metal burned into my skin instantly, sending a deep, throbbing ache through my arms that made my wolf curl inward.

I set my jaw. I had survived worse in training.

The heavy door creaked open, and Wystan walked into the cell.

My pulse spiked. He didn't look at me with the warmth he used to have. There was no concern in his stance, only cold anger. The familiar scent of rain and pine that used to bring me peace now felt distant and sharp.

He stopped a few feet away. "You attacked Edith."

"She destroyed my mother’s urn."

"I don’t care."

The words cut sharper than the silver iron against my skin. "You don't care?"

"She is my mate."

The word hung heavy in the damp air. Mate.

The Moon Goddess had bound Edith to Wystan, but it hadn't always been that way. Three years ago, Wystan was a stranger—a wounded rogue I found bleeding in the rain near the border lines. I could have let him die. Instead, I brought him into Fenwick, healed him, and gave him a home.

When he recovered, he swore an oath to protect me, becoming my personal guardian. When the succession trials began, he was the first warrior I chose to stand at my back. If I won the throne, tradition dictated he would take his place beside me as Luna and co-leader.

Then the mark appeared on Edith. And everything we built dissolved.

Wystan closed the distance between us. "You laid hands on the woman chosen for me."

"She targeted me first."

"She’s injured because of your temper."

He glanced down at my bound wrists. For a tiny fraction of a second, a flicker of remorse brushed his face before his expression shut down completely.

"Your father wanted you executed," Wystan said quietly.

"And you stopped him?"

"I asked for mercy."

I let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "Mercy?"

"You are breathing right now because I spoke on your behalf."

I stared at the man who had once sworn his life to mine, now acting as though keeping me alive was a charitable gift. "Do you want a thank you?"

"No."

"Then why are you here?"

His jaw set tight. "To give you an exit."

I waited.

"At the Succession Feast, you will kneel before Edith," he said. "You will offer a public apology for what you did, and you will surrender your claim to the throne."

My wolf growled low in my chest. "And then?"

"Your father will let you live."

"And if I refuse?"

His eyes turned cold. "You lose everything."

I had already lost everything—my mother's ashes, my standing, my trust in him. The wolfsbane continued to burn against my skin.

"You can leave Fenwick without a fight," Wystan urged. "Your father will grant you a small cottage near the outer perimeter."

"A cottage," I repeated flatly. "And you expect me to bow to Edith for a scrap of land?"

"I expect you to stay alive."

I looked at him, seeing the stranger behind the familiar face. "I don't need your protection, Wystan."

"Think carefully, Edrys."

"I have."

He turned toward the exit. At the threshold, he paused, his voice dropping low. "If you refuse to bow, I will drag you to the execution stone myself."

The door slammed shut, locking me into the dark.

I leaned my head back against the stone wall. My wolf trembled inside me—not out of fear, but from raw, boiling rage.

They wanted me to bow. They wanted me to give up my birthright and yield to the woman who smashed my mother's memory and took my guardian.

Two days until the Succession Feast.

I looked down at the burning iron around my wrists and let out a cold, sharp breath.

If they expected me to kneel, they were going to be bitterly disappointed.