Chapter 2

Pain was the first thing to reach through the dark. It radiated from both wrists up into my shoulders, deep and hot enough to leave my wolf cowering against my ribs from the leftover wolfsbane in my blood.

I opened my eyes slowly to a white plaster ceiling.

For a second, the room felt unfamiliar. Then I tried to shift. A sharp ache jagged up my arms, forcing a low growl through my teeth before I could catch it. I gasped, the cold reality rushing back in sequence.

The border outpost. The iron. Wystan.

I forced my head to turn. My wrists were wrapped in heavy linen bandages, propped up on flat pillows. When I tried to flex my fingers, nothing moved.

Near the window, a healer stood quietly sorting glass jars. The sharp, bitter scent of crushed northern herbs cut through the sterile smell of Fenwick medical remedies.

"Don't move," she said softly.

"What happened to my hands?"

She didn't look up immediately. "The iron scorched the muscle. They're heavily damaged."

"Can you heal them?"

Her hands paused over the bottles. "Master Healer Vane is attending to Lady Edith."

Edith. Everything, down to the medicine in the keep, revolved around her.

"I am an Alpha heir," I said, my voice steady despite the raw burn in my throat. "My father is Alpha Cedric."

"I am aware."

"Then treat my hands."

The healer kept her gaze lowered. "I was given explicit orders not to."

"By whom?"

"Lord Wystan."

I stared at her profile. Even with my body broken, even with the poison still fading from my blood, his priority had not shifted.

"Lady Edith's fracture was deemed the priority," the healer added quietly.

A quiet, humorless breath escaped me. "She has a single broken arm."

The healer offered no reply, returning to her work. I turned back toward the ceiling, letting the silence settle. My wolf was no longer snarling. She was simply exhausted.

The heavy timber door creaked open, admitting Osric.

My brother wore his polished Alpha-line armor, the silver wolf crest of Fenwick gleaming on his chest. He smelled of cedar and forged steel—scents that used to mean protection, but now carried only distance.

He stood at the edge of the cot for a long moment before letting out a slow breath. "You shouldn't have done it, Edrys."

"Done what?" I asked without looking at him.

"Attacked Edith."

"She smashed Mother's urn."

"And you broke her arm."

"She destroyed something that could never be replaced."

Osric shook his head. "You don't understand the scope of what's happening."

"I understand it fine."

"No, you don't." He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "The elders are demanding blood."

"What kind of punishment?"

His silence was answer enough. I looked him dead in the eye. "Execution?"

"Some of them are pressing for it."

I waited for the surge of fear, but nothing came. After losing everything else, the threat of death felt curiously hollow.

"And Father?"

Osric shifted uncomfortably. "He laid out an alternative."

"Let me guess. At the Succession Feast, I bow to Edith."

"You apologize publicly."

"No."

"You relinquish your right to the trial."

"No."

The word left my lips flat and absolute. Deep inside, my wolf stirred, answering the refusal with a slow, deliberate pulse.

Osric’s expression hardened into authority. "If you refuse, Father will strip Mother’s ancestral land from your title."

My fingers twitched beneath the bandages.

"He’ll divide the territory between Delphine and Edith," Osric continued.

My mother’s acreage. The forge. The ground where I had spent my childhood. The single sanctuary left to me.

"He'll take all of it?"

"Yes."

"And where do I go?"

Osric looked down at the floorboards. "You’ll be exiled past the pack perimeter."

"Cast into rogue territory."

"Outside our borders."

"So the choice is simple," I said, letting the words sit in the room. "Bow to the girl who swept Mother's ashes into the dirt, hand over my birthright, and leave my home behind."

Osric didn't answer.

"Why would I choose that?" I asked.

"Because it keeps you breathing."

A cold smile touched my face. "Everyone keeps telling me to be grateful for scraps."

"You don't see what you're up against, Edrys."

"I see that no one is standing on my side of the line."

For a fraction of a second, a flicker of guilt crossed his face. But before he could speak, the heavy iron door opened again.

Wystan walked into the room.

My spine went rigid. He was dressed in dark travel leather, his hair still clinging to dampness from the rain outside. His expression was completely composed, but as his eyes dropped to the thick bandages securing my hands, the scent of bitter regret bled into the air around him before he shut it down.

He stopped near the edge of the cot. "Edrys."

I turned my head toward the wall. "I have nothing to say to you."

"I came to lay out the terms."

"I don't care about your terms."

His jaw set tight. "You laid hands on my mate."

"She targeted me first."

"She was terrified."

"So was I."

"You were trained to exercise restraint."

I turned back to face him directly. "And you were trained to honor an oath."

The room went dead quiet. Osric took a subtle step back, removing himself from the space between us.

Wystan’s eyes darkened, his Alpha presence flaring just enough to press heavily against the room. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You authorized them to crush my hands."

"I authorized a restraint," he said coldly. "I didn't order your ruin."

"You handed down the sentence."

"You forced the issue when you struck Edith."

"And you chose her the moment it suited you."

His frame remained motionless. "She is my fated mate."

"I know."

"Then accept the reality of it."

"I accepted it the day the mark appeared on her shoulder," I said. Something cold and final settled in my chest—not heartbreak, but the complete severance of whatever bound me to him. "I accepted that you were gone."

"You are making this a personal offense," Wystan said flatly. "You made a critical error."

"My only error was believing your word meant something."

He said nothing.

"The feast is in two days," Wystan said after a long pause. "If you bow to Edith and stand down from the succession, your father will spare your life."

"And what kind of life is left?"

"A small cottage near the outer fence."

"Stripped of my rank. Stripped of my mother's land."

He didn't contradict me.

I let out a low, dry laugh. "And you call that mercy?"

"It is more than the council wanted to give."

The words hit with heavy, calculated weight. I stared at him, looking at the warrior who had once stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me against rogue packs at the border. The man who had taken an oath to guard my life until the end of the trials.

When my father first approved his guard oath, he had explicitly noted that if I took the Alpha throne, Wystan would rule at my side. But the instant the Moon Goddess marked Edith, every word, every promise, and every shared line was erased.

My wolf lowered her head, giving up the fight against him.

"Get out," I whispered.

Wystan didn't stir. "Edrys—"

"Get out of this room."

He searched my face, looking for a break in my expression—a tear, a plea, a sign of weakness. I gave him nothing but a flat, unyielding stare.

"You're driving yourself toward an execution stone," he said quietly.

"Then let me walk there."

Osric stepped forward, his tone sharp. "Edrys, stop."

I ignored my brother completely.

Wystan stared at me for three long seconds. Then he turned and walked toward the heavy oak door. At the threshold, he paused without looking back. "If you refuse to yield at the feast, I will not stand between you and the guards."

I looked down at the linen bound tight around my hands. "You stopped standing between us a long time ago."

The door closed with a muted thud.

Silence returned to the small room. Osric remained near the foot of the bed. "You still have forty-eight hours," he offered softly. "You can walk away from Fenwick with your life intact."

"I know."

"Then take the exit."

I turned my head toward him slowly. "Did you ever care about Mother's memory?"

Osric’s posture faltered. "What?"

"Did you?"

"Of course I did."

"Then you know why I won't let them erase her forge and her ground."

He dropped his gaze to the stone floor. "It isn't worth dying for."

"Leave me alone, Osric."

He stood there for another moment, then nodded once. "The feast is in two days. Don't throw your life away."

When the door clicked shut behind him, I slowly swung my legs over the side of the cot. A sharp shock of pain bolted up both arms, but I bit the inside of my cheek until it passed.

My legs were unsteady, and my wolf was battered from the wolfsbane, but I stood up.

I walked to the small looking glass mounted near the washbasin. The reflection staring back at me wasn't the proud Alpha heir who had entered the forge yesterday. My skin was pale, my hair unkempt, and thick white bandages covered both wrists.

But my gaze hadn't softened.

I touched the edge of the silver frame with one calloused fingertip.

"They think the iron broke me," I whispered.

Deep in my chest, my wolf let out a quiet, lingering growl.

The Succession Feast was two days away. My father, the elders, Osric, Edith, and Wystan all expected me to walk into the hall, drop to my knees, apologize, and surrender my name.

They had forgotten the most basic law of our blood.

An Alpha does not need a throne to bite.

I looked down at my hands. I would not kneel. I would not apologize. And I would never give Edith the pleasure of watching me break.

If they wanted me gone from Fenwick, I would walk out. But it would be on my own terms—and before I left, I would turn their precious succession into ash.