Through The Veil

💌 Welcome, Beta Reader–

I’m so glad you’re here.

Through the Veil is an ongoing story—still in the thick of its twists, emotions, and slow-burn fire. If you’ve found yourself tangled up in the tension, questioning motives, and side-eyeing a certain broody male… you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

This journey isn’t finished yet. There’s already plenty to dive into, but new chapters will continue to unfold as the story grows. Your feedback will help shape those upcoming moments—the choices, the emotions, and the fire still waiting to burn. And trust me, it only gets more intense from here.

Your role as a beta reader matters.

After each chapter, you’ll find a feedback button—your space to share what hit, what hurt, or what made you want to throw your phone. Be honest. Every reaction helps shape this story before it takes its final form in the Bound in Ink world.

Now go on—step through the veil. ✨

You crossed into my world. You belong to me now, Princess.

Chapter One

"No." My wings flare out behind me in agitation, their pale, almost turquoise feathers clashing with the dark tapestries lining the room. The heat of my father's gaze matches my own as he leans forward on his throne. The throne that, in just a few short months, is to be mine.

"What did you just say to me?" he asks, his eyes narrowing.

I raise my chin. "I spoke clearly, Father. I said no."

Slowly, he stands. His massive golden-tipped white wings stretch out behind him as he flexes. He is trying hard to control his temper, something… as of late. I seem to be very good at setting alight.

"Amira, this is not a request," he says. "You’re to be united with Gabriel in a fortnight, and after the adjustment period, you both are to take your place as the leaders of the kingdom. You will find your replacement as the commander of The Vanguard and be happy I am allowing that!"

Turning on my heel, I storm from the room.

"Amira! STOP!" His voice is a thunderous roar that chases me as I make my way down the corridor.

But I can't. The words he'd just hurled at me bore the weight of an unbearable future. To be queen, a destiny I was born into and accepted, was one thing, but to forsake the very essence of who I am was a treachery I had not been prepared to face.

The echo of my boots against the stone floor resonates with the turmoil within me. I knew that this day would come, the betrothal, the ceremonious handover of power. It was all etched into stone from the moment I was born.

Yet, knowing and being ready were two separate things, and nothing could have prepared me for the ultimatum that came with it… Abandon my sword and surrender my place in The Vanguard, the kingdom's fiercest warriors.

How could I just accept it? Yes, I am of royal blood, but more than that, I am a warrior. My skills, honed through years of training, have wielded blades with a finesse unrivaled by any in our realm. I am the commander whose wings cast shadows over the most daunting of battles, the one who leads from the front, not from behind a wall of royal silks!

And now, I was being asked—no, commanded! To relinquish that part of my soul, to hang up my sword, and give the leadership of The Vanguard to another as if it were a mere trinket and not an extension of my very being.

"Your duty is to the realm, Amira!" My father’s voice booms down the corridor, each word lashing at me like a whip.

A fierce gust from my flapping wings sends papers swirling from a nearby table as I round a corner, trying to leave the continued shouts of my father behind me. His disappointment is clear, some would say justified, but it pales in comparison to the sense of betrayal festering in my chest.

To wear a crown yet lose myself. Who would that serve? This isn’t about refusing power. It’s about the fear that in donning that crown, I will be stripped of the very essence of who I am. Nothing more than a puppet on a string, manipulated by the expectations of others. A queen, yes, but no longer a warrior. No longer myself. No, I could not... I would not be the queen they envisioned if it meant the death of myself.

As I breach the castle doors, the open skies above beckon, whispering of freedom and battles yet to come. With a final, resolute glance back, I spread my wings wide and take flight.

The kingdom falls away beneath me, a glittering sprawl of gold and stone hugged by the wild landscape beyond its walls. I feel a sharp sting of sorrow course through me as I regard it from above. This is my home, my birthright, in all its grandeur and structured beauty. But what I’ve always seen as my sanctuary now appears to be a gilded cage that threatens to snuff out the flame burning within me.

I soar through the air. The wind whipping at my wings and against my face helps to clear my mind of the suffocating palace. I need this, this escape. Heading towards the training arena, I feel the need to refuel my spirit and remind myself of who I am.

Hours later, sweat beads on my brow as I rebuff another blow. The clash of our swords echoes across the training grounds.

A sharp command leaves my lips, urging the Vanguard warriors into formation. They respond instantly, a testament to the countless hours we've spent honing our skills together. Our movements are a deadly dance, each step a reflection of the rigorous discipline instilled within us.

"Amira, your left flank!" calls out a familiar voice.

I pivot, blocking an incoming strike without missing a beat. I nod in acknowledgment to Talen, my second-in-command. His silver eyes are alight with the thrill of the exercise as he blocks his own attacker.

"Good eye," I breathe out, launching into another series of attacks.

"Always watching your back," Talen replies, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he deflects a jab from one of the younger recruits with a swipe of his massive black wing.

As the sun climbs higher, casting long shadows across the field, I signal for a break. The warriors disperse, panting and nursing bruised egos more than actual wounds. I stride over to where Talen is offering guidance to a pair of novices, correcting their stance with a patience I often lack.

"Your form is improving. Keep up the good work," he praises before waving them off and turning to me. "You're pushing them hard today."

"They need it," I say, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand. "The real battles won't offer mercy."

"True," he agrees. As we walk to the edge of the practice field, away from prying ears. Despite the camaraderie that binds the Vanguard, there are words meant only for the closest of confidantes.

"Something troubles you," he observes, his voice dropping to a hushed tone. "More than usual."

"Is it that obvious?" I ask, the weight of my father's expectations and the terms of an arranged betrothal press down on me, heavier than any armor I’ve worn.

"Only to someone who knows you as well as I do," he says, leaning against the cool stone wall, crossing his arms.

"Freedom seems like a dream meant for others," I confess, flexing my wings at the frustration bubbling up inside me. "This betrothal... I don’t want a cage, Talen, gilded or otherwise."

"Amira, you were never one to be caged," he says firmly. "Even if duty demands certain sacrifices, you’ll find your skies to soar. You always do."

His faith in me stirs a warmth in my chest, but my heart remains heavy. "And if I can't? What if this betrothal demands more than I'm willing to give?"

"Then you fight," he responds without hesitation. "Not with sword and shield, but with wit and will. You're not just any warrior or heir to the throne, Amira. You’re a true leader, one who carves her own path."

"Perhaps." I glance skyward. "But even leaders must sometimes bow to the inevitable."

Talen clasps a firm hand on my shoulder. "Not you. Not without a hell of a fight."

His conviction at least offers some comfort to my twisting turmoil. With a deep breath, I adjust my vambrace before signaling the guard to rotate. Those sparring in hand-to-hand combat will now shift to archery, and so on. Though each warrior has their skills, everyone is required to learn every form of combat. You never know what a battle will bring, and you'd better be prepared to switch weapons as quickly as the wind shifts.

I take a deep breath, shifting winds is a fitting statement. At least with whatever may come, I have an ally in Talen. Together, we turn back toward the field. But I can’t shake the feeling that his words will prove true, and one hell of a fight is exactly what’s coming.

The sun hangs low as I leave the sparring ground behind, seeking solace where the earth cannot bind me.

My wings unfurl, a glorious expanse of pale turquoise feathers, their golden tips almost shimmer as they catch the updraft. With a powerful leap, I launch into the open embrace of the sky.

The air currents greet me with playful gusts that tug at my hair and tease my senses. The exhilaration of flight surges through me, a wild rhythm that beats in perfect harmony with my heart. Each flap of my wings propels me higher, and I revel in the boundless freedom of it. Here, amidst the clouds, there is no betrothal, no duty, only the vast canvas of blue, ready for exploration.

As I cut through the air, I dance between wisps of white, rolling across my feathers as each stroke paints my path across the heavens.

I stretch my wings wide, feeling the rush of air against my skin as I soar higher and higher.

Reaching the highest of heights, I still. Hovering briefly, I lean back, enjoying the feel of weightlessness before gravity takes hold and I begin free-falling.

It's a feeling of pure freedom, of letting go and trusting in the world to catch me.

With a graceful turn, I unfurl my wings, catching the wind, and glide through the endless expanse of sky.

The sun warms my skin, filling me with weightless freedom. Below, the kingdom sprawls in fragmented splendor, floating isles like scattered puzzle pieces. Some are crowned with misty peaks, draped in forests whose roots dangle into the sky. While others host silver rivers that cut through the land only to spill into the abyss in shimmering cascades.

It is a sight reserved for those with wings. Thankfully, those who call this kingdom home are blessed with them. Even many of the creatures that prowl the forests have the gift of flight, though few stray far from the shelter of the canopy.

Yet, for all its beauty, this kingdom is but one of many.

There are other realms that stretch far beyond what even the sharpest eyes can see, each bound by forces we barely understand. Some are divided by a shimmering veil, an ethereal barrier that only the most powerful, or the most reckless, dare to cross. Others remain hidden entirely, their entrances lost to time or concealed by magic so ancient that even the scholars of my realm can only speculate on their existence.

Some worlds, they say, are bathed in endless light, where magic hums through the air, shaping the land itself. Others are dark, unforgiving places, ruled by creatures who have long since forgotten mercy. And then there are the forbidden realms, the ones spoken of only in whispers, their very existence denied even by those who know the truth.

I’ve no need for adventure in those realms. I was trained to protect my kingdom, not to seek out what lies beyond the Veil. The Vanguard’s duty, my duty, has always been to guard our people, not chase after myths.

This is where I belong, but I can’t help but wonder if the throne, once I claim it, might make me a captive within my own kingdom, a queen trapped in a cage, her wings clipped before she can truly soar.

"Princess," calls a voice, smooth as the wind itself, yet commanding.

I stiffen mid-flight, a flicker of irritation ripples through me before I mask my expression. Gabriel? Why is he here? Shouldn’t he be with the council, preparing for the pre-ceremony? Or is this yet another attempt to remind me of the future being woven around me like an inescapable net?

I bank to my left, leveling out to meet his gaze.

He glides toward me, his own wings, a golden shade fitting his stature as a royal, stretched out in effortless flight. His presence pulls me back to reality, to the weight of expectations and the crown I am destined to wear.

"Gabriel," I respond, my tone mirroring the formality that our positions demand.

"Your prowess in the air is unmatched," he says, his eyes alight with admiration. "It is an honor to see you command the winds as you do the warriors of The Vanguard."

"Thank you," I nod. My reply is curt. Clipped by the knowledge of what his words truly mean. His excitement is recognizable, a future together, ruling side by side. But I feel his expectations don't match my own.

"Every time I witness your skill, I grow more eager for the day we unite our lines," he continues, oblivious to the storm brewing within me. "The betrothal ceremony is soon upon us. Our people are eager to celebrate."

"Are they?" I ask, my voice sharper than I intend. The sky is too beautiful to speak of cages now, golden or not.

"Of course," he says, and there's a note of certainty in his words that grates me. "It will be the union of the century, the joining of our royal blood and two great warriors."

"Warriors," I repeat, my gaze fixates on the horizon. I am a warrior, yes, but does he understand what that means? The wildness in my heart, the hunger that burns for the skies untamed?

His smile fades slightly, and for a moment, it feels as if he's peering into the depths of my turmoil. "Is something the matter, Princess?" Gabriel's sharp gaze bores into my own, his sapphire eyes reflecting the endless sky above, but they only serve to remind me of what's expected.

"No," I respond curtly, looking away from him and toward the sprawling paradise below.

"There is a weight upon your wings," he says. It's not a question but a statement. I will say this, he has perceptiveness. When he wants.

"Gabriel, you speak of unity. Of power," I say, trying to keep the frustration from seeping into my words. "But have you ever considered want? My role in the Vanguard is more than a title, it is who I am. The winds... They call to me far louder than any council chamber ever could."

"Your commanding of The Vanguard is important," he concedes, tilting his head as if weighing my words. "I don’t want you to—"

"Princess Amira!"

The sharp call cuts through the air, slicing whatever Gabriel was about to say in half. I whip my head toward the source, spotting a squadron of warriors in the distance. Their gold-tipped wings, glinting in the sunset, are not natural like mine. They are painted, done as a sign. These are my father’s personal guard, meaning the call of duty beckons.

"I must return," I say.

Gabriel simply nods. "Of course, until we meet again at the pre-ceremony."

With one last glance at him, I launch into a sweeping dive towards the group of warriors, my mind lost in thought of what was left unsaid.

The sun dips below the horizon, casting a crimson glow over the Avalon kingdom as my feet touch down and I make my way into the castle. My father’s guards follow close behind, no doubt with strict orders to bring me directly to him.

A sense of foreboding tightens my chest with each step, as I brace myself for the repercussions of my storm out this morning.

"Is he in his office or the library?" I ask the head guard.

"Neither," he replies. "He’s in the aviary."

I pause, turning towards him with raised brows. "The aviary?"

A strange unease settles in my stomach. My father never steps a foot in that place. He avoids it like a wound that’s never fully healed.

He nods, taking the lead. No doubt, determined to bring me to him as quickly as possible. Which would annoy me except for the fact that my father is in the one area of the castle that he never goes... Why?

I follow the guard through the corridor and onto a winding path, my mind a whirl of thoughts and theories, none of them comforting. The aviary is sacred. Haunted by memories. His being there… It just seems odd.

As we approach, I hear the soft chirping of the birds housed inside, their voices rising and falling in a melody that's both calming and eerie in the silence of nightfall.

The scent of figs and fresh feathers hits me as I stand at the threshold of an indoor forest. Branches intertwine above, creating a woven tapestry against the fading skylight.

Stepping further into the enclosure, my father stands at the center, his back to us. His white wings folded neatly behind him. His figure is a silhouette against the fading light coming through the aviary's glass roof that paints abstract streaks of orange and purple upon him.

He doesn’t turn to greet me, nor does he acknowledge my presence in any other way. He just continues staring.

"Father," I say, clearing my throat. This isn't the stern king I'm used to seeing. This is just a man before me.

"Wait outside," he commands to his guards, who nod and close the door upon their departure. Leaving the two of us in the twilight of the aviary, with only the sound of rustling wings and occasional chirping echoing around us.

"Father," I start again, this time my tone softer. "Why are you in here?"

"Sometimes the answers one seeks are often found in the unlikeliest of places," he says, finally turning to face me. His stern gaze is softer than I have seen in a long time.

I raise a brow. "Sometimes… I guess they are."

"Amira-"

"Is this about this morning?" I ask, cutting him off. My words are sharp as I ready myself to defend my position.

He holds up his hand before I can continue. His gaze doesn't waver, nor does it harden. Instead, it grows distant, lost in some profound thought. "This is about duty," he finally says.

Duty. The word echoes in my mind, a constant reminder defining our lives as Avians. "I'm already upholding my duty, father," I retort.

"Amira," he sighs, rubbing his forehead with one hand. "When I look at you, I see so much potential. You are strong and free-spirited. But sometimes…" He pauses. "You act a lot like your mother."

His words catch me off guard. My wings twitch anxiously at the unexpected sentiment. He rarely speaks of her.

"Yes," he murmurs, his gaze resting on the setting sun through the glass. "She too had wings that longed for the sky, a heart that craved freedom... and a soul that defied destiny."

A lump forms in my throat as he paints such a vivid picture of a woman I barely remember. My memories of her are few and far between. Most are second-hand stories told by maids or guards. I'd been told by many that I host her features. My long, dark hair and deep brown eyes. But particularly my wings, while lighter, we both had the rarest of colors. Turquoise.

"But she also understood her obligations," he continues, bringing me back to reality. "Just like you need to."

And there it is…

"I know my obligations," I counter, bristling under his gaze. "I am an avian warrior first and foremost—"

"First and foremost, you're an Avian princess," he cuts me off. "Heir to the throne. Your mother was a free spirit, but she knew her responsibilities. She understood that our lives aren’t entirely ours… as royalty or as warriors."

"I understand that, Father," I say, trying to keep my tone level. "I know what my responsibilities are, and I have done nothing but what has been required of me. The Vanguard—"

"Leading the Vanguard and leading a kingdom are two separate things, Amira," he says, cutting me off again.

"But–"

"But nothing, Amira," he shouts, his now stern gaze cutting through me like a blade. "Don’t let your heart lead you astray. You are more than just an avian warrior. You are the future queen. We do not choose our fates, Amira. We are born into them." He pauses, and the air grows thicker. "And sometimes, we must make sacrifices."

A wave of frustration crashes over me, my wings flaring out in agitation. "I don’t—"

"ENOUGH!" His voice booms loud enough to shake the glass. The words land heavy, reverberating in the stillness. "I have been understanding and patient with you, but enough is enough. Your successor for The Vanguard will be chosen, and you will shift your entire focus to the ceremony."

I clench my teeth, my fingers curling into fists at my sides, as I fight the surge of anger that rises with every word he speaks. "Yes, Father," I reply, forcing the words out between clenched teeth. His word is law in this kingdom. No point in arguing further.

He nods, walking around me, his footsteps echoing through the aviary. A clear sign that our conversation is over.

Chapter Two

The air is thick with anticipation as the pre-betrothal ceremony unfolds around me. I stand amidst a sea of nobles, each one adorned in finery that covers even their feathers, gleaming under the chandelier's golden lights. Their whispers flutter through the air like the rustling of leaves. The idle chatter fills the space with an almost suffocating pressure.

The grand hall’s marble walls and vaulted ceilings loom, a monument to decisions made long before I was born.

"Princess Amira." People murmur my name, their voices laced with reverence as I drift through the crowd. I nod in polite respect, but my attention is fixed on the ornate decorations that frame the hall. Gilded mirrors reflect the assembly's finery, while tapestries depicting the great battles of our past line the walls, stories of valor, of blood spilled for power, for tradition, for a crown that was always meant to be mine.

The weight of my diamond-encrusted gown pulls at my wings. The uncomfortable pressure against my feathers has me twitching with restlessness. It's been years since I’ve worn such finery, and the unfamiliar weight among my feathers feels like a burden, far removed from the lightness I crave.

But tradition demands that I wear them for this ceremony, and so I endure. Each step feels heavier than the last. My wings lightly unfurl behind me, brushing the fabric of my gown, the sensation foreign and confining.

I force myself to focus on the present, to carry the look of the future queen, as I walk up the few marble steps and take my place next to my father on the royal platform.

Turning, I scan the crowd as my father’s voice booms. "Esteemed guests.” He stands tall, his white wings flex slightly as the light catches his crown. "Today marks a pivotal moment for our kingdom." His words are poised, but there's an edge to them. "The uniting of Prince Gabriel Skybreaker and my daughter, Princess Amira Ironwing.

Gabriel steps forward from the crowd and bows in respect.

“As is tradition,” my father continues. “Princess Amira and her betrothed will share the first dance.”

I catch his approving nod before Gabriel extends his hand. My fingers slip into his, cool against the heat of the moment as I tuck my wings close and slowly descend the steps.

The crowd parts as we move side by side to the center and take position opposite one another. The orchestra swells to life, a slow, deep, haunting rhythm that carries the weight of expectation in every note. Gabriel bows low, his golden wings stretching wide behind him.

I take a deep breath and slowly unfurl my wings, dipping into a graceful curtsy.

We rise together, our gazes lock as we step toward each other. His hand finds my waist, mine his shoulder, as our other hands entwine. The next strum of strings hits, and our wings draw close, and we spin, step, spin, step.

The crowd eases back further, allowing us a wider berth as we move. Each step is measured, practiced, and confident. The music swirls around the hall, and all eyes remain fixed on us.

“You look radiant,” he smiles as we step closer and twirl.

“And you every bit the dutiful heir,” I say, my voice so low it's almost lost to the music.

“Why do I get the sense that you're displeased?” he asks, pulling me back into another turn.

“I am not displeased,” I state between steps.

He smirks. “You hold yourself well. Anyone watching would see a queen in perfect control… but your eyes give you away.”

My steps almost falter, and I fight the irritated ripple that threatens to quiver to the tips of my feathers. “Perfect is an illusion,” I say evenly. “No matter how much one may try to achieve it, it does not exist.”

“Perhaps,” he says, dipping me slowly back as the music reaches its last few chords. “But a true leader learns that illusions keep kingdoms from falling.”

As the last note fades, we straighten. Gabriel releases me with a bow, and the silence that follows feels heavier than the applause that erupt a heartbeat after. I step closer, allowing him to take my hand and offer a polite smile. “Illusions are not the way this kingdom will be run.”

His answering smile doesn't reach his eyes as we turn to face the crowd and make our way back toward the royal platform. My father stands where we left him, every inch the monarch. His wings tucked in perfect order, expression carved from stone.

I reclaim my place at his side, and Gabriel takes his place opposite my father. The weight of a hundred eyes watching settles over me as my father lifts his hand, commanding the room to still. The applause fade into silence.

“Today marks more than the coming union of two houses,” he begins, voice resonating through the grand hall. "Let it be known. That while Princess Amira has been the best of our warriors since her mother.” His gaze finds mine, sharp and unyielding. “She will henceforth relinquish her command of the Vanguard."

A collective of murmurs drifts through the hall, and I feel the ground slip from beneath me even as I stand firm. My heart hammers against my ribcage, urging me to take action.

"Father?" I whisper, steady despite the turmoil within. "What are you doing?"

His gaze doesn't waver. As he scans the room, his voice drops low. "Our agreement was not sealed on your end. I have made the choice. Your place is here, Amira. Your duties await you as queen."

I search the faces of the crowd, seeing among them my small unit of most trusted soldiers. Their expressions are a reflection of my shock. They knew that there would be another commander appointed, I had said so, but this is not how it was to be done.

Confusion mingles with curiosity among the rest of the guests. I clench my fists, feeling the tips of my wings twitch with the anger that is coursing through my veins.

"Your legacy is more than your sword," my father murmurs, before turning his attention to the rest of the crowd. "Kael Nightshade will henceforth be the commander of the Vanguard."

The murmurs rise again, like a flock of birds startled into flight. As my father turns his attention toward Gabriel, they step to the side in conversation. A silent signal that all has been said. My gaze meets Talen’s. His wings ruffle in obvious annoyance. His eyes harden and his jaw tightens as he pivots on his foot, disappearing through the crowd. The rest of the group glances at me with disapproval before following in his footsteps.

Burning rage sears through me as I pivot on my heel and beeline straight for my father. Ceremony or not, this is a conversation we will not wait to have.

"Choosing my successor?" I hiss, a venomous edge sharpening my tone. "You promised me that right!" My eyes narrow, locking onto his with an intensity that could shatter glass. A taut silence stretches between us as he faces me.

"Promises shift like the winds, Amira," he states, his voice unyielding as the stone pillars that support our grand hall. "It is not a matter for debate."

"Shift like the winds?" I echo, disbelieving, my pulse quickens with each breath. "Is that what you call a vow made before the Vanguard? Before the realm? Kael is not the choice for commander! Talen-"

"Is NOT the correct choice," he says, cutting me off. "Your choice would not have fully separated you from being the commander of the Vanguard."

"So you had never meant to allow me an actual say," I snap.

"Enough!" His command booms across the room, his eyes capture mine in a fierce gaze. "You were allowed, and your choice was wrong. Your duty to your people surpasses your desires. It is final."

"Final!?" I'm beyond seething now. Words erupt from me like an explosion. "You bind me in a marriage, to a crown, and now you strip me of the one thing that grants me purpose!?"

"Watch your tone, Amira," he warns, but I am beyond caring for decorum.

"Will you chain me next? Clip my wings?" My words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, I see something flicker in his gaze, regret, perhaps, or the ghost of longing for the spirit he himself has since snuffed out.

"Your place is not at the hilt of a sword," he states. "It is beside your betrothed, ruling this kingdom."

"Ruling or caged?" I retort, my voice a blade drawn and ready. "What use is a queen who cannot stand for her own convictions!?"

"Amira," he sighs. "This is about more than us. It is about the future of our people."

"My future has never been my choice," I remind him, the edges of my vision tinting red with the anger coursing through me. "You have broken your word and taken the one thing I had a choice of."

The tension in the grand hall crackles like a storm on the horizon that I've become the eye of. But my resolve doesn’t waver. Even under the weight of whispers and the heavy gaze of the court, each pair of eyes a silent judgment upon my wings.

"Amira."

It isn’t my father’s voice that slices through the murmurs, but Gabriel’s. He steps around my father. His piercing eyes lock onto mine with intense determination as he closes the distance between us, and for a moment, his presence almost feels like a reprieve from the brewing storm.

“I understand your grievances,” he begins, his gaze brushing over mine. “But I must agree with the king. You are no longer a warrior. And as your father and I have discussed, our duty to our people is greater.”

My heart pounds against my ribcage, like it’s desperate for escape. I clench my fists at my sides, my nails dig into my palms, as the surrounding air grows thick.

“Discussed,” I echo. “And when did this discussion take place? Because I do not recall having been a part of it.”

“Not every discussion requires both of us to be present,” he says.

Some of the jewels in my feathers jingle as a shudder of pure rage vibrates through my wings. My gaze flicks to my father, but he doesn’t so much as blink. It’s clear the decision was made long before I ever set foot in this hall. This wasn’t a sudden decree. It was planned, agreed upon, spoken of in rooms I was never invited into. My father’s silence confirms it, and Gabriel’s calm only makes it worse.

“Your duty as queen will be the guiding star for our kingdom,” he continues. “You’re needed to lead not by the sword but as a beacon of hope and stability."

"Hope? Stability?" The words taste like poison on my tongue. "Is that what we call chains now?"

"Chains?" he echoes, a frown creasing his brow. "I speak of unity, Amira. Of a future forged together, where your spirit and courage inspire from the throne."

Inspire from the throne? A bitter laugh threatens to escape my lips. But I bite it down, the sharp taste of my anger makes my tongue tingle.

"No, Gabriel. You speak of what you believe is duty. But that is not mine." My voice rings clear, echoing off the stone walls. "I will not let the title of queen fully dictate my life. Not when it costs me my wings."

"Your wings are not being taken from you, Amira," he tries to reason, extending his hand toward me as if to pull me back into line.

The gesture, his attempt to soothe me, feels like the final insult. I jerk back, the muscles in my shoulders tightening as my wings unfurl in a harsh rustle, as if they, too, reject him. The air itself feels as though it’s closing in around me.

"No," I say, my voice sharp with fury, as I pull away even further. "But my choices are."

"Amira," he warns.

"Princess," I snap.

His jaw clenches, his voice dipping into a whisper as he steps closer to me. "Your place is not on the battleground any longer. It's by my side at the throne."

I can tell this is getting me nowhere except for a spectacle to the now silent hall as they watch the drama unfold. "Then let us hope," I say, my gaze meeting his unflinchingly, "that when we reach that point, I will recognize my reflection in the mirror. For she will not only be queen, but also the ghost of the warrior she once was."

I push past him and down the steps. I stride through the crowd, my wings bristling as people move aside to let me pass.

The grandeur of the ceremony fades to a blur as every step I take away from Gabriel and my father is a declaration of defiance. My heart races with a rhythm that syncs to the throbbing pulse of rebellion within me.

The silk of my gown against my skin is a taunting caress as I make my way through the throngs of onlookers, their eyes wide with unspoken questions.

"Princess Amira, where are you going?" The voice of some concerned guest tries to tether me to the spot, but I cannot be held. Not now.

"Forgive me, I need a moment," I reply, not slowing. My voice sounds like a distant echo even to my own ears as I push past the last of the guests. The cool air beckons me, and soon, the grand balcony looms ahead like a threshold between confinement and freedom.

As I reach the balcony, I draw back the heavy drapes and step onto the terrace. Relieved to find it empty. With a swift motion, I loosen the clasp at my throat, and the heavy jeweled layer of my gown falls away.

I inhale sharply, tasting the crisp air of freedom. Stepping to the edge, I spread my wings wide. Flexing and popping most of the small jewels off in the process.

Without hesitation, I leap. For a heartbeat, there is nothing but the perilous drop below, and then my wings snap open with a sound like thunder. Propelling the last of the jewels into the abyss. I catch the currents of the wind with practiced ease, and I am ascending, higher and higher, into the expanse above.

The wind rushes past me, a fierce symphony in my ears, and I revel in the sheer power of my flight. Each stroke of my wings propels me further from the life I am expected to lead.

Below, the palace dwindles, reduced to mere specks of light, and I soar above it all, unbound and untamed. The clouds welcome me as one of their own, and for a moment, I dare to imagine a life unfettered by crowns and councils.

I rise on an updraft, spiraling towards the moon, its blue rays basking me in its glow. My body moves with the grace and strength that were born of the sky, my true home, where my spirit finds solace amidst the tumult of my heart.

Here in this boundless blue, I am free.

Twisting and turning, I dance with the currents. The cool air brushes against my face, and for a brief moment, it feels like a balm to the fire of anger still burning inside me. Yet the weight of my responsibilities refuses to be left behind. Even as I soar higher, the questions I can’t escape grow louder in my mind.

How dare my father strip me of command and choose my successor! How can Gabriel, who claims to understand, stand there and support such a betrayal, while pretending to be on my side?

The anger burns, hot and raw, but beneath it, something else stirs, a gnawing feeling I can’t ignore. This isn’t just about what my father has done or the way Gabriel’s words twist like a knife in my chest. No, this is deeper.

It’s the suffocating realization that my entire life has been dictated for me. I feel like a puppet tied to the strings of duty and legacy. Even my command of the Vanguard wasn’t truly mine… it was permitted. Maybe my wings are the only thing that ever belonged to me, the only true form of freedom I’ve ever had.. But the crown will strip me of that too, won’t it?

And yet, isn’t it mine to wear? Isn’t it my birthright, regardless of the expectations that come with it? As much as I want to run, to leave it all behind, a part of me knows with a certainty I can’t deny that there is more at stake than just my anger or my pride.

“Stop it, Amira,” I chide myself aloud. My voice drifts into the wind. “You’re to be queen.”

The weight of those words presses down, and my wings beat harder, faster, as though trying to outrun the truth. My thoughts twist and tangle. Shouldn’t my voice matter in this kingdom? Shouldn’t my choices have weight beyond the silken veil of expectation? The thought lingers, tight in my chest, like a knot I can’t undo.

I ride the wind’s embrace, spiraling upward as it tugs at my resolve. I close my eyes, letting the sensation of flight consume me, the air whispering secrets against my skin. This is where I belong, not in ornate halls or beside a man who would try to confine me.

And yet the truth stays with me, no matter how high I climb or how far I soar. Even if I resist it, even if I fight it, I cannot deny what is mine to claim. My destiny has never just been my wings or my sword, but the crown. I am bound by blood and duty as much as by the freedom I crave.

My eyes snap open. The horizon beckons, where duty and desire might find harmony. I am tethered to a destiny that demands both strength and compassion, command and grace. Still, I have a choice in how it will be led.

“You are more than they claim,” I murmur to myself. “You decide who you are.”

With a deep breath, I level my flight, gliding now, conserving strength for the battles ahead, both those fought with a sword and those without. As the air cools further, so does my fury, replaced by a resolve as unyielding as the mountains on the isles.

I soar higher, seeking the clarity that often comes with altitude. The clouds are wispy up here, like trails from an artist’s brush, ethereal and untamed. I can be both queen and warrior. The crown I am to wear will not smother who I am.

There will be more time for contemplation, but now I must return.

I descend, spiraling back toward the palace, where duty looms as large as the gates that mark its entrance. Below, the balcony waits, a threshold between two worlds. My wings fold, feathers brushing together in a silent hymn of resilience. With precision, I land, the stone solid beneath my feet.

The resolve crystallizes within me, sharp and clear. I will face my father, speak with Gabriel, and through it, I will find my way. No decree can strip me of who I am. I will not be caged.

But first, I have a wrong I will right.

Chapter Three

Dawn breaks, and the light seeping through my window brings with it the reminder of the disorder in my world. With a fury I’m barely able to contain, I head for my wardrobe.

I dress quickly, pulling a shirt up over my waist. The fabric stretches as it slides beneath my wings, soft against the steel-like strength of my feathers. It settles easily as I slip my arms through the sleeves and lace the back into place at their base.

All of our attire was made to accommodate our wings, though at times I can see why most women opted for dresses. However, it isn't practical for fighting, and today I would be doing just that.

I lace up my cuirass before I pull on a pair of black, form-fitting tactical pants. The durable, stretchy material molds to my legs, allowing for fluid movement, and I tug on my high, soft leather boots with reinforced soles for grip. Securing my dagger in the inside pocket.

Shoving open the doors to my chambers, the echo of their slamming reverberates through the stone hallways like a war drum.

My boots strike the ground in rapid succession, propelling me forward. Determination pumps through my veins like liquid fire. My resolve to set things right will start where my choice was taken from me.

As I descend upon the Vanguard training grounds. My voice slices through the morning air. "Kael!"

The clanking of swords halts, and all eyes fixate on the storm I have become. Kael turns to face me, his stance rigid, his expression one of surprise, before he masks it.

"Princess Amira," he replies, his tone even, but the steel in his eyes matches my own. "What brings you here this morning?"

"Your command," I say, narrowing my eyes at him. "It's over."

"Over?" He crosses his arms, his wings twitch as his muscles flex beneath his leather armor. "On whose authority?"

"Mine." I step closer, refusing to break eye contact. "The Vanguard needs a leader who doesn't shirk his duties for personal vendettas. Talen is the rightful commander and more than capable."

"Personal vendettas!" Kael's voice echoes across the field.

"Your loyalty wavers when it suits you," I retort. "This is not a discussion. Talen will take your place."

Kael’s jaw tightens, his fists balling at his sides, his knuckles paling under the strain. "My loyalty is and has always been to the throne and never about vendettas. I have earned my place. It was not something handed to me, nor can it be taken just because you decided to play Queen today." He takes a step closer, his presence pressing against mine. "The King decides who will command, not you! You cannot just–"

"I am the heir to the Avian throne!" My shout cuts through his rising fury. "I will be taking my father's place! Either way, I decide who leads MY warriors!"

Our breaths are heavy, the silence between us is tense with more things left unsaid. Even the wind holds its breath, waiting for the fallout of our confrontation. I watch as Kael's jaw clenches, his pride battling with the knowledge that I speak the truth.

"Very well," he concedes, through clenched teeth. "But this isn't over, Princess. You may strip me of my title for now, but it will not last."

He bows his head, a silent acknowledgment of my decree, and shoots into the sky.

The dust of the training ground swirls around my boots as I turn to face the Vanguard soldiers. Their dark leather armor gleams faintly where polished steel trim catches the light. A sea of silent stares meets mine, eyes full of questions that hang so heavy I can almost taste the tension. They are waiting for my next move.

"Vanguard!" My voice cuts through the stillness. "I have made a choice that will reshape the future of our guard." Murmurs ripple through the ranks like whispers of wind across a battlefield. But I stand firm, my gaze unwavering. "Kael has been relieved of command. Talen will lead."

For a beat, there is only silence. The weight of it presses down on me. Then, from the ranks, Talen steps forward, his wings unfurl in a gesture of respect. The wind picks up, rustling the tips of his feathers, and I see in his eyes not only gratitude but something deeper, an understanding of the responsibility he now shoulders.

Without hesitation, we clasp our forearms. It’s a deep sign of agreement, respect, and of our warrior's bond. "Your father won’t be pleased about this," he murmurs.

"Leave him to me. He should have known I wouldn’t stand for this. The position was always yours, my friend." I tighten my grip, and a shared strength passes between us. "You’re the right choice."

Talen nods. "I will serve with honor and loyalty, Princess Amira." His voice rings clear, unwavering, and filled with promise.

The soldiers hold their breath, eyes flicking between us as I step back. Turning my attention to the crowd, I nod in acknowledgment, and they respond, one by one, by placing their fists over their hearts. It's a silent but powerful gesture of fealty. They kneel, their collective respect ringing louder than any words. A wall of strength, bound by loyalty, forms around me.

"Rise, Vanguard," I command, my voice thick with pride. "Together, we will soar higher than ever before."

The ground trembles with the sound of armored fists thumping against chests as they rise to their feet. A chorus of unity that vibrates through the very earth beneath us. It is a salute not only of duty but of kinship. These soldiers are more than protectors. They are my family, my foundation, and together we will face whatever comes.

With the weight of their allegiance fortifying me, I make my way back to the castle. The stone halls echo my footsteps as I head in search of my father.

"Amira!"

I pause, turning to see Gabriel emerging from the great hall.

He strides forward with a determined grace and an edge behind his forced smile. His gaze locks onto mine, holding a promise of conflict. "Amira," he says again, his voice dipping low, as he stops in front of me. "Is it true? Did you strip Kael of command?"

I raise my chin.

"You overstep," his voice is a low growl, brimming with challenge. "You don't have the right."

"I have every right." My retort is like a lash, swift and sharp. The tension between us singes the air, threatening to ignite.

He steps closer, his wings twitching in agitation. "Are you determined to fight against every order if it’s not given by yourself!? You act on impulse. This should have been discussed!"

“Not every discussion requires both of us to be present,” I throw back. His eyes flash, but I don’t relent. "That order given was unjust! Kael was not fit for command. Talen is!"

His eyes narrow, a glint of anger flashing across his face. His wings shift, their feathers casting long shadows across the marble floor. "Your actions don't just threaten the stability of ranks," he sneers. "They question your loyalty to the kingdom!"

"My loyalty would have been questioned had I allowed Kael to stay in command of The Vanguard," I say, my voice rising to the same level. "If the kingdom's strongest warriors and protectors do not have my loyalty to appoint the correct commander, then tell me, as the soon-to-be Queen, how could I expect their loyalty while I rule?"

His wings snap open to their full span, his muscles coil with tension. "You speak of ruling? Yet you undermine your father, our king, with every impetuous decision!" His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "Will you do the same to me when we are wed? Discard my authority when it doesn't suit your whims?"

The accusation slams into me like a physical blow. Before I can think, my hand strikes his face with a crack that echoes through the hall. The sting spreads across my palm as Gabriel's head whips to the side.

Slowly, his hand raises to his cheek. "Did you just slap me?"

I gaze at his stunned expression, the vivid red imprint now spreading across his face. Slapping a warrior holds more disrespect than a punch. Yet, I feel no remorse. A deafening silence falls between us, broken only by the harsh rasp of our breathing.

"Yes," I say finally, my feathers ruffle. "And I'll do it again if you ever question my loyalty to this kingdom."

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes, something I've never seen before. His wings arch higher, his feathers bristling. "You mistake arrogance for strength, Amira," he growls, his voice drops to a dangerous rumble. "One day, that will be your undoing."

"And you mistake obedience for loyalty," I counter, my wings rigid behind me. "That will be yours."

We stand frozen, suspended in this moment of raw fury, neither of us willing to yield. The air between us crackles with tension, thick enough to suffocate. Without another word, I turn and stride away, my wings tremble with barely contained emotion. I need some air before I face my father, but I’m not going to get that peace so easily.

Gabriel steps into my path. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Out," I grit, trying to sidestep him, but he moves in sync with me. Only heightening my irritation.

"We're not done,” he rumbles.

"Well, I am!" I seethe, shoving him out of my way, but he grabs my arm. "Let go," I snap, my gaze icy as it meets his. But he holds on, his grip firm and unyielding.

"You can't just run away every time we disagree, Amira!"

"Disagree!" I say through gritted teeth. "It’s about respect, Gabriel. Something that you and so many others seem hell-bent on denying me."

"Stop acting like a child," he snaps.

"A child?" The words burn in my throat like acid. "You think defending my honor is childish?"

I wrench my arm free. My wings snap open. The sunlight streaming through the tall windows catches on my feathers, casting sharp shadows across his face. "Standing my ground is not childish! I've spent my life proving myself worthy of my birthright!"

"So have I!" he shouts, going toe to toe with me. "I am every bit, if not more, of the warrior you are!"

More!? His words slice through me like a blade. For a heartbeat, I can't breathe, can't think through the red haze of fury clouding my vision. I inhale sharply, my wings flare wider in instinctive challenge.

"You want me to act like the future queen?" I scoff, my lip curling. "Then stop treating me like I'm beneath you!"

His expression darkens, his golden wings unfurl to match mine. Had we not been alone in the main corridor, we’d be creating a spectacle, two royal Avians locked in confrontation, our feathers bristling.

"You're not beneath me. We are equals. That's the point of this alliance!" his voice rises to match mine, his golden wings creating a wall of light that threatens to swallow me whole.

I laugh, but there is no real humor in it. "Equals? Is that what you call what happened last night? You spoke with my father to have me replaced and stood by while he publicly stripped my right to choose the next leader of MY warriors?"

"They are not YOUR warriors, they are the warriors of the kingdom and the realm!" he shouts.

"Our kingdom, Gabriel! The one I will also rule," I throw back, watching his eyes narrow. "If I can't command the respect of our warriors, what kind of queen will I be?"

The silence between us stretches with tension. I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears, feel the heat radiating from my wings as they tremble with barely contained rage.

"Your father," he begins.

"Is not going to be king much longer," I say, cutting him off. "We will be taking the throne, and I won’t have it be under an un-united front!"

"You’re being dramatic,” he scoffs. “You could have waited until after to appoint Talen as the commander. Instead, you undermined-"

"Would you have agreed?" I cut him off.

He blinks. "What?"

"Had I waited until after, would you have agreed to appoint Talen as the commander?" I say, lifting my chin.

"Seeing you already made the choice, I guess now we will never know," he growls.

"Wrong," I say, narrowing my eyes. "Your answer gives you away. You wouldn’t have appointed Talen as commander. You would have said it’s too soon and not want to cause a rift right as we’d ascended the throne!"

His jaw clenches, and I see the truth in his eyes before he can mask it. "You don't know what I would have done."

"I know exactly what you would have done," I counter, stepping closer until we're nearly nose to nose. "You would have tried to placate me with empty promises while maintaining the status quo. Don’t underestimate me, I’m skilled just like you in politics, war, and tactics."

With a forceful flick of my wings, I create a gust that propels us apart. I don't give him a chance to stop me again as I launch myself towards the open window. I burst through, my wings spreading wide as I catch the current of air. The wind whips against my face, cooling my heated skin but doing little to calm the storm raging inside me.

Gabriel doesn't follow. He’s more than likely going to seek out my father, but I’ll deal with them both once I return. Right now, I need to tempt down my anger, and the sky's the one place where I can really breathe.

I climb higher, pushing my wings faster. The castle shrinks beneath me, becoming just a small structure. I am not the only one to find my bearings in the clouds. It is our way. Though I admit more often of late I have been in the sky.

I bank toward the western isles, clouds heavy around me, moisture clinging to my feathers. My wings cut through the mist, each beat burning off the fury in my chest.

The argument with Gabriel replays in my mind. His accusation of disloyalty burns worse than any physical wound could. How dare he question my commitment to the kingdom! Everything I do, every decision, every risk, has always been for the good of our realm. Just because I refuse to hang up my sword and let others make all the choices doesn’t make me disloyal. Doing nothing would!

They say to pick your battles. Well, this is one I will fight. I will not be the Queen kept silent.

A flicker of movement to my right breaks my train of thought. I bank sharply, my instincts screaming I’m no longer alone. Annoyance builds in my chest. Had Gabriel followed me after all?

I hover in place, my wings beat steadily. “Gabriel!” I shout into the clouds, but there is no response. Only silence.

My instincts take over as I twirl. The silhouette of another Avian cuts through the mist behind me. Their wings are powerful and deliberate. Not the casual flight of someone enjoying the skies.

I dive, plummeting through a thick bank of clouds, their moisture clings to my skin and feathers, but the sudden drop would provide cover, and some time to assess who follows.

The clouds part beneath me, revealing the jagged teeth of the western mountains island. A cold wind rushes past my face as I level out. I skim just above a ridge of granite and strain my ears through the whistling air, listening for wing beats.

There, the unmistakable sound of feathers cutting air. Not one pair, but two. Perhaps three… This is no chance encounter. I'm being ambushed.

I bank hard around a mountain spire, using the jagged terrain to my advantage before looping back through the clouds and bursting into the clear air beneath the floating landmass.

Whoever my pursuers are would expect me to level out and seek safety in the distance ahead, so instead I fold my wings and drop like a stone. The wind screams past my ears, as my heart thunders in my chest. Five seconds of freefall is all I allow before snapping my wings open and arching upward in a tight curve that would make even the most seasoned warriors in the guard wince.

There, cutting through the mist above, a figure follows. Not Gabriel's familiar silhouette, nor any of the palace guards, but an unknown Avian.

Only their wings are visible, just as black as the rest of their attire. They are cloaked in dark fabric. Even their face is concealed beneath a masked hood.

I don't waste my breath on words as my pursuer swoops toward me. I flip backward, tucking my wings and spin into a tight spiral, unfurling them with explosive force as my attacker's trajectory carries them past me. But they're skilled, adjusting their course with barely a wingbeat.

We collide, every muscle in my body jars from the impact. We tumble through the air, locked in a deadly embrace. My attacker's wings beat powerfully, trying to gain control. I slam my elbow into their ribs, earning a grunt of pain.

Serves the arrogant bastard right! Who ambushes without armor? Even I had the foresight to put some on. Even if it is thin, it’s no less effective.

A blade flashes between us. I barely twist away as it slices across my shoulder, drawing a thin, stinging line across my skin. But the pain only fuels my focus.

"Who sent you?" I shout, driving my knee upward.

No answer comes except a grunt and another slash of the blade. But this time, I'm ready. I snatch their wrist, twisting hard. They lash out with their free hand. I catch that too, locking them in place.

Using the momentary advantage, I bring my boot up, kicking them in the chest. We break apart. The force sends us spiraling away from each other, both of us struggling to regain control. I steady myself first, my wings carving through the air with practiced precision. Blood trickles down my arm, hot and sticky against my skin, but I can't afford to assess the damage.

My attacker rights themselves, launching back at me.

I twist, using the wind currents to flip over them and grasp the base of their wing. I land on their back, bracing my foot to the curve of their spine. I pull my dagger from my boot and plunge it into the soft point where wing meets flesh.

They scream, the sound raw and vicious in the rushing air. My blade sinks deeper, causing their wing to spasm and falter.

Shoving off their back, I keep a firm grasp on my dagger and yank it free as they plummet through the clouds and out of sight.

My brows furrow as I take a quick note of the black smeared across my hand that had gripped their wing, but I have no time to investigate as my ears prick to another sound approaching me from behind.

I whip around, my wings snapping taut with the sudden movement, just in time to raise my dagger against the slash of their… hand?

Sparks fly at the impact, and I quickly realize both of their hands are gloved with talons attached to the end of each finger, but I have no time to appreciate the uniqueness of their chosen weapon as they launch at me again.

I duck, tucking my wings tight against my body as I drop beneath their attack. The talons whistle above my head, missing me by a breath.

"Coward," I hiss. "Attacking from behind!"

This one moves differently, faster, and more precise. My hunch had been correct. These are trained assassins, at least this one is.

I feint left, then dive right, but they anticipate my move. One talon catches my wing, hitting my feathers with the sharp sound like metal on metal. And I’m thankful again that our wings are not just for flight but a valued defensive weapon as soft as silk and harder than steel.

Spinning, I fake injury as I twirl into a tight downward spiral, and they follow.

My wings cut through the clouds as I build momentum. When I burst them open and shoot upward, I catch my attacker by surprise, slamming my shoulder into their sternum. The impact knocks the breath from them. Does no one think armor is important!? Lucky for me, they don’t.

Twisting my body, I drive my knee into their abdomen and slash my dagger across their chest. Only for them to fall back, avoiding my blade as it slices through their cloak like a hot knife through butter.

The fabric parts, revealing not armor, but silver. A pendant. My stomach tightens. It’s not just any pendant. The Vanguard insignia is etched in plain sight.

But my moment of hesitation costs me. Their taloned hand slashes at my face. I twist away, but only just enough as I catch the tips across my cheek. Hot pain blooms where steel meets flesh, and I feel blood trickle down my skin, but the sting only feeds my rage. I let it flood through me, a cold fury that narrows my vision.

"VANGUARD!" I scream and lunge forward, fury lending strength to my wings as I slam into them again. We tumble through the air, locked in combat. The clouds rush past us in a blur of white and gray. My fingers close around their throat, squeezing as I try to tear the hood away. "Show your face, traitor!"

They twist violently beneath me, their wings beating desperately against mine as we plummet. I tuck my own wings close to my body to block their clawed attacks.

The hood shifts, revealing a glimpse of a jawline, but before I can tear it completely away, a brutal impact explodes between my shoulders. My grip rips free from the assailant’s neck as I spiral. My wings flare wide to catch the air, but I’m too late.

I barely right myself before another body slams into me. Damn it. I had let my rage blind me. Claws rip across my back, fire lancing between my shoulder blades. The first attacker strikes while I grapple with the second. Two against one, this is not how the Vanguard is taught to fight. We fight with honor! This is cowardice!

I brace my hands against my newest attacker's forearms as we grapple. I flatten my body, using the wind’s air currents to bring me level. I twist and slam my heel into the other's face. The impact reverberates up my leg, but I pay it no mind. My strike has hit its mark as their wings fold and they drop out of sight.

With a powerful flap of my wings, I rise above the last assailant. Our arms stay locked together. I’d lost my knife, but that’s ok. This one I may try to keep alive because I have questions that need answers.

"Who sent you?" I hiss, my fingers dig into their forearms as we spin through the air.

The hooded figure doesn't speak, only struggles harder against my grip. I twist my body sharply, using the momentum to flip us so I stay above them.

"Answer me!" I demand. Their silence fuels my anger. The wind howls around us as we twist and turn in our aerial dance. I drive my knee into their stomach. They grunt but remain stubbornly mute. The only sound is their wings beating frantically against mine.

We continue to free-fall, shifting headfirst and begin to spin in a dizzying spiral. I catch a glimpse of a silver hilt beneath their cloak, another weapon.

I lunge for it. If they won’t speak, then there is no need for them to keep breathing.

My fingers close around the cold metal. "You'll die for nothing," I shout, yanking it from their belt. We drop through the clouds, twisting upright, our wings spread wide. As I thrust the dagger forward, they shift and impale it into their shoulder.

They hiss. I can see their teeth clench even through the mask. I can feel their look of pure fury as searing pain explodes across my side.

I gasp as the air leaves my lungs and glance down. The assassin had two blades, and one had found its mark. Right between my ribs. The pain is immediate, sharp, and consuming.

A harsh laugh escapes from beneath the hood as they yank me closer, twisting the knife deeper. "The throne demands sacrifice, Princess."

My vision blurs as white-hot agony radiates from the wound. Blood, my blood, trickles warm beneath my armor. My wings falter, struggling to slice the air with their usual precision. The assassin pulls back and braces their foot against my chest.

With a savage kick, I'm sent spiraling downward. My wings convulse against the wind. The knife remains lodged in my ribs, and each breath is a fresh torment as pain like liquid fire licks across my wings. I finally scream.

I plummet through the clouds, my scream tearing through the sky as my feathers burst alight. Fire sears through my wings like molten lava, spreading like a virus through my bones, my muscles, everything inside me screams as if it's being torn apart. I can’t think, I can’t fly, only burn.

The world becomes a blur of a fiery inferno and wind. The flames lash out, painting the sky in angry streaks of red and orange. They don't just consume me. They scorch the clouds around me, leaving behind a trail of black smoke.

I claw desperately at the air, but there’s nothing to grasp. The knife in my side sends shockwaves of agony with every movement. Blood trails float above me like a crimson ribbon, evaporating in the heat of my burning feathers as I plummet into the abyss.

Chapter Four

The world slams into me like a vengeful god. Agony fractures through my bones, rattling my very core as I crash into the unknown. The fire clinging to my wings sputters out, smothered by the force of impact.

Smoke curls from my skin, and the scent of scorched feathers and blood fills my lungs. The ground is unyielding beneath me. I try to lift my arm, but I can’t move... I can hardly even breathe. Darkness claws at the edges of my vision as I try again to reach toward the sky.

My eyes flutter open, but just barely. Through the blur, I see shades of green, shifting and swaying. Pale light filters through a canopy of trees. The abyss has trees?

Confusion floods me, as a deluge of questions fight for space in my battered mind. Is this a trick? Am I still falling, still burning, trapped in some twisted illusion? Had I plummeted all the way into the abyss? It’s said to be bottomless. Those who have dared to venture into it are swallowed by its blackness, never to return.

Perhaps I didn’t fall all the way in? Perhaps I landed on one of the floating land masses, or perhaps I have died.

No, the pain is too real. It withdraws momentarily like a tide, only to return with more intensity. Each labored breath brings a sharper sting, as if claws are tearing deep into my chest. While the bitter flavor of blood and smoke lingers on my lips.

Death is not supposed to hurt like this. I’m alive… but not for long… the darkness closes in, taking the pain away with it.

~~~~

"She’s still breathing…"

"Barely…"

"What is it?"

Soft murmurs pull at the edges of my mind. Distant. Fading. Is that… a voice?

"Wolf… human?"

"Are you… Not… can’t be… not possible… Don’t. Smell."

My ears strain as I try to make sense of what the voice or voices are saying, but they fade to quiet, then are too loud, making it hard to concentrate.

The darkness begins to change as light seeps in, extending into elongated shadows. My awareness flickers like a dying ember fighting against a void.

"Should… help?"

"Can’t just leave-"

Voices sift into my consciousness. They weave around one another, tangling like threads, cutting through the haze.

"Kill her before-"

"…No!"

"I think-"

They sharpen, growing more distinct. An urgency ripples through them. They’re close. Closer than before.

"We should get back. It’s not safe to—"

"Let’s—"

A weight settles over me, thick and sickening. The scent of damp earth, blood, and something wilder, muskier, coils through my senses, clinging to me like a second skin.

Then, the cold comes. It slithers beneath my flesh, winding through my ribs, curling around my very being. It tightens like a vice in my chest, pressing the breath from my lungs… Is this death?

My fingers twitch against the rough ground, curling into dirt and brittle leaves, and something wet sticks to my skin. As if I could anchor myself here and stop the cold from dragging me under.

I feel a presence looming. Heat spreads through me, but it's comforting, pushing away the chill. It surrounds me like a blanket. More voices rise and fall, threading through the dark…

Then nothing.

~~~~

Awareness creeps back in, sluggish and unwelcome. My body is heavy, my limbs uncooperative. The air still feels thick. Each breath tastes foreign like damp earth, musk, and a metallic tang.

A dull ache pulses through me, radiating from places I can’t yet name.

My joints are stiff, and every attempt at movement is met with resistance. The cold is still there, lingering beneath my skin, but it’s… different now. I try to move again, but it’s like wading through sludge. I feel disjointed, like my body isn’t entirely mine anymore. Every muscle aches, every breath feels like a struggle. My skin feels tight, like it’s been stretched past its limit.

I’m lying on something hard. The ground? No… It’s not that hard… It's firm but not solid.

Slowly, I blink, but the world swims in and out of focus. I want to move, to push myself up, but my body refuses. My head spins, and my vision flickers like a candle in the wind. I shut my eyes as a jolt of pain shoots through me at my attempt to rise.

A groan slips from my lips before I can stop it, and I still, for a moment. Taking a slow breath, I force my eyes open again. This time, the blur fades, and I’m finally able to see.

I blink against the harsh light, my head spinning. Where am I? The air is different, thicker, heavier. My ribs burn and ache with each inhale... I try to sit up, but the world tilts dangerously, and I have to lie back again.

My arms shake as I brace them on either side of me. This time, I manage to prop myself up and lean back against a headboard. I scan my surroundings.

I’m in a room… a bedroom. I think. But I don’t recognize it. The walls look like they are made of some kind of wood in a deep, rich color. The bed I’m in, the frame is also made of some type of wood or logs. I slowly run my hand over it, surprised by its smoothness. I’ve never known logs to be smooth.

The sheets are rough, woven from some kind of material that scratches against my skin. A breeze flutters in from a window, its curtains swaying. It’s warm, yet I tremble slightly, chilled by the sweat that clings to my skin.

Outside the wide window is a wild sprawl of green and brown, tangled trees like I’ve never seen. They appear to stretch into an endless expanse.

I try not to concentrate on what’s outside or inside the room, but everything around me is strange. Foreign. Raw. Even the light is different, harsher, more yellow than I’m used to.

At least one thing is clear. I am not in the abyss, but then, where am I?

Slowly, I move my legs off the side of the bed. A sharp pull tugs at my side and I hiss, glancing down at my…… what am I wearing? Is it supposed to be a shirt? It looks kind of like a shirt, though it’s big and baggy. Yet, soft but oddly textured.

At least my pants look normal or… I grip the fabric on my leg between my fingers. It’s soft as well, yet it stretches as I pull it. It seems similar to my training pants, but the material doesn’t feel as if it would stop a blade.

I drag in a slow breath and let it out. My attire shouldn’t be my focus.

Finally, I push myself to stand. My legs tremble as my body refuses to cooperate. I reach out, flaring my wings to counter my weight, but pain lances through my body. I gasp as I tumble sideways. My hands slap the wood floor as I try to catch myself.

I force myself to breathe through it, while the memory of falling, of burning, slithers through my mind, but it’s all so fragmented.

My arms shake as I brace myself on the floor. I try to push up, to arch my wings to help me gain some balance, but there’s nothing. My wings… What's wrong with my wings!? Slowly, I reach back. Attempting to run my fingers through my feathers, but there's nothing.

Pain shoots through my side. It's relentless, but it’s nothing compared to the panic rising in my chest.

I grip the edge of the bed and force myself up.

My heart hammers in my chest as I turn and stagger forward, gripping a desk for support. My mind whirls as I try to make sense of what’s happening. This can’t be real. This can’t be… I straighten as I turn to my right. And freeze.

There, looking back at me is a reflection. My reflection. But it’s wrong. I look... I look like me, but not like me at all. The face is the same, the familiar line of my jaw, the curve of my lips. But the wings… My wings.

My hands grip the desk. My fingers dig into the smooth wood. There’s nothing. No vast expanse of feathers sweep behind me. I reach for the back of my shoulder as if expecting to feel them there, but my back is... Bare. Empty.

A wave of nausea crashes over me. I clench my jaw, trying to steady myself. I stare at the face that’s mine, but somehow… not.

No, I can’t... I can’t be. This is wrong. It's a trick. A nightmare. This isn’t real!

I want to scream, to cry, but the tears won’t come. Instead, I stand here. Frozen. Choking on the emotions. My wings… how could they be gone!? What will I do without my wings, I... I falter. What am I without them?

I stagger back from the mirror, my breath shallow as I struggle to comprehend the image before me. How... How can this be!?

Footsteps echo in the distance, but I can barely focus as my mind reels. Fragments of voices reach me, muffled and distant, but they don’t matter. The only thing that matters is the void where my wings are supposed to be.

A door swings open. A man, tall, broad-shouldered, with a stern face, stands in the doorway. His green eyes narrow as they settle on me, but his attention shifts quickly to the man just behind him. He’s a little shorter than the first, but just as muscular, with hazel eyes and a grin. One that seems too amused for my situation.

"Pretty fast rebound," the one behind says, leaning toward the other. His voice dips lower. “She’s only been out for three days.”

Three days? The words echo through the haze still clouding my mind. I’ve been unconscious that long?

"You shouldn’t be standing," the first says, focusing on me.

I blink, glancing between them. They don't have wings. But they look... familiar. Like Avians, but they’re not. Their build, their stance, they’re warriors, I can tell. But who are they? What are they?

"My name is Ronin," the first man says. "This is James." He gestures toward the other with a nod.

I look at James. In his hand, he holds something wrapped in a cloth. A cold weight settles in my stomach as the light reflects off the hilt... those patterns. I’ve seen them before. My heart stutters in my chest. That's the blade that pierced me.

"We aren’t going to hurt you," James says.

"You were found by our scouts," Ronin cuts in. "With this." He motions to the blade. "What’s your name?"

But I don’t answer. My eyes are locked on the hilt, the recognition crashing through me like a tidal wave. My breath catches in my throat. That blade that cut me, I know it. That is a wing clipper.

It’s a weapon of legend, created to destroy, to erase what makes us who we are. Forged in the fires of the ancient wars, the wing clipper was never meant to be used by just anyone. It’s said to sever more than flesh, but the connection to the sky. It cuts deeper than bone, deeper than anything that can be healed. To wield it was to claim power, to strip an Avian of their very essence, of flight, of freedom, of strength.

The stories say that when it’s used, the wings turn to ash. They say that what’s left behind can never be undone.

And it was used on me. My wings... They are gone.

My heart pounds in my ears, each beat a painful reminder of what I’ve lost. The blood surges through me, and the cold of truth spreads to my fingertips. The attack wasn’t just an ambush... it was a sentence. I've been branded with the clipper’s mark. This is more than physical. It’s a symbol of my fall from grace.

Everything spirals out of control in my head, each thought faster than the last. How could they do this to me!? Why!? Why was I chosen!? Wait… who chose me? My heart aches, and for a moment, I almost forget to breathe.

"Are you alright?" but the voice barely reaches me.

Panic continues to surge through me. My gaze darts back to the mirror. I see my face, my eyes are wide, pupils dilated with confusion and fear. I can’t breathe. This can’t be real. It can’t! I can’t think straight. I have to see–

My hands shake as I rip the shirt over my head, desperate to see, to understand, what’s happened to me.

The moment I turn my back to face the mirror, my breath hitches. The design is elaborate, stretching across my entire back. Blackness like ink forms swirling lines, intricately detailing my graceful feathers. The dark ink stands out stark against my skin. The markings seem to rise slightly off the surface, poised as if my wings will unfurl at any moment.

Even in this form, they exude an aura power. But it’s not the same, it will never be the same.

I stare at the reflection in the mirror, my breath shallow, my mind still trying to catch up with the horror of what’s happened. Is this the Clippers' mark? Is this what they mean when they say you carry the mark? Am I doomed to carry but a picture of my wings?

Something else catches my eye, a bandage across my ribs.

With a quick yank, I pull it off, hissing as the cool air rushes to the raw wound beneath. My breath catches in my throat.

The cut... It’s deep, jagged, and unmistakably the same shape as the blade that pierced me. My pulse spikes as I trace the wound with my fingers. The flesh has been sealed with some kind of thread. Are these… creatures barbaric? Did they sow my flesh!?

The feel of the blade, its shape, and its cold bite haunts me. I remember the shock of it sinking into me, the way my body locked up. The fire that consumed me. My brain buzzes with thoughts. Wasn’t a wing clipper blade supposed to—

A low rumble pulls my attention back towards the door.

Ronin steps closer, his eyes flick from the removed bandage to my face. "I said, don’t remove that. It hasn’t healed."

I narrow my eyes at him.

He sighs. "Do you even understand what I’m saying to you? Can you not speak?"

My nostrils flare. "Yes." But the words come out hoarse and send me into a painful coughing fit. He moves closer, but I jerk away, wincing as the sudden motion sends a sharp jolt radiating across my abdomen.

"James," he snaps, stepping back. "Get her some water." His focus stays on me as James exits the room. "Sit down before you faint."

I narrow my eyes at him and straighten my spine. The action sends a fresh wave of pain through me, but I hold my head high and square my shoulders. Faint? I have never fainted a day in my life.

"At least put your shirt back on," he says, glancing down and back up.

My face heats, as I realize I was so intent on checking my back, I had pulled my shirt over my head in front of strangers. Thankfully, I hadn't completely taken it off, keeping my arms inside and my chest covered.

"Turn," I rasp.

He raises an eyebrow. "Turn?"

"Yes," I say, more firmly this time.

His jaw tightens, but he turns halfway.

"Turn!" I insist again, and I swear I see a hint of amusement flicker across his stern features before he finally complies.

I tug the shirt on hastily, the fabric coarse against my skin. The movement pulls at the wound along my side, sending a sharp ache through me, and I bite back a hiss. My chest tightens, the pain a reminder of everything I’ve lost.

With my modesty safeguarded, Ronin turns back towards me just as James reappears, holding out a cup like he’s approaching a spooked animal. "Here."

Slowly, I reach out and take it. Bringing it to my nose, I sniff.

"It’s wa-ter," James says, breaking the word apart like he’s speaking to a toddler. He looks at Ronin. "I really don’t think she speaks English."

I glare at James to make sure he knows I understand more than he thinks before I swallow it down in a single motion. The coldness numbs my throat, easing the raw edges from the cough.

"She does," Ronin says, his eyes staying locked on me, unreadable. "Who are you?"

"Who are you?" I counter.

"You’re in our territory, so we get to ask the questions," he growls. There’s authority in his voice, clear beneath the gruff tone.

"Territory?"

"Are you sure she understands?" James asks, glancing between us. "She seems to just repeat whatever you ask."

"I’m not ignorant," I snap.

James smirks, his eyes alight with mischief. "Could’ve fooled me."

I raise a brow. "So you’re a fool then." I’ve heard of some courts keeping silly people around for entertainment. It’s not a far reach to assume they do it here… wherever here is.

Ronin makes a low sound in his throat, almost like laughter. His expression softens, but only slightly. "What’s your name?"

"Amira." The word feels heavy on my tongue, as though naming myself might fracture what’s left of me.

"Who are you, Amira?" he asks.

I stare at him, unsure of how to respond. How do I explain who I am without knowing where I am? My fingers twitch toward my back, but I hold steady. "I am… not what you think."

James looks at Ronin and rolls his eyes. "Okay, so she's still repeating like half of our questions."

"Where is your territory?" I press, fighting to maintain control of my temper. If this is his fool, he should get another. He is more annoying than funny.

Ronin's gaze sharpens, assessing me. "You don’t know?"

"I wouldn’t ask if I did."

"The Pacific Northwest." His words are clipped. He’s as wary of me as I am of him. Smart. "We found this." He holds out his hand as James hands him the cloth, which he slowly unfolds, revealing the blade.

Seeing the clipper makes my stomach twist. Some of my blood still remains on the blade. "Where did you find it?"

"Your ribs," he says. His voice doesn’t waver as our eyes lock. "Someone wanted you dead. Why?"

Sparks fly inside my mind. He's right, someone did try to kill me. Wing clippers are rare. Few of them exist. Had someone from my own kingdom betrayed me? If so, how had they gotten it? An image of the Vanguard pendant around one of my attackers’ necks flashes through my mind. I grit my teeth. "I don’t know. But I’m as good as dead anyway."

James leans against the wall, crossing his arms. Clearly enjoying himself. "She's a drama queen, too."

I glare at him, but he falls silent as Ronin glances at him.

"Did they try to kill you because of what you are?" Ronin asks, covering the blade before handing it back to James.

"Do you know what I am?" I ask, eyeing him.

"You’re not a wolf, that is clear," he says. "Unless you are, but are wolf-less. That would explain why someone wanted you dead. But that wouldn’t explain your strange scent."

"Wolf?" I repeat. Is that what this… I look him up and down. Being is?

"I told you she is human," James scoffs, pushing off the wall. "She would know what a wolf is, even if she didn’t have one. And her scent is all wrong."

"That’s not possible," Ronin growls at James. "There is no possible way a human could get into our realm! The entrance has been sealed, permanently!"

He scoffs. "Chicks got a full back tat, man! She’s human."

"I am not a chick," I snap. "Nor this hue-man creature you speak of! I am Avian!"

"A what?" James asks.

"I am an Avian," I repeat. "A race of winged beings… beings obviously not from your realm."

They both glance at one another before James bursts into laughter. "You must have hit your head."

"Excuse me?" I sneer.

"Darling, in case you haven't noticed, you do not have any wings." He continues to laugh.

"I do so have wings!" I snap.

"Okay, okay," he says, holding up his hands. "You're right. You do have wings. A tattoo of wings on your back."

"Those are my wings! Not a tattoo! Whatever that is!" I shout, wincing at the pain in my side.

His brows raise, but before he can say anything else, Ronin cuts in. "A tattoo is ink that has been embedded into the skin." He pulls up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing intricate symbols along his bicep that move higher and disappear under the rest of his shirt.

I gasp, unable to stop myself. I reach forward and grab his bicep, pulling him closer, or maybe he stepped closer. I don't have much strength at the moment. "Did someone do this to you?" I ask, pulling his sleeve higher.

He nods. "Many of our pack members have them."

"Pack?" I ask, still trying to study the markings. I've never seen symbols like these. I wonder what they mean. "What is a pack?"

"You really don't know where you are, do you?" he murmurs.

I look at him. Our eyes lock, and something seems to shift behind his gaze. I lean closer. His eyes unfocus for a split second. Then he blinks and quickly steps back. "Can you walk?"

I blink a few times. "Yes, why?"

"The Alpha wants to meet you."

Chapter Five

As I step forward, every move feels stiff and painful. I shouldn’t have said I could walk, but I press on. Keeping my eyes locked on Ronin’s broad back as he leads the way.

I almost stumble a few times as we make our way across the ground. James mutters something under his breath, but I ignore him. The terrain isn’t the problem. It’s the sharp pain lancing through me and the unbalanced sensation of moving without my wings. I’d never realized how much I relied on them to hold my posture. Without them, I feel… wrong.

As we continue, I glance at my surroundings, trying to piece together where, exactly, I’ve ended up. This land is thick with towering trees, if that’s what they call them here. They stretch high, their rough, grooved trunks twisting toward the sky. The air is thick with their scent, sharp and earthy, laced with something faintly sweet. It’s not unpleasant, just… different.

Their leaves are stranger still, thin and pointed, like thousands of tiny blades. If you were to touch them, I wonder, would they cut?

The buildings at least seem normal. Mostly. They’re sturdy but simple, made almost entirely of wood. There’s so much of it... walls, doors, even the thick beams supporting larger structures. Is wood not a weakness here? Where I come from, fire is a weapon. If they were attacked, wouldn’t these… homes? Be the first to burn?

I scan the area, searching for stone, for metal, for anything that speaks of true protection. But all I find is more wood. More trees. More of this wild, untamed place that feels too open, too exposed.

And yet, despite the vulnerability, there’s an order here. A rhythm. The beings… wolves, I remind myself, move with purpose. Some glance our way, their eyes sharp with interest, before returning to their tasks. Others stand together in small groups, their voices low, their gazes lingering on me just a second too long.

I force my shoulders back and my chin high. Let them look. Let them wonder.

"What are you staring at?" James asks, stopping next to me. I hadn’t even realized I’d stopped walking.

"Your choice of structure is odd to me."

He snorts. "What, humans don’t live in houses anymore?"

I turn, leveling him with a glare. "I am not a hue-man." The word feels strange on my tongue. "And we do have homes. We just don’t build them from something that can be destroyed so easily."

His expression flickers, a spark of curiosity behind his otherwise sharp gaze. "So, do you have a lot of war where you’re from?"

"Not many in the last hundred years,” I say, lifting my chin. “But smaller battles happen. One can never be too prepared."

"Uh-huh," he says, raising a brow. His eyes rake over me in open assessment. "How old are you?"

Ronin clears his throat, and James holds out his arm, gesturing for me to move ahead. It’s obvious they don’t trust me, but I take no offense. I don’t trust them either. They may have kept me from death, but that doesn’t make them trustworthy.

Which is why I’ve decided I won’t tell them more than what’s necessary while I figure out where I am.

As we continue along, the buildings change, becoming larger and made of stone. Hm, maybe they do understand how to fortify after all.

Heading towards a large stone structure, I wouldn’t say it's a castle, but it is large. I pause at the bottom of the steps. The exterior appears rough and weathered from years of existence. The walls are made of sturdy gray stones, with windows scattered throughout. The roof is sloped and made of dark tiles, with a large chimney protruding from one side.

At the top of the steps stands a set of large wooden doors, each one intricately crafted with symbols and designs.

“What?” James asks, stopping on the bottom step. “Does this look odd to you, too?"

"No," I say, eyeing the stairs. Walking up these is going to hurt. I take a deep breath to brace myself for the pain.

"Do you need help?" James asks, stepping closer.

"I’m fine," I lie, taking the first step. I try not to hiss and step again. Pain shoots through me as I climb, but I refuse to let them see me broken. I grit my teeth and push forward, fighting every wince attempting to cross my face.

“You don’t look fine,” James murmurs.

"She can handle it," Ronin says, his gaze steady as he watches me from above.

As I reach the top of the steps, I pause to catch my breath. Sweat beads at my temple, but I swipe it away and straighten.

Ronin pushes the doors open without effort and turns his attention to James. "Go and make sure the next patrol has the updates for their routes." He holds his hand out, and James hands him the dagger still wrapped in the cloth. "I’ve got it from here."

James nods and heads back down the steps, jumping off the second-to-last. Show off.

"This way," Ronin says, motioning for me to follow.

Inside is grand and tastefully decorated, with high ceilings and luxurious furnishings. The walls are a dark green and covered with various tapestries and paintings, while the floors are a shiny wood. Large windows allow natural light to filter in, giving the space a warm and inviting atmosphere.

Ronin leads us down a long hallway. The sweet scent from the trees fills the air in here, as well as something else I assume is floral, though I see no flowers.

"Does this space belong to this Alpha you speak of?" I ask.

"It does," he says, keeping his gaze ahead.

"And what is he to you?"

"He is the leader of our pack and will decide what to do with you," he responds, stopping in front of a door. "You will address him as Alpha and be respectful."

I raise a brow. "What do you mean by decide what to do with me?"

Ronin’s jaw tightens. "You are not a wolf, and we have strict laws here. Be mindful of how you act."

I bite back a response. Had I had my wings, their feathers would be ruffled in irritation. But before I can respond, he opens the door and gestures for me to enter. I step inside, and an immediate tension grips my chest.

The room is large, yet far from vacant. Dominating the space is a broad-shouldered figure positioned behind an enormous desk. Floor-to-ceiling windows form a backdrop, offering a view of the forest beyond. I focus back on the man again, taking in his commanding posture. This must be The Alpha.

"Welcome," he says. It’s a simple word, but I can feel a weight behind it.

I give him a deep nod as a sign of respect. At least I hope he sees it as such. He seems to as he shifts his focus to Ronin, who closes the door and steps around me. He sets the covered blade on the desk and moves to stand near the wall.

"Please, sit." The Alpha motions to a chair across from his desk.

Slowly, I sink into the seat, trying not to hiss at the pain as I do so.

"You're still not healed," he says, sitting behind his desk. "That’s interesting."

"Wounds take time to heal," I respond, lifting my chin. "Especially ones done from a blade like that." I nod towards the cloth.

He leans back, lacing his fingers together. "True, silver is an unforgiving weapon… I am told you are not from our world. Is this correct?" I nod. "What are you?"

"I am Avian," I say. "As I have told Ronin."

"Beta," Ronin says.

I glance at him. "Beta? I thought you said your name is Ronin?"

"Ronin is my second in command," The Alpha says, pulling my attention back to him. "Here, a second is called a beta. I am above him and lead this pack. That is why they call me Alpha."

"Then Alpha is not your name," I ask.

“No, my name is Greyson. You may call me Alpha Greyson.” He pauses for a moment. “You say you are Avian. What is that exactly?"

"She claims she is a being with wings," Ronin says, before I can answer.

"Interesting," Alpha Greyson drawls, leaning forward. "Then may I ask where your wings are?"

My chest tightens at the thought of what’s become of my beautiful wings, but I also feel annoyed. The look he is giving me speaks louder than his words. He does not believe I am what I say.

"Perhaps your wings work how our power works, and you shift." I stare at him, uncertain if I heard correctly. Shift? He seems to understand my confusion and adds. “Shift means to transform. To change from one form to another." I raise my brows. "James and Ronin say you have a large… mark of wings on your back. Are those the wings you speak of?"

I glance at Ronin. When had he or James spoken with Alpha Greyson? They had both been with me.

"They are my wings, but they do not… shift." I swallow the lump in my throat as I stare at the blade on the desk. I wonder how much I should say and if they would believe me.

"James believes you're human and confused," Alpha Greyson says.

"James is an idiot," I snap.

A loud snort has me glancing at Ronin as he brings his fist to his mouth and coughs.

Alpha Greyson leans back with a ghost of a smile on his lips. "You seem certain for someone with no knowledge of this world."

“Perhaps,” I admit, meeting his gaze. “But I know what I am.” My skin prickles with frustration. My eyes are drawn again to the Wing Clipper. Its presence taunts me.

"James shares the doubt of the pack," Ronin says, stepping forward.

“And what about you?” Alpha Greyson asks, turning his focus to Ronin.

"I’m not sure she is what she claims,” he answers, looking at me. “But I don’t believe she is human.”

Greyson’s eyes narrow. “No? Then what is she?”

"She is a wolf but doesn’t have one," he continues. "I believe that whatever pack she did belong to used this blade on her to try to kill her, and her memory has blocked it out."

“Are you as dense as your fool?” I snap, glaring at Ronin. I bristle at their lack of faith and conversing as if I am not even in the room.

“My what?” Ronin asks, his eyes narrowing on me.

"The one you call James," I bite out.

"Are you implying I am stupid?" he growls, his eyes flashing another color. My heart stutters in my chest. That’s… weird. But I don’t back down.

"If you keep this up, I’ll have no choice," I shoot back, as heat rises to my cheeks.

His menacing stare would unnerve lesser beings. Even so, I hold his gaze. "You need to show more respect if you expect help," he rumbles.

"I do not need help." I grit my teeth through the lie, but the throb in my side and emptiness on my back remind me of my vulnerability. "And your assumptions are incorrect."

"Your reaction to silver is the same as ours," he snaps. "Your body continued to weaken until it was removed."

"Anyone would have that reaction, having a blade plunged into their ribs," I counter.

He scoffs. "Right, because having wings is much more believable."

"You know there is more than one realm, right?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.

"Of course," he says. "There are the shifter realms, humans, and vampires. The realms for humans have been sealed since the time of the great purge, and the cave’s entryway collapsed. That is how I am certain you are not human. Vampires have a specific scent, and they don’t bleed. You were found covered in blood, so that’s out. The location you were found in has no doors to any of those realms, and with the condition you were in, you couldn’t have made it this far."

I laugh, though it hurts, so I don’t continue. "Oh, how small-minded you are. You truly believe there are only a handful of realms?"

Ronin’s eyes are stormy, churning with anger and something else. "Prove it," he challenges.

"You say wolves have issues with silver?" I ask.

He nods.

I reach for the blade. Both Alpha Grayson and Ronin shout at me, but I ignore them and grab it by the hilt, lifting it off the desk.

The blade is lighter than I expected, cool silver against my palm. My skin tingles where it meets the metal. Part of me wants to recoil from it, but I hold it steady, forcing myself to trace my thumb along the edge. Then I notice smaller symbols etched into the hilt and lean closer.

When fire burns, the wings will sever. Flesh will mend, but bone is forever.

I stand slowly, my hands shake as my vision blurs. Fire burned my wings. Meaning they have been severed. Gone. But the next part… flesh will mend... The mark on my side... Bone is forever.

My breath catches. The marks on my back… My wings were severed. Yet I carry their marks across my back. Why? Unless… bone is forever. Unless I bare the mark of them because the blade missed the bone… then would that mean—

"Amira!?" I look up, my gaze locks with Ronin’s. "Put the knife down."

My grip tightens. I don’t want to let go. I can’t. Not while my mind wrestles with the new rush of possibilities. "No."

A flash of movement, and Ronin has my wrist firmly in his grasp. "Put it down," he repeats, his voice like gravel.

He’s too close. Close enough that I see the hard line and stubble along his jaw.

I release my hold, and the blade clatters onto the desk, landing awkwardly against the jumbled papers strewn across the top.

"Are you insane?" he seethes, his grip tightening.

"I’d say she proved her point." Comes a voice from the doorway. "She’s obviously not a werewolf, or that would have burned her as soon as she touched it. I’m surprised at you, Beta Ronin. It’s usually my husband’s voice I hear echoing down the hall."

"Celeste!" Booms Alpha Greyson. "What are you doing out of bed, the doctor-"

"Oh, stop fussing, I’ll sit in your chair," she says, as she waddles into the room, and I notice she’s pregnant. "Honestly, Greyson, you treat this like it’s our first pup."

The Alpha looks irritated but doesn’t stop her. Instead, he helps her around the desk.

"I don’t think this young woman needs to be standing either, given her current condition," she says, eyeing Ronin’s hand still holding my wrist. He releases me but doesn't move away. His presence looms in my peripheral as I watch Greyson help her slowly drop into the chair.

"Please sit back down, dear," she says, motioning to the chair behind me. She waits until I’m seated and continues. "I am Luna Celeste. I apologize that you’ve had to deal with these arrogant men."

"Now wait just one–" She gives Greyson a look, and he stops. She then turns that look to Ronin. Who looks at the Alpha.

Alpha Greyson sighs and gives a slight nod to Ronin, it’s a silent, yet clear, command to stand down. He reaches for the cloth and then picks up the blade before he steps back. Though I can’t see him, I feel the weight of his gaze on me.

"Love," Greyson says, moving to stand behind her. We don’t know anything about this young woman, and she picked up a silver blade. What if she–”

"If she what?" she asks, cutting him off yet again. "She is injured herself. What possible harm could she have done to the two of you?"

Right now is probably not the moment to tell her I am highly skilled with knives… but I like how she commands the room.

Shaking her head, she focuses back on me. "Now, what are you?"

I square my shoulders. "As I have explained to your… Alpha husband and his beta. I am an Avian. A race of wing beings that has accidentally ended up in your realm."

"Accidentally or on purpose?" she asks.

"By accident, I assure you," I say, lifting my chin.

"Fascinating," she says, leaning forward slightly. "May I see your wings?"

I hesitate. I’ve been trying to explain, but perhaps I will need to share more than I planned. Holding back too much only raises more questions. Questions I cannot otherwise answer. If I want their understanding, I will have to give them something. Not everything, but enough.

"As much as I would love to show them to you, I cannot." My heart clenches in my chest, but I push the feeling aside as I think of the words on the hilt. "At least, not for some time. They are… I believe, temporarily… stuck."

"Stuck?" she repeats. "I do not understand."

"Neither do I," I confess. "The blade that was found in my ribs is called a wing clipper. Someone tried to… I believe, kill me or at the very least take my wings."

Her brows raise. "Tried?"

I nod. "An Avian’s wings cannot be cut. They are stronger than any metal. A wing clipper's blade cannot cut the wings of an Avian either, but if you're stabbed with it. They turn the wings to ash."

Her gaze is calm and searching. Her eyes soften. "And that’s what happened to you?"

"Yes," I say. The pain in my chest is so strong. I have to fight the lump rising in my throat. "But the blade must strike bone. I believe they missed mine, because my wings have become this."

I turn carefully and pull the back of my shirt up, exposing the swirling black.

"These markings are my wings," I say, my voice tight. The tension of my movements hits like a wave as the wound along my side stretches. So, I slowly lower my shirt and face her again. "I believe… the blade did not hit bone, and my wings have become this. Trapped beneath my skin… but I also believe that means they will return… with time."

"My dear," her voice is soft, almost motherly. It tugs at a place in my heart. "This must all be incredibly painful."

"You believe her?" Greyson asks.

"Why would I not?" she counters, looking at him. "My love, we shift into giant wolves. How could you sit here and think she is not what she says she is?"

"You have to admit it sounds far-fetched," he grumbles.

She smirks. "Did she deny what we are?"

"We have not shown her what we are," Ronin responds.

"That only furthers my point," Celeste states. "You told her we are wolves, and she did not laugh in your face."

"Nobody laughed in her face," Greyson cuts in.

"Actually, James did," I say.

Celeste sighs. "I apologize for him. He is humorous, but it’s not always done at the correct time nor place."

"I do not find him humorous… He is very lucky to still be alive," I say.

"Perhaps he is," she says, her lips twitching. "But then again, so are you. And as hard as this all must be for you, I have to ask. Is anyone going to be coming to look for you?"

The question catches me off guard. I hadn’t thought about it with everything, and yet, she is right. I am sure I am being searched for. My father would not believe I had run from my duty, and neither would my trusted members of the Vanguard. And Gabriel…. So, yes. I would have those searching for me, but would they end up here?

"No," I say after a few moments.

"Do you not have any family?" she asks, her eyes look sad. "Do you have no one?"

"I have family," I say, not wanting her to be stressed, not in her condition. I am not aware of how childbearing is in this realm, but given Alpha Greyson's reaction to her being out of bed and how it is in mine, which is quite dangerous.

"My father," I pause, not sure it’s necessary to say who he is. "He will search and I have others who are close to me, but they will not find me… not in this place."

"How can you be so certain?" Greyson asks. "You are here. Why would they not find our realm as well?"

"Because I fell into what we call the abyss, and no one who goes into the abyss comes out."

"That sounds ominous," Celeste says, shivering.

"In my realm, we do not have solid stretches of land. More of… sections of it. Among the air. With sky that stretches beyond what the eye can see," I say, trying my best to describe it in a way they can understand. "Below the floating sections is called the abyss. It is vast. There is no light there, no land, no life, no bottom. That is why we call it the abyss."

"And you fell into this?" Ronin asks, stepping closer.

"I was attacked during flight," I say, looking at him.

His eyes darken, and a low rumble vibrates his chest. "So you were ambushed."

"I took out two of them, but the third hit their mark," I say. My mind drifts back to the fight, and the pendant flashes in my mind again. "My wings… they burst into flames, and the one who stabbed me kicked me in the chest. Launching me into the abyss."

"Oh my Goddess, that is awful!" Celeste gasps. "You are lucky to have lived!"

"I should have died," I say, looking at her. "I believe I did not because I did not actually fall into the abyss. That just below the shadow of where I fell is the doorway, or as we call it, the veil, to your realm."

"And you are sure that whoever it was who attacked you did not see you disappear into this veil?" Greyson asks.

"No, I do not believe they did.”

“Good,” Ronin says, setting the blade back onto the desk.

"Ronin!" Celeste scolds, shooting him a look of reprimand.

"It means she is safe from those who wish her harm," Ronin adds, his voice softer but no less firm. "That also means that we do not need to watch our skies as well as our pack’s borders for attack."

Grayson grunts, a clear sign of his agreement. But I’m not sure if the conclusion is comforting or damning. I glance at the Wing Clipper, its jagged edge glinting coldly. It feels like a hole opening up beneath me. One that grows every moment, feeding off my unanswered questions.

"But," Greyson says, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Why would someone resort to such a violent attack?"

My eyes lock with his. I can hear the hidden question behind his words, but I cannot share everything. This fight is mine, and once my wings return, I will find out who did this to me and why.

"Enough of all this," Celeste cuts in. "Amira, you do not need to worry while you are here. You are welcome to stay as long as you need."

I stare at her. I didn’t give her my name. How do they all seem to know things that have not been spoken? Can they read minds? If so, I should guard mine better. I don’t need them plucking things from my thoughts that I am not willing to share.

"Love,” Greyson sighs. “While I agree not to cast her out. She is not a hundred percent safe here either.”

"Oh, psh," she waves her hand. "The pack will adjust to her. We are not savages!"

"No, Luna, we are not," Ronin agrees. "But the pack is weary of outsiders, and the word has already spread that she is a human."

"Why do all these she-wolves need to gossip? Have they nothing better to do with their time!?" she huffs.

"She-wolves?" I ask.

"That is what we call the females among us," Ronin states.

"Never mind all the names." Celeste waves her hand like she’s waving off a pest. "Let’s focus on arrangements for Amira. If the she-wolves want to start issues already, then we cannot very well place her in the pack house."

"I agree," Greyson rumbles. "And I don’t want her walking around alone." He levels his gaze on me. "You’re still wounded, and until you heal and we know your strength, it would be unsafe for you."

I lift my chin. "I will have you know I am not weak. I am a warrior."

"A warrior?" Celeste repeats. "Like, you have training?"

"Mrs. Luna, I have trained and fought alongside the best fighters my realm has ever seen," I say, squaring my shoulders even though the action hurts my side.

"Yet, you still ended up stabbed and in our realm," Ronin growls.

I glare at him. "By skilled assassins, and I did not die! I would like to see you take on three skilled blades in mid-flight."

"Regardless," Greyson says, clearing his throat. "Until you are healed, you will not go anywhere without an escort. Do I make myself clear?"

The fact that I have not had an escort since I was but a child irritates me, but as Ronin had said before, the Alpha’s word is law, and I do not wish to fight with him. "I understand."

"Good," he says. "Now, I believe I have a solution to our issue." Greyson pauses, a silent exchange passing between him and Celeste before he focuses on me again. "You will stay with Beta Ronin."

"What!?" We both say at the same time.

Celeste claps her hands. "Oh yes, that is exactly what I was going to say."

"Alpha, I don’t think–"

"She will stay with you, Ronin," he says, cutting him off. "Or…" he looks at me with a smirk. "James."

"I’ll stay with Ronin.”

Chapter Six

I wince as Ronin and I descend the front step of The Alpha and Luna’s home. He doesn’t look back, though I feel his tension matching my own. We are both not happy about the situation.

However, we will need to make the best of it for the time being. So, I attempt to break the silence. "You seem surprised by Alpha Greyson’s decision."

His eyes flick toward me, clearly guarded. "And you aren’t."

"It's not that," I say, trying to choose my words with care. "He appears to be a strong leader of your… pack. And observant."

"You mean he aims to have me keep an eye on you," he says, blunt and direct.

I will give him this. He doesn’t seem to like to mince words. I like that. I much prefer to get to the point. But he is right in what he says. The Alpha doesn’t trust me, and I respect him for that. It would be odd for him to be fully accepting of a being he knows nothing about. His… Luna, however, seems less cautious.

"Luna Celeste appears to hold more authority than your Alpha," I say.

Ronin pauses, turning to face me. "She holds authority, but it is not above The Alpha. They share leadership, though her voice carries weight, especially when she is pregnant."

"So, a female is held in higher regard when she is with child?" I ask, trying to piece together how their hierarchy works.

"No," he says, eyeing me. "She is every bit in charge as he is, though being pregnant, he doesn’t fight her as much when it comes to her wants and opinions."

I press further. "He seems to want her happiness above all else."

"That’s not how you Avians do things?" he asks, the edge in his voice apparent.

The question surprises me. We value feelings, but… "Our wings are bound by duty. Happiness is a privilege," I say.

He raises a brow but falls silent as we continue to walk. The forest closes in around us, green and alive, its persistent hum reminding me again how far I am from everything I know. The sky peeks through the branches, but it's nothing more than a distant sliver now. My fingers itch to trace the still-raw marks on my back, the place where my freedom lives.

As we continue, a structure emerges. It’s nestled in the midst of the tall trees of the forest. Its walls are made of dark, weathered wood, with windows that peer out from behind thick curtains. Smoke curls out of the chimney, while the roof is steep and covered with green. It looks soft and spongy, much like the moss in my world, and it helps to blend in with the surrounding foliage.

While this home is made of wood, like the others, it is larger. With two stories and a porch that juts out, supported by sturdy beams and adorned with potted plants and overgrown greenery.

My thoughts at its appearance must show upon my face because Ronin pauses on the bottom step. "We like nature."

"Why would one not like nature?" I ask, lifting my chin. I believe he thinks I do not like his dwellings. However, it is the opposite. Despite it being made from wood, I find it almost comforting.

He nods, but his eyes linger on me as if trying to solve a puzzle.

As we step inside, the air carries the scent of warmth and something wild that I can't quite name. The large room is sparse with minimal furnishings and a fireplace dominating one wall. The interior is both humble and strangely reverent to its surroundings.

I trail my fingers along the back of a chair, feeling the smooth chill of leather against my skin.

"You should eat," Ronin says, his tone clipped. "There’s food in the kitchen." The abruptness sends a flare through me, but before I respond, he adds, "Your room is upstairs. I will show you after you have something."

I watch as he strides through an arched opening into another room. I assume it is the kitchen. Sighing, I follow.

The scents hit me first. Roasted meat, fresh bread, and something sweet that reminds me of the nectar from home. It pulls at memories, and I have to fight to hold my feelings in control. This is only temporary, I remind myself. Soon my wings will return and I will be back where I belong… I hope.

For distraction, I focus on my surroundings. The kitchen is wide and open. Sunlight filters through narrow windows to highlight the solid wood counters and simple fixtures.

I find bread, meat, and what I assume is fruit arranged with surprising care on a tall table with chairs surrounding it. Ronin gestures towards it.

"You’ll be here a while. You should get used to helping yourself."

A while. I wonder how long this exile will last. I am certain the blade missed bone, though the hilt made no reference to the time. And will Ronin be my keeper throughout my wait? "I’m stronger than I look," I say, picking up a rounded morsel that resembles food from my world.

His gaze is sharp and assessing. "But not strong enough."

Swallowing my retort, I sniff the food before I bite into it. I stay silent. He doesn’t know me. What I’m capable of. That I’ve led armies, won battles. He doesn’t know what I’ve truly endured, and what I must face once I regain my wings.

I switch my focus to the morsel in my hand. My assumptions had been correct. This is a fruit. It’s sweet and tart, but my surprise at its familiarity stays masked under indifferent chewing.

Ronin’s eyes remain on me, calculating. "Are you a vegetarian?"

I pause, mid-bite. "A what?"

"Do you eat meat?" he asks, glancing at the table and then at the fruit in my hand.

I take another bite and chew slowly, watching his eyes narrow before I answer. "I am not a vegetarian." I pluck a piece of meat with my fingers, popping it into my mouth, savoring the texture as much as his surprise. I chew slowly, raising an eyebrow.

"You should eat as much as you can to regain your strength," he says, clearing his throat. "The Luna has sent some clothes for you as well."

"That is generous of her," I say, keeping my voice level.

He leans against the counter, arms crossed, studying me with that infuriatingly cool stare. "The pack protects its own. You may not understand it yet, but you are under our protection now."

I swallow. Why does the word protection sound more like possession? I brush the feeling aside. "Your Alpha and Luna have made that clear. With our… arrangement."

His mouth twitches at my icy tone, but he masks it with a nod. He thinks I resent this arrangement, but he is wrong. What I resent is the idea that I am weak. Though I doubt he could understand how it feels to be stripped of everything familiar and thrust into this world of wood and wolves.

They may have saved me. For that much I owe them, but how long I remain grounded is going to be a constant nag in the back of my mind. I am the princess and the only heir to my father’s throne. Though I have decided not to provide that piece of information.

I narrow my eyes at him. "Stay out of my mind."

"What?" he blinks.

"You think I have not noticed how your kind has information between one another without words being spoken?" I raise my chin.

He raises a brow. "You believe we read minds?"

"Unless you have spies that hide better than the shadows, then, yes.”

"Werewolves do possess stealth when we want, but even we cannot hide in the shadows that well," he says, smirking. "But you are not completely at a loss. We do speak with one another through our minds, but we cannot read them."

I take another bite of my fruit, savoring the texture as I assess his posture. Werewolves? That must be the longer term for what they are… Regardless, it appears as though he is telling the truth.

"All of our pack is connected," he continues. "We call it a mind link. It allows us to speak with one another over distances, though not large. And it's useful while we are in our wolf forms."

"Your Alpha spoke of… shifting," I say, thinking back to his questions. "That is the only way you access your power?"

"No," he says. "We have access to our power without the shift, but it is more powerful when we take on our wolves’ form."

"Form?" I repeat. "You mean you do not normally look this way?"

"Normal is not the term I would use," he states, watching me closely. "We have two forms. This is the first, and we have the second after we turn eighteen. The wolf is a part of who we are. We do not separate the two."

His explanation makes me pause. I didn't expect him to speak so openly, for someone so guarded. But it also makes me think of my wings. Perhaps he does have a small understanding of my predicament.

"Let’s get you settled into your room," he says, motioning towards a side door.

I follow him, setting what remains of my fruit onto the counter. I’ll need to ask where he discards his remnants.

Ronin leads us up a flight of stairs. I am sure he is walking slower than normal as I struggle to keep up, but thankfully, he doesn’t voice it.

We continue down a hall, pausing beside a door before he swings it open to reveal a simple yet spacious room. The first thing that grabs my attention is the large floor-to-ceiling windows, where tall trees sway gently in the breeze. These windows must be a favorite for them as the Alpha’s office had the same.

Next, I notice a bed on a thick wooden frame covered with dark linens. Across from the bed, an intricately woven rug stretches over the hardwood floors, its patterns like twisting vines. A dresser and a small table are the room’s only other furnishings. It’s simple but efficient.

I step inside, feeling Ronin’s eyes on me as if gauging my reaction. I move toward the windows, looking out at the forest. I like the height, if I stand close enough to the glass, it almost feels as if I’m hovering by my wings.

"The Luna already had some clothes sent for you," he says, motioning to a door. "They’re in the closet."

My thoughts warm at the memory of her gentle presence. Yet, I like her commanding nature. I turn toward Ronin. "When I was found, did I not have any of my armor?"

His nostrils flare, "You wore nothing when we found you."

We? I absorb this information, and a surge of anger and shame heats my skin. The idea of being seen so exposed, so vulnerable, makes my stomach twist. I should be grateful they haven’t tried to hold it over me like a debt.

"The bathroom is back down the hall, middle door on the left. If you need anything else, tell me," he says gruffly, shifting like he’s eager to leave.

"Thank you," I manage, though my words are stiff.

He nods and turns, but pauses. "I’ve nothing more to do for today, but in the morning we’ll go to the training grounds."

"Training grounds?" The word piques my interest.

"You are to stay with me, almost, at all times," he says, eyeing me. "Where I go, you go… Unless I am on patrol or some other matter that will put you in harm’s way."

"Harm’s way?" I repeat, raising a brow.

"Yes, harm's way," he growls. "And until you have healed, I don’t want you doing anything that will risk opening your stitches… The Luna will have my hide."

I stare at him. Was he being serious? Irritation flares through me, but I bite back my response. Whether I liked it or not, he was right about my wound. "Why did you sew my flesh?"

"How else would we have kept your blood inside your body?" he asks, crossing his arms.

I pause, unsure if he’s joking. But he doesn’t break eye contact, his gaze staying both firm and curious. Perhaps they do not have the same healing properties my world does.

In my realm, our healers have the ability to harness energy to heal wounds and ailments. The skin effortlessly knits itself back together, leaving little to no scarring. There is an abundance and variety of green plants and herbs that hold special medicinal properties used in teas for various ailments. Even broken bones can be mended in a matter of hours if not days.

Though… While we have all of these. Even we are not without limits. Not every wound can be healed, nor every ailment cured. My thoughts drift to my mother, but I cut them off.

"Never mind," I mutter.

He smirks slightly. A mixture of amusement and annoyance flashes behind his eyes before he finally leaves, closing the door behind him.

Alone, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

The room is quiet. Too quiet. My eyes land on the closet. Curiosity overrides my growing unease as I open it to discover what The Luna has sent. The clothes are simple but appear well-made. Their fabric is soft, and some are even made from leather, similar to my normal attire.

I smile, running my hands over the material. Everything sent looked as if it were fit for a warrior. I’m thankful. Part of me had worried she might send dresses.

A strange knot forms in my chest as I think about their questions, and would anyone look for me? I know they are searching, but who knows what truth they would find. Clues are hard to follow when lost to the winds.

The Vanguard pendant flashes in my mind again, but something doesn’t sit right. Those Avians went to great lengths to conceal their identity.

I recall the black smudge upon my hand after I had taken the first one out. They had painted their wings black. That takes time and a lot of effort… Why would they be so careless as to wear the Vanguard pendant?

But, who else could it be? I suppose Gabriel would be anyone’s next guess, but I doubt he would have stooped to such a level.

After all, he cannot ascend the throne without me. He is of royal blood, yes, but our laws and traditions are not easily broken. Only my bloodline has led our realm, and one cannot take the right as the next ruler of the kingdom unless their blood is tied to mine.

My mind races with other possibilities and betrayals. The unsettling questions spiral until I force myself to focus on the familiar comfort of pulling my hair into a tight braid, then changing into a different set of clothes.

A pair of stretchy pants, a matching shirt with thin straps, and a worn leather vest cut off high at the ribs.

While dressing is uncomfortable because of my wound, the snug fit is reassuring, like armor. It makes me feel more like myself.

Slowly, I lay back onto the soft mattress and stare at the ceiling. Everything about this world is rough, splintered wood and raw nature. But amid all its strangeness, it’s a safe haven from the storm that rages in my thoughts.

The Vanguard. Gabriel. Painted wings. Words curl inside my head like feathers caught in updrafts, refusing to settle.

I left behind more than my throne and family. I left behind trust. What if paint was not the only mask they wore? What if it was all a ploy to get me out of the way? Those words ring loud in my ears, “The throne demands sacrifice, Princess.” I try to stay alert, but exhaustion drags my eyelids down, bit by bit.

"Amira," a muffled voice cuts through the fog of my sleep.

My eyes snap open, and I jerk upright. I hiss as pain shoots across my abdomen, and I roll, fighting the scream rising up my throat. I fall off the side of the bed. My shoulder hits the floor first, and a sharp cry escapes before I can stop it.

The door bursts open, and Ronin strides in. His presence is like a storm cloud darkening the already shadowed room.

"What happened?" His eyes scan the room before focusing on me.

"Nothing," I lie, pushing myself up on shaking arms that feel like brittle twigs. "I’m fine… I just lost my balance." My pride stings almost as much as my side.

His steel-golden eyes narrow, scanning my face with an intensity that makes my stomach twist. "You call this fine!?" His voice is deeper, angrier, but there is more to it than that.

I blink. His eyes had done that yesterday when I’d upset him. "Do your eyes always change color when you're angry?"

He snorts, rubbing his hand over his face, and they are green once again. "You’re more fragile than I thought."

The words coil inside me, tightening my resolve. "I am not fragile."

"You fell out of bed."

"And I got back up," I snap, pushing to my feet.

His jaw ticks as he steps back. "I’m responsible for keeping you alive."

"Falling off the bed hardly counts as a death sentence," I say, adjusting the front of my vest.

"Let me see," he steps closer, reaching for my shirt.

"See what?" I snap, swatting his hand.

"Your stitches," he rumbles, ignoring my attempt to swat him away.

"They are fine," I say, shoving his hands away and sidestepping him. "I landed on my shoulder, not my side."

"I can smell blood, now let me see," he growls, his eyes shift color again, and I freeze. He can smell blood? There’s something in his gaze that makes me relent. Reluctantly, I lift my shirt to reveal my side.

He examines the stitching, leaning in until his breath skims my skin like a warm breeze. He frowns, a deep line trenching his brow. "You’ve reopened them."

"It’s nothing," I insist, following his gaze. Only a small amount of blood has seeped around the wound, and it’s not even dripping.

"Stubborn," he mutters, more to himself than me. He quickly exits the room and comes back with a small bag before I have time to pull my shirt down. "Hold still."

His touch is surprisingly gentle as he inspects the wound and lightly touches it with a cold cloth. I hiss and jerk back. "Hold still," he growls, dropping to his knees and settling a firm hand on my hip.

The heat from his finger sends pinpricks of sensation across my skin. I force myself not to move, watching him through narrowed eyes. I should be bristling against this imposition, yet there’s an intensity in his focus that quiets the protest forming on my tongue.

"You should be more careful," he chides, though the gruffness has receded from his voice.

"Do you manhandle all your guests like this?" I ask, injecting more venom into my voice than I feel.

"Only the ones who can’t stay upright," he replies.

We fall silent as he concentrates on cleaning the wound. The only noise in the room comes from the gentle rustling of cloth against skin as he secures a new bandage over the stitching.

"Done." He releases me, standing back with a satisfied nod. The absence of his warmth is instant, leaving a curious coldness behind. I adjust my shirt and glare at him, determined to regain some semblance of control.

"You really should let some air get to that after the bleeding stops," he states, putting stuff back into the bag. "We can remove it later."

"We?" I raise a brow. "I think I can handle it."

"Princess, you don’t even know what stitches are, let alone how to care for them."

I stiffen. "What?"

He lifts his brow. "Stitches, that is what we call it when your flesh is sewn.” He looks me up and down. “You claim to be a warrior, but you have never had stitches? How much of a fighter could you be?"

My face heats, not just from the jab but from the word, Princess. I initially panicked, thinking he had somehow discovered my secret. However, I now realize that Princess likely has a different meaning here, and it was intended as an insult.

"Did you not say you needed to go to the training grounds?" I snap.

His gaze hardens. "Yes, and now we are going to be late. Can you walk or must I carry you?"

I shove past him. "Try it, and it’ll be you who needs the supplies in that bag."

Chapter Seven

Heading towards the training grounds, I can feel Ronin glance at me, but I refuse to look at him. Part of me wants to snap at him, but I hold back.

Our footsteps soon mesh with the sound of slamming bodies and grunts from sparring. The air grows thick with exertion and the earthy scent of churned ground.

As we get closer, I pause. The air pulses with energy, and my senses prickle as the men continue moving about all without shirts.

Ronin doesn't even flinch. "What?"

I steady myself, shrugging as if it's nothing. "It seems these wolves have lost most of their clothing."

His mouth quirks. "Makes shifting easier."

I nod, pretending to buy into his reasoning, though it makes little sense. My eyes drift over the scene again. I’ve never seen so much flesh.

Sweat-slicked bodies streak past as men grapple, their large muscles coiling and flexing as they attack one another, either with hands or weapons. Yet, that’s not what sends a shiver racing down my spine.

The ground trembles beneath my feet as enormous, four-legged beasts crash into each other at the far end of the training grounds. Wolves.

My breath catches. This is the other form Ronin spoke of? They are massive. Their bodies ripple with raw power as they collide in a flurry of claws and snapping teeth. One pins the other with a brutal efficiency that has my instincts screaming run, but I stay rooted, transfixed.

A sharp crack, like bone snapping, shatters the air, and I whip my head around just in time to see a man fall forward onto his hands. No, not fall. His body contorts, his back arching as his skin ripples, shifting, changing. Limbs lengthen, muscles expand, and fur spills across his flesh like ink dropped into water. His fingers shrink, claws sprouting in their place as his face elongates into a snarling muzzle.

It happens in seconds, too fast, too unnatural, yet disturbingly fluid. I swallow hard, my mind struggling to reconcile what I just witnessed. One moment, a man. The next, a beast.

And he is not the only one.

I shift my gaze back to the wolves clashing in the distance, the realization settling like a weight in my chest. Each of them, every monstrous, powerful predator before me, stood in their fleshed form mere moments ago.

A flicker of something stirs in my chest, fear? Fascination? My fingers twitch at my sides, aching to reach for a weapon, though I know they are not attacking me. Still, the sheer force of them is staggering, a reminder that I stand among predators in a world not my own.

My attention shifts, caught by a group of men running by. Their muscles are tight, and their skin is covered in tattoos, some that echo the intricate patterns I’d seen on Ronin’s bicep.

"If you’re done staring," Ronin growls. "We can get you settled so I can get to instructing."

I glare at him, forcing my legs to move further into the chaos that is the werewolves’ training field. Ignoring the flash of fur and flesh, I make a show of looking uninterested. Though every snap of jaws and rip of the dirt pulls my attention.

"Quite the display," I say coolly.

He stops in front of a wooden bench. "Sit."

Heat rises in my chest. "I think I’ll stand."

"Suit yourself." His annoyance is clear, but he turns away, already directing orders to a nearby group. How is it possible to dislike someone so much and yet-

"Amira, think fast!"

I turn just in time to snatch a morsel of some kind before it hits me in the face.

"Nice," James says, rushing over.

"What does thinking have to do with catching?" I ask, inspecting what's in my hand. I believe it’s some kind of baked good. "It is a reflex. It has nothing to do with thinking."

James snorts, throwing himself onto the bench, slouching comfortably. "You take things too literally… Ronin said you hadn’t eaten so." He shakes his own morsel in front of his face before taking a bite.

I sniff the food, then take a tentative bite. It’s flaky and sweet with sparkly crystals on top. The inside itself is warm and a deep red, bursting with a ripe berry flavor that oozes out.

Unable to stop myself, I moan. "What is this?"

"Only the finest pastries in wolf territory." James winks, crumbs fall from his mouth as he chews. "Like it?"

"It’s tolerable," I say, trying to sound indifferent before devouring the rest.

"Right," he snorts. "Tolerable."

I ignore his retort as I finish the last of my pastry and continue scanning the field, attempting to avoid further conversation. But James barrels on. "I noticed you were eyeing the wolves," he says, smug amusement in his tone.

"It was hard not to," I reply dryly, trying to lose myself in the rhythms of combat around me.

His laughter rings out, bright and cheerful. "It is impressive, isn’t it? I’d ask if you’ve seen anything like it, but I doubt it."

"You think we do not have beasts in my realm?" I ask, glancing at him.

"Beasts, sure." He grins. "Efficient fighting machines like us? I’m guessing not."

I’m prepared to argue my point, but something across the field catches my eye. Several of the men have taken up weapons, shifting the dynamics of their practice. I’m drawn to the fluid movements, the way blades flash and catch the light. Particularly, a small group who’ve begun throwing knives at targets.

They move with precision, methods familiar yet foreign. When one knife hits its mark dead center, I scoff. "They lack refinement."

James cocks an eyebrow, following my gaze. "What? You think you can do better?"

I shrug. "Perhaps."

"Don’t let Ronin hear you," he snorts. I raise a brow at him. "Ronin and our Alpha believe we should fight just as well in this form as we do in our wolves."

"They are correct," I say, looking back across the field. "It would be foolish otherwise."

"Yeah, well," he says, standing and brushing crumbs from his shirt. "You have a look, and I wouldn’t go making suggestions if I were you."

I glance at him. "As a commander myself, I understand what you are implying. However, one should take advice when another is more skilled with a weapon that the other lacks. If not, how, then, would you learn?"

"Commander?" he repeats. "Commander of what?"

"Never mind," I say. "If you believe I would be overstepping, then I will keep my skills to myself."

"Wait, wait," he says, a grin spreading across his face. "If you are as skilled as you claim, I gotta see it."

I quirk a brow. "I thought you said I would be overstepping?"

"Not if you're demonstrating to me," he grins. "Unless you are just exaggerating and you are better at getting stabbed with knives than throwing them."

A simmering irritation ignites in my chest. Before I can formulate a response, the challenge is out of his mouth.

"There’s Ronin. Do you want me to ask permission for you?"

His words are bait, but my pride leaves me with little choice. "No need," I say coolly. With a determined look, I march toward the knife-throwing circle. Unsurprisingly, Ronin’s eyes meet mine halfway across the field, already narrowed with suspicion.

I ignore him, my feet carrying me towards the weapon stands. Behind me, James follows closely.

The wolves practicing pause to watch as I approach. My hand brushes over the cool hilts before picking up a knife and testing its weight. "They’re relying too much on their strength," I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Finesse is just as important as hitting power."

"Then, by all means, show us finesse," James says, leaning against a post.

Others gather and mutter as I step to the line of men who move away, allowing me a wide berth. A faint sting grips my side, as I take my position. I inhale deeply, ignoring it and blocking out the murmurs and stares.

One fluid motion sends the knife through the air and straight into a tree ten feet from the target. A ripple of laughter rises as I grit my teeth and ground myself, pushing away the instinct to spread my wings that are no longer there. My wings… of course.

"Don’t worry! You’ll get it sooner or later!" James calls, and I fix him with a steady look.

Another knife fills my hand. My eyes flick to Ronin, his expression maddeningly smug. Determination flares inside me.

I adjust my stance, mindful of the pull at my side. Recalling how my movements used to flow with my wings. I reposition, compensate for the imbalance, and throw again.

The knife slices through the air and thuds into the wooden post, satisfying and final. A murmur of surprise ripples through the onlookers.

"Well, look at that!" James hoots. "Beginner’s luck?"

My lip curls as I pick up another. Without hesitation, I send it flying, landing precisely below the first.

Silence stretches across the field. My blood races as I grab another knife. The pull in my side sharpens, but I don’t stop. I focus on the target and nothing else, especially not Ronin, and fling it. Excitement floods my veins, and everything else blurs away as the satisfying crack echoes again when my fourth throw joins the row in the beam. The fifth lands just beneath it, burying deep in the wood.

I turn slowly towards Ronin, relishing his irritation. His eyes flash with something between annoyance and acknowledgment as he strides towards me.

"Three out of four’s not bad!" James crows.

"Five," I correct, lifting my chin.

He grins, throwing his hands up. "Oh, my mistake! Didn’t realize you were counting that first one!"

Laughter surrounds us, and my gaze locks with Ronin’s. He stops short, holding a knife, almost as if he wants to throw it himself. "You should sit before you fall again," he says, stepping closer. His voice is low enough that others shouldn’t hear, but pointedly enough to sting.

I lift my chin and hold my ground. Anger simmers inside, but I refuse to let him see it burn.

"Maybe you should mind your own balance," I reply, pivoting with mock grace as I return to where I was sitting.

Back at my seat, I settle and try not to wince at the pain burning my side. I glare across the field, refusing to let Ronin’s comment pierce deeper than it should.

Suddenly, a tug at the hem of my shirt pulls my attention downwards.

A drawing fills my vision, a winged figure, sketched with the bright colors only a child would choose. Above it, a pair of curious blue eyes peek over the edge of the paper.

"Are these what your wings look like?"

I blink, surprised. A little boy stares up at me, his eager face framed by tousled dark hair.

Before I can answer, a familiar voice rings out.

"Oliver! Where are your manners?"

Luna Celeste waddles over, her face red as she holds one of her hands to the base of her back. I go to stand, but she waves me off, slowly lowering onto the bench. "Please do not fuss, I get enough of that from my husband," she puffs and turns her attention to Oliver. "Remember what we talked about?" she asks, ruffling his hair gently.

He clutches the paper tighter but looks apologetic. "I forgot," he mumbles.

The Luna’s laughter is soft, like wind through leaves. "It seems curiosity got the better of you." She looks at me. "I apologize for my son’s enthusiastic introduction."

"It’s... fine." Warmth blooms within me at his curiosity and at seeing The Luna again. "Yes, they did look like that," I say to Oliver, my voice softening.

His face lights up. "Really? And you could really fly?"

Celeste sighs. "Please try not to overwhelm her with questions. I’m sure Amira would prefer a moment without interrogation."

"It’s okay," I interrupt, a surprising ease in my voice. "It’s nice to have someone as interested in my wings as I am." I look at Oliver. "I could fly."

He beams, his eyes widening. "Like how high?"

A small smile spreads across my face. "As high as I wanted."

"Wow!"

Off to the side, Celeste watches with clear amusement. "Perhaps you could share some stories at dinner tonight?"

"Dinner?" I ask.

She nods. "We would be honored if you’d join us this evening. Our son is clearly fascinated."

"Yes!" Oliver jumps up and down, his paper flapping in the air. "Please come! Please, I want to show you my book with the wing people in it!"

"You have books?" I ask, surprise evident in my voice.

He nods. "I have a lot of books, but the one with the wing people is my favorite! Daddy says the people are not real, but he was wrong. I knew he was!"

"Oliver," Celeste scolds. "Don’t undermine The Alpha."

"Sorry," he mumbles, adding under his breath. "But he was."

I smirk. "Of course I’d love to come and see your books."

He cheers, his laughter filling the air. The Luna rises, pulling Oliver gently to her side. "That’s settled then. We’ll see you tonight." Her gaze is kind as she turns away.

I watch them leave. I feel oddly light, like I’m floating despite being bound to the earth.

As I turn, Ronin and James advance, closing the distance across the field. Ronin’s scowl is already in place.

"What did The Luna want?" he demands as soon as they reach me.

"She invited me to dinner." I fold my arms, meeting his glare without flinching. "I assume that’s acceptable?"

James snickers. "Already setting up couples’ dates, huh, Ronin?"

"What is a couple’s date?" I ask, eyeing James.

Ronin shoots him a look sharp enough to cut, then turns back to me. "They eat around six. We should be there just before."

"We?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.

"Yes, we," he says, crossing his arms. "Remember what I said yesterday? Where I go, you go."

"But I was invited. You do not need to go," I say, my tone clipped.

"Doesn’t matter," he says. "If you are going, I am going."

We stare each other down, the air tight between us. James’s grin splits his face as he nudges Ronin. "Better watch out. The Luna is liking Amira more and more."

Ronin's jaw ticks, but he keeps his eyes on me. "We have training to finish," he finally says. He begins to walk away. James goes to speak, but he grabs him by the shirt and pulls him along.

~~~~

We arrive at The Alpha’s by five thirty, or at least that’s what time Ronin said we would.

The scent of roasted meat and other foods teases my senses as a maid leads us into the dining hall, or, I guess, more of a room.

Luna Celeste greets us at the door, her smile welcoming. "Right on time," she says. "Ronin, will you please go speak with my husband? He has been in a mood all day because of those blasted reports."

Ronin nods, crossing the room to The Alpha, who appears deep in thought, swirling a glass of some brown liquid as he stares at the wall.

Celeste loops her arm through mine, guiding me toward the table. "I forgot to ask what kind of food you like. I hope you don’t mind, I had them make–"

"You’re here!"

Oliver’s excited voice cuts through the air as he bounces over, waving a drawing in the air. "Amira! I have three more pages of questions for you, and new drawings of wings!" His enthusiasm flutters around me, bright and untamed, like a gust of warm wind.

Celeste chuckles, leaning down slightly, her eyes sparkling. "He has been quite excited to see you again. Why don’t you show her what you have first?"

Oliver thrusts the paper into my hands, his wide eyes filled with anticipation. "Which one looks like yours!? They’re not as good as the real thing, but I’m working on it!"

The drawings are a burst of color and chaos, winged figures filling every corner. Some look almost like birds, others like the idealized forms of celestial beings. My chest tightens slightly as I trace my fingers over the strokes. A child's version of what I once had, what I still have, trapped beneath the skin. I remind myself.

"This one," I say, pointing to a set of wings arched high above a slender figure. "You have quite the talent."

He beams, practically vibrating with excitement. "I knew it!"

"Let’s take our seats, shall we?" Celeste ruffles his hair before we move toward the table.

Alpha Grayson and Ronin are quietly conversing in the corner, their tones low but tense, a stark contrast to the warmth spilling across the table. Celeste and Oliver settle in across from me, and I find myself drawn into their presence.

"How fast can you fly?" Oliver blurts out, his pen already moving across the pages spread out on the table.

"Oliver," Celeste chides gently, covering his hand with hers. "Why don’t we wait for everyone to sit down and eat before interrogating our guest?"

His face flushes slightly, but his grin remains.

I chuckle, surprised by the warmth spreading through me at his eagerness. "I don’t mind," I say as I settle into my chair, the rich aroma of food wraps around me. "Have you ever noticed how fast the wind moves the clouds?"

He nods eagerly.

"Faster than that."

His eyes widen, awe sparkling within them. "Are your wings white?"

"Not quite," I smile. "They are the palest shade of turquoise, with tips of gold."

"Wow!" Oliver scribbles furiously, his tongue poking out in concentration.

Grayson and Ronin approach. The Alpha takes his seat at the head of the table while Ronin sits to his left, leaving me at his right. Ronin’s gaze meets mine briefly, and a flicker of something, curiosity, maybe? Passes between us. I look away, back at Oliver, who is still deep in his notes.

"I see my son has wasted no time," Grayson says, shaking his head. "He’s quite serious about this, as you can see."

"He is very thorough," I say, eyeing the pages filled with questions and sketches.

"To him, they, or pardon… your kind, are far more interesting," Grayson grumbles.

Celeste pats Oliver’s back with affection. "I think it’s wonderful. Especially since he has an actual Avian to ask and not just rely on human lore."

Human... The words stick in my mind, making my stomach twist slightly. That’s what James called me, a human. Ronin mentioned their realm, but I still don’t fully understand what they are. Yet, they know of my race?

"Hue-man lore?" I echo, raising a brow.

Grayson leans back in his chair. "As the future alpha, Oliver needs to study. However, he seems to find the topic of human lore the most exciting at the moment. Particularly the angels…" He pauses, tilting his glass slightly. "Perhaps there is some truth to what they believe, though I doubt all of their lore is accurate."

"They were wrong about the wings," Oliver chimes in, his brows furrowing in concentration. "Amira says hers are turquoise, but the book says they’re only white!"

A strange heaviness presses against my chest. Their lore is wrong, and yet… the way they speak of it feels familiar. I wonder how they got the name Angel from Avian?

"Okay, dear," Celeste says, ruffling his hair. "They are about to serve our food. Put your notes away, you don’t want to get anything on them."

He gasps, quickly moving his papers off the table.

Plates arrive, steaming with fragrant meats and vegetables. The savory scents swirl around me, earthy and warm, yet unfamiliar enough to make me hesitate. I take a cautious bite, the flavors robust and strangely sweet against my tongue.

"I was surprised when The Luna said you were joining us," Grayson says, his attention focused on me. "And pleased."

"I had nothing better planned," I reply lightly, catching Ronin’s sidelong glance.

"Is it like this in your realm?" Celeste asks as she serves Oliver another helping.

"The food? Not quite. The company? Sometimes." I smile, but the expression feels fleeting. The warmth of this place, of their easy camaraderie, reminds me too much of what I’ve lost.

All these questions about my wings… While I don’t mind answering Oliver, his excitement is cute. It also presses against an aching void. One I can’t ignore.

"Does your back hurt?" Ronin whispers in my ear.

"What?" I say, turning my head. He’s so close that our noses almost touch.

His gaze flicks towards my shoulder. I realize that, without thinking, I had reached back to touch the tattoo-like marks. Their subtly raised texture reassures me that my wings are still intact.

"No," I say, dropping my hand. "It’s fine."

His eyes linger a moment longer, searching, before he leans back.

"Were you born with your wings?" Oliver asks, wide-eyed and waiting.

"Yes, all Avians are." I pause, considering my audience, and my eyes flick towards Celeste and her swollen belly.

She smiles, misreading my look. "Our pups are born in this form," she says, gesturing to herself.

"Pups?"

"That is what we call our young," she explains. "Giving birth is difficult as is... I cannot imagine doing so if the child had wings."

A shadow creeps into my thoughts. "The process is not easily done." The words leave my lips before I can stop them, heavy with meaning. My throat tightens. "Some do not survive it."

The air shifts. Silence stretches between us as all eyes settle on me.

"I am sorry," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. "This is not an appropriate subject, given your condition."

"No," Grayson growls.

Celeste lets out a light laugh, breaking the tension. "Well, at least our children are born with two feet instead of four."

"Mommy, can I go get my book now?" Oliver asks, beaming at me. "I want Amira to see the Angels!"

"Oliver," Grayson rumbles. "I think you have asked enough questions today. We should let Amira eat."

Ronin grunts as if in agreement. I level him with a look. "It’s okay," I say, shifting my gaze to Grayson. "I am interested to see what hue-mans say we look like."

"Can I?" Oliver asks, bouncing in his seat.

"Very well," Greyson sighs. "But then you need to go to bed, no arguments. Or there'll be no more questions allowed for Amira."

He gasps, but nods and jumps down, rushing from the room. "I’ll be right back!"

"I see what you did there," Celeste chuckles, leaning toward Grayson. Their laughter melts as they kiss, and Grayson murmurs in her ear.

"You can say no," Ronin says.

I turn to him. "Why would I say no?"

He leans slightly closer, eyes dark with something unreadable. "Because all the questions are bothering you."

"They are not bothering me," I say, picking up my drink and taking a sip.

Ronin scoffs, tipping his own drink to his lips. "I can tell."

"Perhaps it is you who is bothering me," I murmur.

Celeste looks between us, a slow smile tugging at her lips. Before she turns her attention back to her husband.

Oliver’s footsteps clatter back down the hall. "Got it!" he shouts, nearly skidding to a stop as he returns.

His book is massive in his small hands, and he thumps it onto the table with an eager grin. "Look, Amira!" He flips through glossy pages, illustrations blurring by until he finds what he seeks. "This one!"

I lean over to see two winged creatures soaring above a stormy sea, lightning threading through the sky behind them. "Impressive," I say. "Though flying in lightning is not a good idea, and over water."

"So you’re not the bringers of light?" Oliver asks, eyes wide.

"The what?" I chuckle.

"Humans say that angels are the bringers of light," he explains, rushing around the table to grab his paper full of notes. He begins scribbling furiously. "You’re not?"

"No," I laugh, shaking my head. "I know of no Avians who bring light to my realm, nor to any others."

He glances up briefly before jotting something down. "So, what do you bring?"

I pause, caught by the hope tangled in his words. "Ourselves," I finally say. "We have a purpose, same as you do, to shape the worlds we live in."

Oliver beams, as if he understands more than I intended. "The book says-"

"Five more minutes," Grayson rumbles, though his smile is indulgent.

Oliver nods fiercely, flipping through pages with renewed urgency. "What about this?" He points to an image, a lone figure soaring above a castle with golden towers. "Does this have meaning?"

My chest tightens. "Still hue-man stories," I murmur. The castle looks nothing like my home, and yet… it reminds me of it all the same.

"Bedtime," Celeste says.

"That wasn’t five minutes," Oliver pouts.

"You're right," she laughs. "But it will take you the next three to get to your room. Now, what did your father say?"

"Ok, ok," he grumbles, grabbing his stuff from the table. "Goodnight, Amira! Goodnight, Beta Ronin!" He shouts as he barrels out of the room.

I wave before turning back to the table.

Celeste chuckles, reaching for her glass. "You’ve inspired him."

"He’s charming," I reply, surprised at the warmth in my voice. I catch Ronin’s eyes on me again. What is his problem?

"And full of questions," Grayson mutters. "Thank you for humoring him."

"We should get going," Ronin says, standing.

"Can’t you stay a bit?" Celeste insists. "We don’t have the same bedtime as Oliver."

"Of course not," Ronin says, with a nod. "But we need to change the bandage on Amira’s stitches. She tore them open this morning."

Celeste gasps. "What!? Are you-"

"They did not tear," I cut in, glaring sidelong at Ronin. "I am fine."

Grayson grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I’m certain you are."

Ronin’s jaw tightens as he looks at Grayson. "Thank you for dinner," he says, nodding. "Alpha. Luna."

"We shall speak again soon," Celeste smiles at me.

I nod and follow Ronin toward the door, my spine rigid.

There is a chill to the air as we step outside, and an orange and pink hue spreads across the fading sky. I fold my arms against the cold, quickening my pace to match Ronin’s long strides.

"That went well," he says, though his tone is flat.

I grit my teeth. "You make a big deal out of nothing."

"Your stitches aren’t nothing, Princess," he says, not even bothering to glance at me.

"Don’t call me that," I snap, halting.

“Why?” he asks, turning to face me, his silhouette outlined by the faint silver light filtering through the trees.

"Because it is rude," I say.

"Rude?" he scoffs. "The word princess isn’t rude, at least not in our realm."

"The way you say it is," I snarl.

He smirks, and for a fleeting moment, I want to smack him, but I refrain.

"Ok," he says, closing the distance between us, a light flashes behind his eyes. "You are correct. I called you a princess because you're acting like a spoiled brat. You did rip those stitches and refused help. Now, you may have a vast understanding of realms. And can throw knives. Maybe your wings will return… maybe they won’t. But until they do, you are stuck with me, and I will make sure you are taken care of. Regardless of your feelings, do I make myself clear?"

Anger builds deep in my chest as I square my shoulders. "Yes," I say slowly, my tone ice. "Perfectly." I move around him and down the path. A low growl rumbles behind me, but I simply raise my chin and keep walking.

Chapter Eight

It starts slow at first, the shadows in my mind, familiar shapes, the distant sound of wings breaking through the silence. My wings, my beautiful wings, cut through the sky, lifting me higher and higher. The wind whips across my face, and I feel so much joy in my chest that I think it’s going to burst.

Up here, I am free, untethered.

But then the sky darkens, clouds swallow the light. Pain hits, sharp, unyielding. Blinding white agony grips me as my wings ignite. My feathers are consumed by flame. I scream.

My wings blaze, my feathers turn to ash as I plummet into nothingness.

Then I’m running, desperate, through the forest. The trees are closing in, caging me beneath a sky I can't reach. A howl echoes behind me, primal and hungry.

I look back, wolves, their eyes glow with malice. They chase me. Sharp teeth snap at my heels, and I turn to fight. But my hands are empty. I have no weapons, no wings. There's nowhere to go, nowhere to–

"Amira!"

I blink rapidly. My skin feels slick with cold sweat. Ronen’s face is hovering over me, his brows furrowed. His hand is on my shoulder, firm, pulling me from my nightmare's grip.

"Amira," he repeats, his voice a low rumble. One that brings the rest of the world back into focus. I'm not falling, not chased.

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I may not be falling or being attacked, but that also means I am still here. Still stuck in this realm with no escape… Still without my wings.

My skin flushes hot under his touch. "Let go of me," I snap. The words come out harsh and raw.

Ronin's brow lifts, his expression a mix of annoyance and concern. "You were screaming."

"I’m fine," I insist, my voice cracking with the lingering terror. I wipe at my eyes with trembling hands, willing every part of me to calm.

His gaze doesn’t waver, a mix of frustration and something else simmers just beneath the surface. It makes my stomach dip. "Fine," he echoes, leaning over me.

"What are you doing?" I ask, shoving against his chest.

"I need to check your stitches," he says, pausing.

"You did that before I went to bed," I say. His eyes lock with mine, and for a second, the world narrows to just this, his closeness, the intensity of his stare.

"You were thrashing in your sleep," he growls, the vibrations course up my arms, sinking into my chest. "I need to make sure-"

"Do you smell blood?"

He blinks. "What?"

"Last time they opened, you said you could smell blood," I say, our eyes still locked. "Do you?"

A stubborn silence stretches between us. Ronin's lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t move away. The warmth of his skin wraps around me, and I fight the part of me that wants to relax into it.

"No," he finally mutters.

"Then you can leave," I say, my words soft, not nearly as stern as I want them to be.

His presence is overwhelming, like a storm gathering in my room that suddenly feels too small. He straightens, lingering half a breath too long before turning away.

"Try not to wake the whole pack next time, Princess," he says as he reaches the door.

I glare at him, anger knotting in my chest.

He pauses just long enough to give me a look that makes my stomach flip, part annoyance, part amusement, and part... something I can't place. Then he's gone, leaving only the soft click of the closing door.

I release a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The room feels too quiet now, the lingering heat of our exchange crackling in the air. I press my palms against my face, willing the frustration away, but it settles deep. Like a thorn I can’t pull free.

The days that follow pass in a blur, though the tension between us doesn’t improve.

At least while Ronin is with The Alpha, I have a reprieve, time spent with The Luna and Oliver, who always keep me busy with questions, but I don’t mind. He is growing on me.

But when Ronin runs patrols, I am stuck with James.

Which is how I find myself now, sitting across from him in Ronin’s kitchen.

"Do you want some eggs?" James asks, getting into the fridge. "I also know how to make pancakes."

"Pancakes?" I ask, raising a brow.

"They taste like fluffy little clouds of heaven smothered in butter and maple syrup," he says, grabbing things from the fridge. "I’m sure you have had them. You probably just call them something different in your world."

"Clouds do not have a taste," I say, picking a fruit I have learned they call an apple from the bowl on the table. "Where does this maple syrup come from?"

"Trees," he says, digging in the cupboards.

Of course it does. I roll my eyes. They do a lot with the trees here. Why not eat them as well?

"How does your side feel?" he asks, moving around the kitchen, making a mess.

"Better now that those stitches are gone," I say, biting into my apple. I chew slowly, thinking about how long it would be for my wings to come back. I was hopeful that once my wound had healed, they would, but… nothing.

"Don’t worry, your wings will come back," James says, as if reading my mind. I glare at him. "What?"

"You're being less annoying today," I say, eyeing him. "Why?"

"Maybe I’m just growing on you," he smirks.

I scoff. "No."

He laughs, mixing stuff in a bowl. "What do you want to do today?"

"Meditation," I say, finishing the rest of my fruit.

"Boring," he says, faking a snore. "Spending all that time stressing about your wings isn’t going to bring them back any faster."

I stare at him. "Meditation does not cause stress."

"We should do something fun," James continues, flicking batter at me. I dodge it, and he laughs. "Come on, it’ll be good for you."

I narrow my eyes. "Why are you so cheerful?"

"Isn’t it obvious?" He grins. "Ronin’s gone."

Truly incorrigible. But he has a point. The beta’s absence is a relief. Ronin and I can barely look at each other without tension crackling in the air like storm clouds.

"Fine," I finally say. "What is it that you do for fun?"

"Explore, train, go for a run. You could practice throwing your knives more," he says, ducking the towel I throw at him. His laughter fills the room. "We can go out so you can explore pack life."

My instincts warn against it, and a prickle of suspicion moves up my spine. "I thought I was to be kept away from your pack."

"No," he says. "You are not to go anywhere by yourself, and you won’t be. You will be with me."

"Is that supposed to provide me comfort?" I ask, crossing my arms.

He smirks. "If Ronin didn’t believe I’d keep an eye on you, then he wouldn’t let me babysit while he is on patrol."

"Babysit?" I scoff. "Do I look like a child?"

"Honestly," he says, pouring the mixture into the pan. "I think you are stronger than you look, but when a command is given, you follow it."

I don’t respond, but I do not miss his words on strength. That makes me like him at least a small amount… like a grain of sand. Perhaps he also has a point about the meditation. Even in training, we are taught not to focus on one thing for too long, as it only breathes room for frustration.

"Okay," I agree. "Show me this pack life you speak of."

James brightens, piling the finished pancakes onto a plate. "Awesome… But first we eat!"

After breakfast, we head toward the pack house. The structure looms ahead, a sprawling mix of stone and timber, its towering frame blending into the forest like it was carved from it. Perhaps that’s why they use wood for their dwellings. There’s so much of it. Maybe the familiarity of the trees offers them a sense of security, a way to make the wilderness feel like home.

James takes the lead as we pass by. His easy chatter filling the silence between us. The sun drapes its warmth over everything, a deceptively pleasant blanket against my guarded mood.

"Stick close," he says with a wink. "Wouldn’t want you to get lost."

His casual tone grates me, but I follow, feigning nonchalance as we walk. Curious eyes glance our way, and I straighten my posture. Several wolves give acknowledging nods to James while looking at me curiously. He greets them in passing, ignoring the stares that linger on me.

"What is your position?" I ask, noting more people nodding. Before they continue with their tasks.

"My position in the pack?" James asks, looking at me. I nod. "I am the gamma."

"Gamma," I repeat, weighing the word on my tongue. "What does your position require?"

"You mean besides babysitting?" I glare at him, and he laughs. "I am the one in charge just below Ronin," he says, puffing his chest with pride. "As you have learned, we have our Alpha and Luna. Then there is Ronin the Beta, and I am the Gamma."

"So you are Ronin’s assistant then."

"No," he scoffs. "And don’t go saying that to him, I’d never hear the end of it! Ronin is in charge of many areas of the pack and helps the Alpha, mostly. While I also help The Alpha, I take more of my orders from The Luna."

"Ah," I say, holding back a smile. I believe I hit a nerve.

"What about you?" he asks. "You have fighting skills, or at least you can throw knives. Were you a chef in your pack?"

"Chef?" I repeat, raising a brow.

"You know," he waves his hand. "A cook or baker. Did you provide food?"

"I do not cook, nor do I bake," I say.

"Ah, right," he says, snapping his fingers. "You said you are a commander."

"Was," I say, biting my tongue right after. I knew more questions would come up about who I am, but I’d not considered how much truth I was willing to tell.

"Was?" James echoes, eyebrows lifting. "Does that have something to do with how you ended up here?"

I level him with a stare. Had it? This was the question that has kept swirling within my mind. The Vanguard pendant, though, as out of place as it seemed, could also be the source of my circumstances.

Kale… even thinking his name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Had he been the one to stoop to such a low level and clip my wings?

Would he have regained command of The Vanguard in my absence? He was a skilled warrior. My father would not have appointed him commander if he lacked, but it takes more than skill to lead, and as I had said to him while stripping him of command.

"The Vanguard needs a leader who doesn't shirk his duties for personal vendettas."

Had I placed a target upon my own wings by creating a personal vendetta while making a public announcement of his command being handed to Talen? To say it’s not possible would be foolish.

"Earth to Amira!" James calls, snapping his fingers in front of my face. I blink. "You look a little lost. Just trying to reel you back in."

"I was just waiting for your next question," I say, deflecting as we continue walking.

"Right…" he drawls, watching me almost too closely. "Or had I opened a possibility of why someone was trying to kill you?"

"So, you do possess skills other than annoyance," I say dryly.

He smirks. "I knew you liked me."

"If ignorance is your charm, then you’re right."

Our conversation is cut short by a voice dripping with fake sweetness. "Gamma James." He stiffens beside me as we both turn.

A group of women strides toward us. Their postures scream superiority, or at least the illusion of it. Their gazes sweep over me, sharp with interest, sharper with disdain.

The tallest one stops right in front of me, flipping her blonde curls over her shoulder with practiced ease. The second, a brunette, mirrors the gesture as if they'd rehearsed it. The third crosses her arms, her glare sweeping over me like she’s trying to find a flaw to pick at.

James tenses but keeps his tone light. "Cora, Joy, Nina."

"So this is her?" The blonde tilts her head, her eyes gleaming like a predator sizing up weak prey.

"I didn’t know humans could be kept as pets," Nina snickers, her voice oozing with malice.

James growls low in his throat. "Joy. Cora. That’s enough. Don’t you have anything better to do?"

"Amira… is it?" Joy, the blonde, obvious leader, tests my name on her tongue like she’s trying to find something wrong with it. Her nose wrinkles. "What kind of name is that? Sounds made up."

I arch a brow. "Joy? That would imply something pleasant, would it not?" I glance at James. "I don’t believe she was named correctly."

James coughs to cover a laugh while Joy’s lips curl.

"You think you’re clever?" Nina sneers.

"Oh, definitely not one of her features," Joy agrees with a mocking sigh. Then her eyes narrow. "And a mate-stealer, too?"

Mate stealer? Before I can respond, James barks out a laugh. "Seriously, Joy? Are you that delusional? You think-"

"Then why have we been ignored ever since this human showed up?" Cora interrupts, crossing her arms so tightly I’m surprised she doesn’t snap in half. Her glare sharpens as she growls at me.

I exhale sharply through my nose. "I am not a hue-man," I snap.

Joy snickers. "Oh, that’s adorable. You’ve taught your little pet to snarl like a wolf." She tilts her head. "Too bad she isn’t one."

"Are these…" I purse my lips, giving them a slow, deliberate once-over. Then I look at James. "Pups, friends of yours?"

"What did you just call us!?" Joy shrieks, her voice a pitch too high.

I feign confusion. "Is that not the correct term for your kind’s children?" I arch a brow.

James snorts and steps back, wiping a hand over his face like he’s barely holding it together. "That is the term."

Joy’s eyes flash, and Nina’s expression turns feral. They’re both trembling.

A tight knot forms in my gut. Are they really this volatile, just from a comment? Or is this some strange attempt to assert dominance? The way they’re reacting, it feels as if I’ve stepped into some challenge I didn’t even realize I was facing.

"Don’t even think about it," James growls.

"Why?" Nina smirks. "Because she’s not a wolf? Then she shouldn’t be here. Preying on our mates."

Preying? My brows knit together. I glance at James, but he doesn’t react as if anything about their words is strange.

Irritation flickers beneath my confusion. Mates? What are they even talking about? Their hostility is obvious, but the reason behind it is lost on me. I’ve done nothing to them, yet they act as if my mere presence is a personal offense.

"None of you have mates," James snarls, his eyes shifting color. I blink, surprised, as I realize I've never seen James lose his temper before. He's usually the jokester, but at this moment, he actually looks... intimidating.

Joy’s eyes dart between him and me, her mouth twisting. "Come on, girls. Let the gamma finish taking his… pet. For its walk."

"But what about-"

"Don’t worry about it, Nina," Joy snaps, keeping her gaze fixed on me. "We are being silly thinking that this." She waves a hand up and down, her lip curling in disgust. "Is a threat. She has no wolf. What would anyone want with her?"

"She’s right," Cora scoffs, looping her arm in Joy’s. "Let's go."

I watch as all three of them shoot a glare at me before they turn and walk away.

James exhales, and I don’t miss the slight shake of his hand as he rubs it through his hair. "Well, I wasn’t expecting that."

"What did she mean by mates?" I ask, the word feels strange on my tongue. My irritation is still there, but now, curiosity gnaws at me. "They claim I am stealing them."

He hesitates, a clear flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "It means… Like... partner. For life."

I process this, trying to match it with my understanding of relationships. "Like your Alpha and Luna?"

"Yes," he nods. "They are mates."

"Celeste calls him her husband," I say, trying to make sure I have my understanding correct. "In my realm, we also have… Mates. Though we call it wedded. Our binding is also for life. Done in blood."

"That sounds close to what a mate is for us," he says, scratching his chin.

"But why would those… she-wolves? Say I am stealing their mates?" I ask. "You say they have none, and I have made no claims nor shown interest in any male here. Why do they think I'm pursuing?"

He looks at me as if weighing his options. "They’re just being territorial drama queens. Don’t take it personally."

Territorial? I fold my arms and glare in the direction they disappeared. "They certainly seemed very... intent on making a statement."

"Yeah, well, last time I checked, no one here’s called dibs on Ronin, so, " he coughs.

"Ronin?" I study him, my eyes narrow. Noting the way he shifts his feet. "Called dibs? On Ronin? Do you mean those she-wolves have an interest in pursuing Ronin as their mate?"

He shrugs. "He’s a beta. She-wolves are drawn to a powerful mate. The Alpha is taken. Ronin is a prize in their eyes."

"A prize," I scoff. "You speak of him as if he were a trinket."

James grins, unfazed by my skepticism. "Depends on who you ask."

"And this interest," I say slowly, trying to piece it together. "Does Ronin share it?"

James's smile falters just slightly. "Ronin’s got his hands full with... other things right now."

I refuse to let this drop as we continue walking. The need to understand gnaws at me. "If you’re saying no one here has ‘called dibs,’ and Ronin is occupied. Then why do they pursue?"

"Oh, he’s occupied," he laughs.

I shake my head, bemused by their customs. "Is it usual for wolves to fight over a mate who shows no interest?"

"Usual" might be putting it mildly. Especially when competition shows up," he says, glancing at me.

Competition? I blink, my bewilderment quickly turning into realization. "Wait, you mean me? Those she-wolves see me as competition for Ronin?"

"Hey," James chuckles, a sound somewhere between humor and nervousness. "Let's just say. You’ve got that unattached mystery vibe. Plus, you’re always with Ronin."

"Because the Alpha and Luna placed me with him," I say, my irritation growing at the implications in his words.

"That doesn’t matter," he says.

I scoff, the sound sharp and dismissive. "I assure you, I have no interest in pursuing your Beta."

"Don’t shoot the fact giver." He raises his hands in mock surrender, that infuriating grin widening.

"Fact giver?" I repeat, raising a brow. "I think you mean nuisance."

He laughs. "Well, this nuisance has an idea that Ronin probably won’t like, but we are going to do it anyway."

"What would that be?" I ask, my interest piqued.

"Those she-wolves were about to shift and rip you in half," he says, leading us towards a building. He nods to a few guards posted outside and holds the door open.

"Are you able to sense when one of your kind is about to shift?" I ask, cautiously stepping through.

"Did you see how they were shaking?" he replies, leading the way down a long corridor. The air smells stale and of earth. "When we are about to lose control of our wolf, we sometimes shake like that and shift."

"Lose control?" I glance at him. "I thought your wolf is a part of you?"

"It is, but the wolf can have a mind of its own," James says as we pass a few doors. He casts me a sidelong glance. "Especially when provoked."

"So I should watch out for shaking wolves," I say dryly.

"Exactly," he confirms, stopping in front of a door and wiggling his eyebrows. "Surprise."

I stare as he swings open the door to reveal rows of glinting steel and racks upon racks of deadly implements.

"You do not have a wolf," he states, grabbing a box from under one of the racks and lifting it onto a table. "But you do have skills with blades." He rests his hand on the box, turning to face me. "These are special blades, that is why they are kept in here. Blades really don’t do much to a werewolf, but these." He opens the lid. "Are made of silver."

At first, I'm speechless. The sight before me is like a feast after a famine. My fingers itch to hold the gleaming weapons. I glance back at James, trying to mask my growing excitement.

"You think this will even the odds if I am attacked?"

"I know it will," he replies. With an earnestness in his voice I’ve never heard before. "You need an edge." He nudges the box closer. "Literally."

I lift a dagger, its silver blade catches the dim light, it's almost weightless and perfectly balanced. It feels right in my hand, a familiarity that pulls at something deep inside me, something fierce.

"What would be Ronin’s problem with it?" I ask, gripping the blade.

"That he didn’t give them to you first," he laughs.

I manage a smirk, but James's words linger. Why would Ronin care that he didn’t give me these? Unless what James really meant was that Ronin wouldn't want me to have them. He had said silver was a weakness for their kind. Perhaps Ronin would be worried I would use them on someone. I would not, unless attacked first.

And… James is correct, as much as I hate to admit it. I do not have my wings, and that makes me vulnerable.

He watches as I fasten the blades in place with a belt, his gaze still amused. It’s strange how easy it feels with him, no layers to peel back. Unlike Ronin.

"Alright," he says, clapping his hands together. "Let's get you back. Just promise me you won’t stab me if my jokes get too annoying."

I let the slightest edge of a smile show. "No promises."

Chapter Nine

The walk back is quiet, save for the steady crunch of leaves beneath my boots and James's. I barely notice the path ahead, as my thoughts fixate on what James had said about mates. I’m not sure I’d been correct saying mates are a thing in my world, as I feel perhaps there’s a deeper meaning to the term.

I think of Gabriel, of our betrothal, and the years our families spent intertwining us. Our bond is one of duty, not emotion. That’s the way it has always been. But then there’s Celeste and Greyson... They are mates, and they seem to fit. I saw it when I first met them, and I’ve seen it each time after.

Greyson holds Celeste in high regard, as if her mere presence is enough to settle him.

When Ronin has business with The Alpha, I stay with Celeste. Before Greyson leaves, he always kisses her. His touch lingers as though parting physically pains him. What they have isn’t an obligation, it’s something else.

I swallow, unease curling in my stomach. Gabriel and I had been chosen for each other, our bond set since my birth. I'd always accepted it, never questioning or wondering if there was more to it. But now...

"Are mates a choice?" I ask. Thinking more to myself than asking an actual question.

James glances at me, his brows furrowing. "Yeah, it’s a choice." He smirks. "But it’s also not."

I frown. "That makes no sense."

He chuckles. "It’s a feeling. You’re drawn to them, like fate pulled you together. You can fight it, sure. Some do. But when it’s right? You just know."

Know…

I thought I’d always known. But have I? I’ve never wondered if there was something more to the bond with Gabriel than duty.

"And if it’s not right?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Then it’s not. Some people reject their mates, but it’s rare. It’s hard to let go of something fate chose for you."

My brows furrow as more questions begin to swirl in my mind. Fate…

"You’ve been asking a lot about mates," James says, interrupting my thoughts. "Are you trying to figure something out?"

"I thought I understood what a mate was… but perhaps I do not."

"Well, don’t focus too hard on it," he laughs. "Wouldn’t want you to get a headache."

"You are a headache," I murmur.

As we reach Ronin’s. James opens the door, and an uneasy tension washes over me.

Ronin is standing in the middle of the room, his presence dominating everything. His expression is thunderous as he looks at James. "What the hell do you think you’re doing, James?" his voice barrels across the room as soon as we step inside.

James remains unruffled. He slides his hands into his pockets. His eyebrow quirks like he’s amused. "Relax, Ronin. Amira just needed to get some air."

"Air?" he growls. "You're supposed to be watching her and keeping her out of trouble. Instead, you take her for air in the middle of the pack."

"Nothing happened," he says, shrugging. "She’s fine."

Heat rolls off Ronin like fire. "Nothing," he repeats. "What about Joy, Nina, and Cora?"

James smirks. "Ah, yeah. You should have seen that exchange. I’ve never seen someone get under their skin so fast."

Ronin moves toward James in a blur, his jaws tight, his fists clenched at his sides as they go nose to nose. His voice drops to a low, dangerous rumble. "You think this is funny?"

"She handled herself just fine," he replies, a slight edge to his voice. "You’re overreacting."

"You're overstepping," Ronin snarls. "Her wounds have only just healed, and you take her into the center of the pack without telling anyone. Have you lost your damn mind?"

Their anger crashes around me like a storm on the verge of breaking, and my patience begins to fray. "Enough!" I snap.

Ronin’s gaze flicks to me. His eyes darken as his lips pull tight. "What’s that?" I follow his gaze to the blades secured to my belt and lift my chin.

The corner of James’s mouth twitches. "Nice, aren’t they?"

"You gave her weapons!?" he demands.

"Like you said. She’s fully healed," James says. "And now she’s perfectly capable of protecting herself."

Ronin scoffs. "You think blades will protect her if someone attacks?"

I step forward, my voice cutting between them like a knife. "I can take care of myself, Ronin! I’m not fragile."

For a moment, silence wraps around us. His eyes are hard, searching mine. The tension is suffocating. "Get out," he growls, turning away from me, and his eyes lock on James.

"Gladly," James replies with a nod to me. "See you around, Amira." The door clicks shut softly behind him.

"Amira," Ronin says, his voice tight with an effort I don’t understand. "You can’t be serious about this."

"About what?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

The muscle in his jaw ticks. "You cannot fight a werewolf with blades. Sure, you can throw them, and they will slow them down, but they won’t do enough damage. Not unless you get really close."

"Then I’ll be sure to get close," I say, letting my words cut like a challenge.

His eyes flash. "That is suicide!"

"Rain down your condescending speeches, Ronin," I snap. "I am not trying to fight any of your pack members, but I will protect myself if provoked."

"Why must you be so damn stubborn?" he growls, stepping closer, but I stand my ground.

"Why must you act like I can't make my own choices?" I counter. "This isn’t about you." He flinches at my words, and for an instant, I see something raw flicker across his face.

"You think my wanting to keep you alive is selfish?" His voice is rougher now, like he's layering his anger over something else.

"I can keep myself alive," I counter, running my hand across one blade. The cool metal presses against my fingertips, grounding me. "I am not some damsel in distress. Believe it or not, I am a warrior first and foremost. Do you think I have simply sat and stared at the clouds while you and your wolves train? I see how you fight in both your flesh form and your fur."

"Watching and engaging are two separate things, Amira!" he snaps, his hands flexing into fists.

His eyes darken like a gathering storm. "What if those she-wolves had attacked today? Could those things," he jerks his chin toward my blades, "hold off three at once?"

"They didn’t attack," I point out, my fingers tightening around the hilt of one blade. "And they won’t."

"You can't know that!" He growls.

"I can and I do," I snap, my heart hammers in my throat. My fists clench at my sides, but I force my voice to stay steady. "They only approached me because they see me as a mate stealer. Once they realized I was of no threat, they left!"

He blinks, and for the first time since our argument began, he seems at a loss for words. "Mate stealer?"

"Do you have an interest in them?" I ask, raising my chin. Something inside me twists, sharp and unwelcome, but I shove it down, keeping my focus locked on Ronin.

His shoulders tense, his mouth presses into a tight line, but not before I catch the flicker of something, shock? "What?" he scoffs, but his voice isn’t as steady as before.

"They seem convinced you are," I continue, watching him carefully. "So, if you want them–"

"No." His word is sharp, almost guttural, and a strange mix of frustration and something else flashes across his face. His hands flex at his sides. "I don’t have an interest… Why would you ask that?"

The unexpected intensity of his response disrupts the angry rhythm between us. I exhale, then push forward. "James said they see me as a threat because of you guarding me. If you do have an… interest then–"

"I have no interest in any of them." The words snap between us, final and unyielding. His gaze is locked onto mine, but it’s unreadable. "What else did James tell you?"

"Does it matter?" I retort, crossing my arms over my chest. "Just make sure those she-wolves know that, then they will leave me be and I won’t be your burden."

"Burden?" Ronin’s laugh is sharp, almost bitter. He shakes his head, eyes darkening, as he takes a step closer. His presence is suffocating and consuming all at once. "Is that what you think?"

I hold my ground, refusing to let him cage me with his size and words. "Isn’t it? You said so yourself, until I have my wings, I am your responsibility."

"And you still do not have your wings, Princess."

His words hit like a slap, cold and cutting. Princess. It never used to bother me. But when he says it… it’s an insult. He thinks I’m a spoiled brat. But it’s not true.

My back tenses, my fingers dig into my palms. My wings will return. I tell myself that, again and again. But the truth, it hurts. It’s not just their absence, but the weight of what I am without them. Of what I will become if they never unfurl. No, I shove the dark thoughts aside. I will regain them. I will be who I am meant to be.

Ronin doesn’t know. He can’t know. No one can know that I will be queen. That this is my birthright, my burden to carry alone. His words may sting, but I can’t let him see that. I won’t.

I need space. Air. But I can’t find it in the sky like I always have. At least not now.

My jaw tightens. I turn on my heel, my feet carrying me toward the door and away from him. But I don’t make it far. A rough hand clamps around my forearm, yanking me back.

Anger floods through me. Before I can think, a blade is in my hand, the edge flashing as I twist toward him.

But he’s faster. His grip shifts, yanking me closer as he catches my wrist in an iron hold, stopping the blade mere inches from his skin. My pulse hammers, the space between us charges, crackling like thunder.

His voice drops to a murmur, but it’s not soft. It’s edged like steel. "You’re not the only one who’s been watching."

My breath catches. His eyes, dark, unreadable, are locked onto mine.

"Don’t act like you know me!" I snap.

His fingers tighten around my wrist. "Everything about you gives you away. Your stance. Your heartbeat. Your scent." His gaze drags over my face, unreadable but heavy. "You’re out of your depth, Princess."

Something twists low in my stomach, hot and unfamiliar. My body betrays me before I can shove it down. A strange flutter, something sharp, something hot ignites under my skin.

His nostrils flare, his grip tightening just slightly. Something primal flashes behind his gaze.

No, I shove the feeling away, refusing to let it take root. He doesn’t know me.

I grit my teeth, forcing my voice into something steady, something cold. "Let go."

The muscle in his jaw hardens, and the air between us thickens. His gaze flicks down to my mouth and back. For a heartbeat, I think he won’t.

But then, I’m released with a rough jerk, the sudden loss of his touch leaving my skin cold.

"You won’t be doing anything reckless," he says. Anger still simmers beneath the surface of his voice, but it’s laced with something else, something that makes my blood thrum in my veins.

I step back, forcing some distance between us. My pulse is a war drum in my ears. "I don’t need your protection."

"That," he says, his temper flaring. "Is not up to you."

I lift my chin. "Then I’ll leave."

The words hang between us, sharp and defiant. I can see the impact they have. He stills, his control raw and visible, holding him together like the thinnest facade.

His fingers flex at his sides, fists closing tight enough to tremble. "Not without your wings, you won’t."

"You think I need my wings to leave?" I challenge.

"Yes," he snaps, invading my space again. I can’t tell if the noise he makes is a growl or a laugh. It’s raw, filling the space between us with electric tension. "There is not a single place in this realm you can go that I won’t find you."

"Is that a threat!?" My voice is fierce, but inside, something like uncertainty wavers.

"No." His voice is low, almost a rumble. "It’s a promise."

I scoff, brushing past him. My feet carry me toward my room. I can feel his gaze burning into my back, but he doesn’t follow, and he doesn’t stop me this time.

The door slams behind me, the sharp crack echoing in the silence. I lean against it, pressing my spine against the cool wood. The only sound is the ragged rhythm of my breath.

A promise? My fingers curl into fists. I don’t want nor need any promise from him. I’m nothing to him, an obligation at best, dead weight at worst. Just until I get my wings back.

The markings across my back prickle like it’s aware of the feeling I won't name.

I shove away from the door, pacing the room like a caged thing. The walls close in around me, fragments of our argument ricochet in my mind, threats, promises, the word leave thrums like a pulse in my skull.

Why do his words affect me at all? I feel like I’m suffocating under the weight of them. What I need is air.

The window… I stride across the room, finding a narrow latch along one of the tall frames and push it open just enough for air to slip through. A gust rushes in, lifting my hair and clearing the stagnant tension. It smells of their strange trees and earth, untamed and wild.

I drink it in, filling my lungs with it until they burn. But it’s not enough. I pace, restless energy driving me round the confines of the room.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I step to the window. The cooling air presses against my skin, inviting me to escape the trap of this room and my own twisting thoughts. Something stirs beneath my skin, a whisper of what once was urging me forward, an echo of wings that long for the sky.

The drop isn’t far. I ease through the narrow opening, landing silently, knees bending to absorb the impact.

A thrill courses through me, part rebellion, part relief. I cast a glance back at the house. There’s no movement, no sign anyone noticed, or cared to stop my departure.

I reach over my shoulder, lightly tracing my fingertips over subtle raised marks that are my wings. How I wish they would have opened and lifted me into the sky.

I look up. The trees are too thick, and the sky is barely a sliver between their branches. The sky… the one place I’ve always been able to find my bearings. A hot need pulses within me, the need to be in the clouds, to touch the wind, to taste it.

Without thinking, I move. My body takes over, urging me away from the house.

The sounds of the forest are grounding, a reprieve from the constant barrage of noise and conflict. My steps are quick and sure, driven by a need I can’t quite name. The trees loom larger, closer, until they tower around me, and the house is nothing but a memory behind dense trunks and shadowed leaves.

I run my fingers over the markings again, tracing the broken feathers etched into my skin. With every step, I imagine them stretching out behind me. I try to picture how it would feel to lift from the ground, to leave this world behind. But the fantasy is heavy with yearning and loss.

My pace slows as I start up an incline. The trees begin to thin, and the sound of running water hits my ears.

The rush grows louder, more frantic, as if the water itself is eager to meet me. The ground turns rocky beneath my feet, the incline steepening. Still, I push forward, driven by an urge I don't understand.

I break through the last of the trees and find fast-moving water rushing over jagged rocks, its white foam glistening in the sunlight. Before it disappears over an edge.

The view opens wide before me, breathtakingly high. The water’s stream cascades below with a roar that drowns out everything else. I can see for miles, endless sky stretching far beyond this tiny world.

The edge calls to me. My feet carry me closer until there’s nothing but open air and infinite possibilities ahead.

I pause, closing my eyes. I breathe deep, savoring the cold wind whipping at my face. The sensation of being lighter than air fills me, even while my feet still rest on the cliff’s edge.

My arms stretch wide as I remember flying among the clouds, how I would soar as high as I could until the strain burned my wings. I’d fall back, letting gravity pull me to the world below.

The need to feel that, the weightless freedom only the clouds could bring, drives me to take another step forward.

I gasp as something hard slams into my back.

"Are you fucking crazy!?"

I blink, twisting, my eyes lock with Ronin’s. Then anger floods me.

"What do you think you’re doing?" he shouts, his grip on me is like steel as he hauls me back.

I shove against his hold. "I was fine," I snap, the fury clear in my voice.

He snarls, eyes flashing between green and gold. "You were going to jump! I knew you were reckless. And stubborn. But do you have a death wish!?"

"No," I shout, pushing harder against him, but he doesn’t budge. "You don’t know anything!" The words tear from me as I twist in his grasp, unwilling to let him see the turmoil inside. "Must I suffer your company every second!?"

"Clearly, you MUST!" he growls, deep vibrations rumble through his body into mine. "You’re out of my sight for mere minutes, and you try to walk off a cliff!"

I scoff. "I was not going to walk off a cliff!"

"Your FUCKING foot was in the air when I snatched you!" he roars.

"My wings, my wings would have caught me!" I shout, my voice trembling with a mixture of anger and frustration.

"Your wings aren’t here, Amira!" His words are hard.

I glare at him, feeling the sting of truth but unwilling to admit it. "It’s temporary!"

"Even if it is, you’re not invincible! You can’t just throw yourself into the wind and trust the world to catch you!" He shouts.

"Yes, I can," I yell back. "That’s exactly what I’ve always done, and it’s never failed me!"

"Until you slammed into the ground of my world!" he shoots back.

We stand, chests heaving, the wildness in his eyes clashing with my own. Anger rolls off him like heat from a fire, fierce and consuming.

For a moment, everything goes still. I see the flicker of something in his gaze, something raw, unspoken, and my heart stutters in my chest.

"Let go." My voice cracks, but I don’t know if it’s from the tension or something else.

His grip tightens on me, and for a heartbeat, I think he’s going to shake me again, but then his hand moves to my face, his thumb brushing along the edge of my jaw.

It’s a simple touch, but it sends a jolt through me, a spark that flickers in my veins.

He leans in, slow and deliberate, his breath warm against my lips. My pulse races, the anger between us melting into something more dangerous, something desperate. His lips hover just inches from mine.

"You’re so damn reckless," he whispers, his voice rough.

Before I can respond, his hands move fast, too fast. One moment, my feet are on the ground, and the next, I’m swung over his shoulder, face down, my breath knocked out of me by the sudden shift.

"Hey!" I shout, kicking my legs, trying to right myself. "Put me down!"

He ignores me, his stride unyielding as he storms down the hill, his back muscles taut with anger. "I’m taking you back before you get yourself killed."

"You’re insane!" I snap, pounding my fist against his back, but it’s futile. His grip is unrelenting, his pace steady.

"No," he growls, the word low and possessive, his body radiating heat as he keeps moving.

"Let me down, or I’ll stab you!" I twist in his hold, fumbling for one of my blades.

"With these?" He smirks, holding up my belt in his free hand. How had he–

I let out a frustrated scream, the sound lost in the rushing wind. "Ronin! Those aren’t yours! You can’t just–"

He laughs, low and infuriating. "Watch me."

The trees blur past us as he carries me effortlessly, like I weigh nothing. I’ve stopped struggling, letting my frustration build inside. He has to put me down at some point.

We reach his cabin, and he kicks the door open with more force than necessary. Inside, he sets me down so swiftly I stumble, struggling to find my footing on the hardwood.

I whirl on him, chest heaving, eyes blazing, my cheeks flushed with fury. "How dare you!"

"Yes, how dare I stop you from walking off a cliff!" He scoffs, tossing my blades onto the couch. "Obviously, I need to keep a closer eye on you."

"A closer eye!" I shout, my voice shaking with anger.

He crosses his arms, his body coiled with tension. "I tried to give you space, and you jumped out of your window, and then you tried to jump off a cliff. So, yes, Amira! I need to watch you closer. Which means you no longer get to have your own room."

I scoff. "What are you going to do, lock me in your closet?"

"Tempting," he says, stepping closer until we’re toe to toe and I can feel the heat rolling off him.

My breath catches. Just for a second. Not because of him, definitely not, but because of how close he is, how the space between us vanishes, how my body suddenly feels too aware. I force my spine to stiffen, masking the moment with a glare.

"We are going to share mine," he continues, his voice steady. "That way, you can’t sneak off again."

"Share your what?" I sputter, my brain stuttering at the implication. I hate how my voice falters, but I recover fast. "You can not be serious!"

"Dead serious," he growls.

Chapter Ten

"You look tired, Amira. Are you feeling alright?" Celeste asks as I take a seat next to her. "I heard what happened when you were out with James. Do you want me to set those she-wolves straight!? Because I will! I am a walking hormonal ball of fury. They should know better than to provoke me right now!"

I smile. "I am fine, I assure you. They did not ruffle my feathers, so to speak."

She narrows her eyes at me for a few minutes before letting out a breath. "Fine, but I will not have them upsetting you… Still, something is wrong. What is it?"

Where do I even start? Thoughts churn inside me, a cyclone of doubt and unrest. "Can we make other arrangements for me?" Her brows furrow, but I continue. "I understand that when I was found, I was injured, and you all had concerns about the pack members… However, I am healed now, and as you heard from James, I can handle myself… I don’t feel my staying with Ronin is necessary."

Celeste blinks at me, her expression shifting from surprise to concern. "Did something happen? I can have Grayson speak with him."

"No!" The word is out before I can stop it, sharper than I intended. Celeste’s eyes widen, but she waits, giving me space to explain.

I take a breath, but my thoughts flick back to the last few night, keeping me tangled in it.

Sleep has been impossible. Even with the entire bed to myself, I’ve spent each night staring at the ceiling while Ronin’s stretched out on the floor, his breathing deep and steady. He falls asleep too easily, like sharing a room with me doesn’t bother him at all, but I can’t. The whole space smelled like him, woodsy and warm, with something wilder beneath, something that made my skin prickle.

And it annoys me.

Annoys me that I notice. Annoys me that he’s so relaxed. Annoys me that he made me sleep in his room and his bed. I should be the one on the floor.

What’s worse is how his scent lingers on the blankets, how I can hear the quiet rise and fall of his breath. Steady, unbothered… while I lie there restless. I’ve shifted, turned, yanked the blanket over my head, even told myself it’s just proximity, nothing more. But no matter how I scold myself, no matter how I try to ignore the way my pulse reacts to his presence, sleep never comes.

Now, exhaustion clings to me like a second skin.

I shake off the memory, forcing myself to focus on Celeste, who is still watching me closely. "I don’t want to cause any problems," I say, keeping my tone even. "Ronin and I… we just don’t get along very well."

Celeste snorts, shifting to get comfortable. "Yeah, I figured that much. You two are like two wolves circling each other, all teeth and growls." She eyes me. "But something’s different this morning. What happened?"

"Nothing," I sigh. Responding too quickly.

Her gaze sharpens, and I immediately regret the slip. Celeste is many things. Kind, loyal, impossibly stubborn... but she is not blind. "Amira," she says, tilting her head. "Did he?" Her lips press together before she continues. "Did something more happen between the two of you?"

More? I shake my head. "No. I just didn’t sleep well."

Celeste hums, clearly unconvinced. "You’ve been staying there for a while now. But until now you’ve never looked tired? So, something’s changed."

I look away, my jaw tightening.

Her gaze flickers with something, understanding, amusement, maybe both. "If it’s not Ronin then is it something else then?”

I scowl. "Of course it’s him. I just told you that."

Celeste just grins.

"What?" I ask, staring at her.

She leans closer. "Amira, it’s okay if you’re..." She waves a hand, searching for the words. "Noticing things about him."

I scoff. "I notice how irritating he is."

"Mmm. Sure. That’s why you look like you spent the whole night arguing with yourself instead of sleeping." She laughs.

I stiffen, but keep my face neutral. She doesn’t push further, but the look she is giving me… I don’t care to dwell on where her thoughts are heading.

"Where is Oliver?" I ask, looking around the room. He's normally burst in by now.

"He has studying to do today," she smiles, shaking her head. "Trust me, he’d rather have been here with us, but Greyson has put his foot down. He’s so taken with you, he’s slacking on his other lessons."

"That is not good. I do not want to disrupt his learning. Perhaps I should-"

She waves her hand before I can finish. "No, no, don’t worry. He will get back on track. He needs to learn how to find balance. This is good for him, and he loves spending time with you. We both do."

I smile, caught off guard by the warmth spreading through my chest. It's an unfamiliar sense of belonging, and yet I cling to it. "Thank you, Celeste. After everything… I didn’t think things here would be so..." I trail off, searching for the right word.

"Hard?" she suggests gently.

"Normal," I correct, “though it’s still different.”

"I’m sure it is different being we are werewolves," she smiles. "But is it vastly different from your world? I feel kind of bad. I don’t know much about you personally. Only what you have told Oliver… you said you have family and friends, but you never speak of them… I don’t want to pry, I just…"

She hesitates, then continues softly, "I want you to know you can talk to me about anything."

Her sincerity warms me. The quiet part of my mind pushes to say more about my life, to open up as they have with me, sharing their world so freely. But…

Some things are best left unshared.

That I am meant to rule a kingdom beyond their skies. That someone betrayed me, cut my wings, and tried to erase me from existence to take that right. That my survival and the return to my realm is not an option, it has to happen.

In truth, I could share this but it would change nothing. They can’t help me find the one who did this. They can’t fight a war that isn’t theirs. And they certainly can’t follow me when I leave. Their world is one of earth and pack, of the bonds that tie them together. Mine has always been above the clouds, where the wind is both a guide and a weapon.

The sky is more than just home, it’s my sanctuary. My freedom. The place where I breathe without restraint. Up there, the world makes sense. The wind steadies my thoughts, the endless expanse quiets the chaos inside me, and the sun’s warmth reminds me that I belong. It’s not just where I am strongest, it’s where I am whole.

No, dragging them into my troubles would be selfish. They can’t help me, and when my wings return, I will leave.

It’s better this way. For them. For me.

But I can give her something. A piece of my world that doesn’t risk unraveling everything.

"There is someone," I say slowly, my voice quieter than I intend. "Talen."

Celeste perks up slightly, her expression shifting with quiet curiosity, like she’s just uncovered something important, but before she can say anything, I continue. "He is my second."

"Your second?" she repeats, leaning back into the couch. Though her curiosity remains.

I nod. "He's always fought by my side. We trained together, grew up together. If there was ever anyone I trusted to have my back, it was him." My throat tightens, the ache of his absence settles deep in my chest. "He probably thinks I’m dead."

Her expression softens. "I’m sure he is searching for you. I know I would, unless I had proof... then I’d never stop searching,"

"Perhaps," I say, giving her a small smile.

She squeezes my hand gently, not pressing for more, just offering quiet support. And somehow, it’s enough. This small, careful honesty that doesn’t give too much away but still lets her in.

This connection, while new, warms me with its tenderness yet unnerves me in equal measure. I’ve never developed a friendship this fast nor this easily, not even with Talen. While we grew up together and fought alongside one another, it took him many years to gain the level of openness I find myself wanting to offer.

And the wanting is what unnerves me.

Celeste’s expression morphs into something thoughtful. "Talen," she muses. "His name is interesting. Does he sport talons on his feet?"

Despite my inner thoughts, I chuckle. "What a ridiculous notion. Though he does wield a blade with grace."

"Is he as good as you are with your knives?" She motions to the blades strapped to my waist.

"He has never bested me in throwing knives. However, he has. A time or two, with our swords. Though I will deny it if you ever tell anyone," I smirk.

She laughs, faking a gasp. "I would never!"

"Well, what are you both gossiping about?" James asks, leaning against the doorframe.

"Amira is going to teach me to throw blades as well as she can, but don’t tell anyone." She fibs, winking at me.

James snorts. "Yeah, right, like I’m going to tell The Alpha that you want to toss around silver knives."

"Especially in your condition," I add. Her laughter comes out like music, while James eyes her with a lopsided grin.

"Ready to go trouble?" he asks, looking at me.

I raise a brow. "What did Ronin shove me off on you again? I’m surprised he’s allowing it since he threw you out of the house other day."

He shrugs. "It’s not the first time. But don’t worry, I’m just taking you to the training field. He left already."

A flare of irritation shoots through me, but I stuff it down as Celeste leans over to hug me. I’ve never been much for hugging. Most avians don’t, but touch seems to be a huge thing for werewolves, wanted or not… Ronin flashes in my mind, but I shove the thoughts aside.

"Make sure you don’t tease her too much today, James," Celeste teases, as I stand.

"No promises," he winks as we head out.

The late morning sun glares fiercely as we make our way down the front steps and the light mood I found myself having while with Celeste darkens with every step.

"What’s with you and Ronin?" James asks after a few minutes. "Did things go that bad after I left the other day? Because it seems like things have gotten even weirder between you two."

"It’s nothing," I lie. "He's just his usual insufferable self."

He snorts, side-eyeing me. "I imagine if you had your wings, your feathers would be standing on end. Like a wet chicken."

I whirl on him, about to skewer him with a remark, but a glint of mischief in his eyes halts me. Instead, I let out an exasperated sigh, refusing to give him the satisfaction. I turn back around and continue walking.

The truth is. Nothing more has happened between us. Except for my lack of sleep. We’ve barely spoken to each other. Yet my thoughts keep circling back. Back to the argument, to the anger. To the way he refuses to listen and then decides I sleep in his room, as if my choices don’t matter.

"You’re doing it again," James taunts.

"Doing what?" I snap.

"Sulking over something you won’t admit is bothering you." He’s too amused for my liking. His lips curl into that infuriating grin.

"I don’t sulk," I insist.

"Sure, chickadee," he laughs.

"Call me that again and I’ll-"

"Whoa!" he interrupts, dodging as I swing at him. "That just proves my point. You are really touchy today."

I huff and pick up the pace, knowing I’m only feeding his amusement. The field comes into view, but I hesitate when I spot Ronin. He’s standing at the far end with his arms crossed, his gaze like steel. With a cluster of pack members.

The air between us, even from this far, feels charged, like a storm about to break.

"Looks like someone is just as broody as you are," James remarks.

I almost growl as I move toward the bench. I don’t always sit here, but right now I am not in the mood to walk around the edges and watch everyone engaging in combat.

"Ok," James says, sitting next to me. "I’m not going to leave you alone until you tell me what’s wrong."

I clench my jaw, staring hard across the training grounds.

He sighs, following my gaze. One that I quickly shift away from Ronin. "It’s like watching a bad soap opera," he mumbles.

"What is a soap opera?" I ask, hoping to change the subject.

He scratches his chin, shifting his attention to the training field. The pack begins dividing into pairs, commencing their sparring matches. "The drama between you and Ronin… It’s like watching a bad show, and it is becoming a little predictable. For one, you two can’t keep your hands off each other."

"Maybe you should tell Ronin to keep his hands to himself," I snap, glaring at him.

"Sure… or maybe you should try not to stab him," he chuckles. "Or walk off a cliff."

I stiffen. What else had Ronin said to him? Seems odd. From what I’ve seen, Ronin only tells James what he has to, mostly pack protocols or just enough to keep me out of trouble... Which, now that I think about it, is probably why he told him I tried to walk off a cliff. I narrow my eyes. "I did not try to walk off a cliff. And I would not have tried to stab him had he not grabbed me in the first place."

James raises his hands. "No judgment here. I get it."

"How could you possibly get it?" I shake my head, watching the sparring sessions ramp up. Growls and yelps fill the air, but my focus keeps veering back to Ronin.

"So is that why you snuck off?" he asks, leaning back on the bench. "So you wouldn’t stab him."

I sigh. "I did not sneak. And if you really must know, I needed some real fresh air. Height. Quiet. Space. I do not need to be treated like one of your pups."

“Quiet and space,” he muses. “Then this really has more to it then him not wanting you to have your knives?" He glances at my belt. "But I see you won that part of the argument. You still have them."

"Yes," I say, gritting my teeth. "That part."

He pushes off the bench and gestures toward the far side of the field where they train in their wolves form. "Ok, get up. We are going to let all that steam out before you explode."

I raise a brow.

"Look," he says, crossing his arms. "If you want Ronin to stop treating you like a pup, then show him that you can do more than throw knives."

I’m about to retort when he adds. "Unless you’re scared."

That does it. I stand, matching his pace as we cross the field. He detours for a moment, rushing over to the weapons rack and returning with two blades.

"What are we both going to spar with weapons?" I ask, raising a brow.

He laughs. "Nope, that would prove nothing. We’ve all seen how good you are at throwing, and honestly, I’m not good with swords. So, I’m going to shift and you're going to use these. My wolf isn’t weak, but I don’t exactly want to get stabbed by one of those silver ones you have. It hurts like a bitch, and it’ll take forever for my fur to grow back."

Around us, wolves continue to dodge and tackle, their movements a blur of fur and muscle. A few onlookers divert their attention to us, curiosity sparking in their eyes as we reach the other end of the field.

James tosses me the blades, and I catch them with ease.

"And don’t worry, I won’t take it easy on you," he grins, backing away a few steps. "Ready?"

I scoff, twirling the swords in my hands. "You sound pretty confident for someone about to get their ass kicked."

He smirks. "We’ll see." Then, without another word, he starts to strip.

I quickly avert my eyes, forcing my gaze to the weapons in my hands. I’ve gotten used to the werewolves’ lack of modesty, but I still make it a point not to stare. The air shifts, growing charged as he prepares to shift.

The first sound is the sharp crack of bones realigning. My grip tightens on the hilts as I glance up. It happens in a blink, his body contorts. His muscles ripple, expanding and reshaping as russet-colored fur bursts along his skin. A deep, guttural snarl rolls from his throat as his face elongates into a muzzle. His hands twist, fingers fusing into powerful paws tipped with dark claws that dig into the dirt.

The transformation is both mesmerizing and unsettling. The sheer force of it hums in the air, pressing against my skin like a static charge.

Where James once stood, a massive wolf now looms before me. He’s easily twice my size in this form, his golden eyes sharp and calculating. The way his hackles bristle sends a primal warning through my bones, a reminder that, for all their camaraderie in human form, these wolves are predators at their core.

My stomach tightens. Not with fear, but with anticipation.

I shift my stance, bending my knees slightly, testing the weight of the blades in my grasp. I should feel at a disadvantage without my wings. James is stronger, faster, and built for battle in this form. But I’ve fought bigger opponents before. I know how to use speed, how to dodge, how to strike before my enemy even sees it coming.

James lets out a low, rumbling growl and starts circling. The crowd gathering at the edges of the field murmurs, the anticipation crackling between them like a storm ready to break.

I exhale slowly, steadying my heartbeat. Then, lifting my chin, I tighten my hold and smirk. Let’s see what you’ve got, wolf."

The words have barely left my mouth before James lunges. A blur of russet fur and snapping fangs closes the distance in a heartbeat. I throw myself sideways, barely dodging the rush of muscle and heat as he barrels past. The sheer force of his movement stirs the air, ruffling my hair.

He twists mid-leap, landing smoothly on all fours, claws digging into the dirt as he pivots to face me again. His golden eyes gleam with challenge.

I barely have time to breathe before he charges again. My pulse kicks into high gear. I move without thinking, my muscles reacting on instinct. At the last second, I dart forward, diving into a tight roll beneath his snapping jaws.

The scent of earth and wild fur floods my senses as I tumble. The world spins before I pop up behind him. I don’t hesitate... I drive my elbow into his flank with all my strength. A surprised yelp bursts from his throat, and the crowd lets out a collective gasp.

I smirk, spinning away, my chest rising and falling in exhilaration.

James recovers in an instant, shaking himself. When he turns back to me, there’s something different in his posture. His ears flick forward, his tail stiff with new intent. He’s reassessing.

Another growl rumbles through him, this one laced with amusement. Then he moves faster than before.

I barely dodge him this time, the snap of his jaws slicing through the air just inches from my ribs. Heat prickles along my skin, my heart pounding as I twist away.

The pack is fully invested now. Their shouts and gasps swell around us, mingling with the rhythmic pound of paws and feet against the packed dirt. Energy crackles in the air, thick with anticipation.

James paces, studying me. I match his stare, my grip tightening on the blades. I’ve seen the wolves spar enough to know how this works. Pin your opponent and go for the throat.

I might not have teeth, but I have steel.

I feint left, then right, guiding him into a predictable rhythm. As I move, I toss one of my weapons into the ground. Sunlight catches the metal, making it gleam. James’s ear twitches in irritation.

He leaps straight at me. He took the bait.

This time, I don’t dodge. I stand firm, my pulse hammering in my ears, waiting... waiting. Then, at the last possible moment, I sidestep and grab onto his scruff.

With all the power in my legs, I spring, the momentum carrying me onto his back.

A roar erupts from the crowd watching.

James bucks hard, his muscles rolling beneath me. I drop my sword as we tumble. Once, twice, but I move with him, my arm hooking around his shoulder. My free hand scrabbles for the blade I’d impaled into the earth.

My fingers brush metal. I seize the hilt and drive it up, pressing the flat edge to his throat.

Silence crashes over the field.

James stiffens beneath me, his panting loud in the hush. My chest heaves, sweat dampening my skin, my heartbeat a relentless drum.

A growl shakes through both of us. As I lean close to his ear. "Yield."

His body goes rigid, and for a moment, I think he’s going to try to throw me off and attack again. The crowd holds its breath, every eye boring into us.

Then, slowly, his body relaxes. He huffs and nods.

A fierce exhilaration surges through me, like a fire burning in my veins. I release him and roll to my feet in one smooth motion. The moment my boots touch the ground, the pack erupts, cheers, howls, and voices rise in a symphony of excitement.

James shakes out his fur, his russet coat gleaming in the sun. He lets out a sharp yip, his tongue rolling out in what can only be described as a lopsided, wolfish grin. His playful woof carries over the noise, and despite myself, I grin back.

Beyond him, I catch sight of Nina and Cora. Their eyes lock onto me.

A deep, guttural snarl shreds through the celebration behind me. I barely have time to react before a wolf explodes from the crowd, charging straight at me. Their fangs bared. Eyes wild with fury.

The attack is pure instinct and rage. There is no hesitation. No warning.

Adrenaline slams into me like a tidal wave. I dive, heart hammering, feeling the rush of air as the wolf soars past where I’d stood a second ago.

The ground is rough beneath my palms as I tuck into a roll, twisting onto my feet just in time to see the wolf skid and slam into James. Sending him tumbling into the crowd as they right themselves, snarl, and lunge for me again.

I don’t think... I react.

Pulling a dagger from my belt, I aim and- A massive black blur flashes between us.

The impact is like thunder, a brutal collision of muscle and fury. They hit the ground in a violent tumble, teeth flashing, claws raking. Snarls rip through the air, deep and savage. The earth trembles beneath them as the black wolf pins the blonde with sheer, unyielding force.

My breath catches. Ronin?

His presence is a force of nature, towering over the other, a growl vibrating deep in his chest like an earthquake waiting to break. The blonde wolf lets out a sharp, pitiful whimper before shifting, their trembling from twisting back into human shape beneath him. Joy.

She gasps, her wide eyes darting between the crowd and the furious wolf looming over her.

"Beta Ronin," she stammers, blinking up at him, a mix of fear and defiance in her gaze. "She was, she was attacking James. I was just–"

Her words choke off as his jaws snap a breath away from her throat.

A deadly silence falls over the field. Every wolf, every shifter in the crowd watches, waiting, unmoving. The energy is suffocating, thick with anticipation. But Ronin doesn’t move. His massive frame is rigid, every muscle taut, vibrating with barely contained rage. His snarling breath is hot against her skin, his teeth still bared.

"Ronin!"

The sharpness in my voice cuts through the air, but he doesn’t look at me. His focus remains locked on Joy, a silent war raging in the depths of his golden eyes.

I don’t know what I’m doing... I only know that my feet close the distance in a few strides, my pulse slamming against my ribs. Before I can second-guess myself, I reach out. My fingers brush his fur. Heat surges through me like a live wire, crackling up my arm, curling in my chest. It’s not just warmth, it’s something more.

"Ronin," I whisper.

His ears twitch, flicking back. His snarl falters. With deliberate slowness, he steps back.

Joy scrambles away, her anger and fear twisting her features as she stumbles to her feet. She hesitates for a moment, then bolts.

I watch her vanish with Nina and Cora trailing close behind.

The pack stands frozen, eyes shifting from Ronin to me, lingering in the tense aftermath of what just happened.

Then, one by one, they start to disperse.

I take a slow step back, looking around, exhaling a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

When I turn back, he’s standing there, no longer in his wolf form. But human. A muscle ticks along his jaw, his eyes burning like fire, fixate on me. Without a word, he turns, storming across the field.

Chapter Eleven

The training field hums with the familiar rhythm, feet shifting against packed dirt, the sharp clash of wolves, teeth, snarls, and steel ringing through the crisp morning air.

James circles me, grinning. His eyes gleam with challenge. He twirls his blade in a lazy spin, the motion effortless.

"Come on," I shout. "I thought you liked a challenge."

He rolls his shoulders, tightening his grip on his weapon. "I do. But I’d also like to keep my limbs."

Laughter ripples through the pack members, watching from the sidelines as I lunge, my blade flashing. James counters, our weapons colliding in a sharp, satisfying clang. He's learning fast. We move in sync, the rhythm of training thrumming between us, each strike pushing harder, faster. My muscles burn, but it’s a familiar fire, the rush of combat, the thrill of victory waiting just beyond the next blow.

Then something shifts.

The ground beneath my boots softens, darkens. My next step lands in something that isn't dirt. Ash?

I freeze. My breath turns to ice in my chest as I look down.

The training field is gone. The Earth is nothing but a vast, crumbling expanse of blackened ruin. The wind kicks up, and with it, the scent of something pungent and wrong. My heart slams against my ribs as I lift my gaze.

The warriors, the pack, stand frozen in place, but they are not whole. Their bodies are cracked, splitting like old stone. Veins of glowing embers run beneath their skin. The wind rises again, and one by one, they disintegrate, drifting away in the breeze.

Pain, searing, blinding pain, rips through my back.

I drop to my knees, my hands dig into the scorched ground. The agony spreads through me like wildfire, igniting every nerve, every inch of flesh. My vision blurs, tunneling as heat consumes me from the inside out.

A voice echoes through the void, low and familiar, whispering my name.

Then everything erupts into flames.

I gasp, my eyes snap open, but the pain doesn’t fade. It sharpens. A jagged, searing heat tears through my back, my bones, my blood. I’m still burning. My body writhes beneath the invisible fire, my muscles locking, spasming so violently that my stomach churns.

Gasping, I claw at my throat, my fingers tremble. My skin is slick with sweat, the heat unbearable, and I feel like I’m suffocating beneath it. I don’t know where I am, if I’m awake or still trapped in the nightmare, but the pain consuming me is all too real.

Something strong clamps around my wrists, yanking them away from my throat. The pressure is unrelenting, firm. But it doesn't hold my focus. Instead, it shifts to my back.

My back, gods, my back! It feels like it’s splitting wide open, molten lava pours along my spine. I arch, twisting, desperate for anything, anything, to stop the agony tearing me apart. But the second I try to roll away, something else seizes me. A grip, solid, unyielding, pins me down.

No, I can’t take it. I can’t!

I shove blindly, my arms weak but frantic. "Let go!" My voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Something soothing presses against my bare skin. It doesn’t stop the burning completely, but it dulls it. Lessening the agony just enough for me to draw in a breath.

I turn toward it, toward the relief, my body moving on its own. It feels solid, grounding, like something I can cling to. But then, the pain claws its way back, sharp and insistent, threatening to swallow the comfort whole.

My back is going to split apart... I know it, I can feel it. My wings are they burning away beneath my skin? Is that what this is? Have they been trapped so long that now they’re searing into me permanently?

Without thinking, I press closer to what brought relief.

A sob claws up my throat as my hands shoot forward, latching onto something solid. My nails bite into firm muscle, holding on for dear life as my body shakes violently.

"Shit, you’re burning up." A voice, close, rough, and familiar, echoes in my ears.

No shit! I want to scream, but the pain is too much. The hands holding me cool where they touch, but not enough. My lashes flutter, my vision swims as my gaze locks onto a sea of green.

I blink, disoriented, breathless. "R-Ronin?"

His grip tightens around me. No, he shouldn’t be holding me. I push against his chest, but the action shoots an even hotter wave along my spine. My vision swims, my heart pounds like a drum against my ribs. Unable to take it, my voice breaks. "It hurts."

A low growl vibrates through me as he hauls me up against him.

The world spins as I’m lifted. It narrows like a tunnel collapsing inward. He moves fast, clutching me against him.

I hear the sound of splintered wood and then…

An icy rush hits me, knocking the breath from my lungs. Bone-chilling cold crackles across my fevered skin, a shockwave that pushes back against the burn, dousing it momentarily with its freezing intensity.

I realize that Ronin has flung us under the spray of the shower, fully clothed. Slowly, he lowers me to my feet. The water cascades over us, flattening my hair against my skull, turning the world into numbing noise and shivers.

His hands find the back of my shirt, ripping through the fabric with effortless force.

The water hits my bare skin like knives. I scream, arching against him. My senses are in overdrive as the front of my body hums with his warmth. While my back ignites and cools all at once.

Steam fills the shower despite the freezing water. My teeth chatter as I gasp, desperate for air, for relief.

"Breathe," Ronin demands. His voice is hoarse in my ear, half-drowned by the water, half by the fire still licking across my skin.

The blaze hisses against the icy spray. The tattoo-like markings on my back throb as if they are alive. My screams twist into a gasping cry as the pain dulls and becomes bearable for a heartbeat, then flares white-hot again.

Tears stream down my cheeks, and every ounce of strength crumbles within me. I sag against Ronin, and my legs buckle.

His grip tightens around me, holding my hips. He lifts me against him, and I wrap my legs around his waist, trying to pull the soothing warmth from his front into my back.

I shouldn't be holding onto him like this. Shouldn't be pressing closer. But the closeness calms the chaos burning through me, more than the water ever could. My fingers clench, my nails dig into his shoulders as if he's the only thing keeping me from shattering apart.

"Amira," he growls

He pulls me closer. The shift grinds me against him, and a jolt of sensation rips through me, pain woven with something electric and dangerous.

A moan escapes my lips. I can feel the rumble of his growl vibrating between us, primal and raw.

The molten lava shoots through me again. It consumes everything, even the air in my lungs. I can't think straight, can't get close enough to him. Why does he seem to be the only thing to soothe the inferno that is alive beneath my skin?

His lips brush close to my ear. He says something, but I don't know what. I don't care, I just want it to stop.

I moan as I feel his lips brush against my jaw.

His mouth is gentle, almost hesitant, yet it sends a shiver through me, awakening every nerve as it momentarily dulls the fire licking up my spine, pooling it between my thighs. But the relief is fleeting. As soon as he pulls away, the agony re-surges, twisting into something sharper, hotter. He finds my skin again, and my chin tilts of its own accord.

The thought of pushing him away flickers, then drowns beneath the relentless burn and dizzying need. I can't. I clutch him tighter, helpless, aching.

This is madness.

My mind spins as his teeth scrape softly along my jaw, along my neck. My legs lock tightly around him, my fingers lacing into his hair as he moves lower.

"Don't-" I pant, unsure whether I'm pleading with him to stop or keep going.

He tenses against me, his fingers flexing as they grip my ass, locking me firmly against him. His breath is ragged, hot against my skin.

I pull him closer, raking my fingers through his hair.

My core clenches as he growls. His tongue licks a reckless path up my neck.

My breath hitches, desperation, desire, dizzying heat. Everything inside me screams for more. It's wild and terrifying. His mouth continues across my skin, branding every part it touches. Nothing else exists. Nothing else matters.

He tears his lips away, pulling back just enough to search my eyes. The fierceness there leaves me dizzy and burning. A mixture of green and gold, like he has his own fire burning deep beneath his skin.

Words hang unspoken between us, words I can't grasp over the roaring pain.

Fury, resentment, yes, they’re still there. But something else seeps between them, thick, raw, and unshakable.

I yank him closer, crashing my lips against his. The kiss is wild, unrestrained, anger and hunger tangled together. He meets it with equal fervor. A growl vibrates through me, feeding something fierce and uncontrollable. The freezing water is forgotten, useless against the surge consuming me, except where he touches. Where his heat drowns out everything else.

My mind dissolves under it, drowns in it. Narrowing down to Ronin, only Ronin.

His mouth breaks away, trailing down my jaw again, to the hollow of my throat. The vibrations from his chest are a seismic wave shooting straight through my core. It sweeps through my limbs, relentless and consuming.

It’s too much, and not enough. My body vibrates between extremes. I twist against him, a plea in every movement.

"Ronin," My voice is barely a whisper, barely a thought.

Then his lips are gone. And the relief vanishes with them. The loss is sharp, almost violent. The world lurches, my head spins as everything turns into a suffocating blur of ice and fire, of agony and absence. The roaring in my ears drowns out everything. His breath, the water, even my own heartbeat.

My fingers dig into his shoulders, but my strength is slipping, draining from me like sand through my fingertips.

"I–" The word catches in my throat. My grip falters.

A strange weightlessness takes hold. I feel like my body is no longer my own. The fire flickers, the pain fades to a distant hum…

"Amira!"

Then, nothing… darkness.

~~~~

Warmth. Deep, steady warmth wraps around me like a cocoon.

I drift on the edge of consciousness, caught between the pull of sleep and wakefulness. My limbs are heavy, my mind sluggish. Everything feels distant, muffled, like I’m floating just beneath the surface of a dream.

Was I still dreaming?

The fire, the ice, the way my body shattered apart and melted back together again... I can’t tell what was real and what wasn’t. My lashes flutter, but I don’t open my eyes yet. I don’t want to. The softness beneath me is too inviting, too safe.

A slow inhale, a deep exhale… But it’s not mine.

The realization seeps in slowly, like water through cracks in stone. The steady rise and fall of breath presses against my back, perfectly in sync with my own. A firm, solid body molds to mine. A heavy arm draped around my waist, holding me in place.

My heart stutters. The pressure against my back shifts slightly. His fingertips brush lightly against my ribs. The warmth of his chest presses against me, sending a rush of heat through me. There’s no barrier, no fabric between us, and the heat that radiates from him is like a furnace, enveloping me completely.

I know who it is before I even dare to move… Ronin.

His name is like a lightning bolt through the fog in my mind. My body goes rigid, my breath catching in my throat. But he doesn’t stir. His breathing stays deep, even, as if he’s asleep.

As if holding me against him like this is natural. As if he belongs here.

The thought ignites a spark of anger, followed quickly by something darker, something I don’t want to acknowledge. I suppress it, forcing myself to focus, to ignore the heat pooling low in my stomach, and the way his scent lingers in the air, wrapping around me like a trap I can’t escape. I can't stay like this!

With a sharp breath, I shift, trying to pull away from him. But the pain is immediate. It slices through my back, sharp and brutal. I choke on the air, my teeth grit together as I fight against the burn that spreads through me, consuming everything in its wake.

The world wavers, and then, just as suddenly, I’m yanked back.

Ronin’s arm pulls me hard against him, his body pressing my back into his chest. The relief is instant, like a cold wind rushing over searing skin, enough to almost erase my thoughts entirely.

"Easy, Princess," he mutters, his voice low and rough against my ear. "You’ll hurt yourself."

Heat rushes to my cheeks. My anger mixes with embarrassment. I jerk, trying to escape, but his hold tightens.

"Amira." His voice rumbles low, vibrating through his chest and into my spine. "You need to stay still."

"I need you to let go," I demand, but it comes out breathless. More plea than command.

"Not happening." He shifts, pressing us even closer. "This isn’t optional, unless you want the pain to get worse."

"Where are my clothes?" I ask, my voice tinged with frustration.

His chest vibrates with something dangerously close to a laugh. "Relax, Princess. You're only missing your shirt. The heat’s coming from the markings on your back. This is the only thing that helps."

"I don’t need your help," I sneer, trying to pull away again, but the heat flares across my skin, and I freeze. My mind races. He’s right, but how does he know that?

"Really?" His voice is low, dangerous, as he leans closer to my ear. "Because earlier, you passed out. Or did you forget that part?"

"I’m not doing this," I seethe, wishing my voice didn’t tremble.

"Looks like you are," he says, infuriatingly calm.

His hand slides up my side, fingers grazing the markings of my wings. The contact should grate me, but instead, it sends a shock through me that’s anything but painful. I suck in a breath, unable to stop the reaction.

"You’re enjoying this," I grit out, my frustration boiling over. "Treating me like some helpless–”

"I never said you were helpless." The edge in his voice slices the air, the words sharp like a blade. "Stubborn? Now, that’s another story."

I twist away again, desperation flaring hotter than the burn across my back, and almost cry out as pain lashes through me like a whip.

"Stay still," he growls. His voice is firm, like steel. "I won’t let you hurt yourself."

"Let me?" I laugh, but there is no actual humor in it.

Before I can continue, he shifts, bringing a hand to cup the back of my head. His fingers lace into my hair, and he yanks my face towards his. The world narrows to the molten gold and green of his eyes. The intensity makes it hard to breathe.

"You think I want this?" His voice is raw, a low rumble. His breath is warm against my lips, his grip relentless. "Try again, Princess."

My heart stutters in my chest as his other hand clutches my waist. The hold should make me furious, but instead, heat pools in my stomach, and his nostrils flare.

I suck in a sharp breath, willing myself to ignore the way my pulse races, the way his heat seeps into my skin. His grip tightens slightly, enough to remind me that he’s in control here. Enough to remind me that I should hate it. I do hate it.

His lips twitch, and I don’t miss the way his eyes darken. "I can smell the truth." His voice is a wicked rasp. "Deny it all you want."

The words hit me harder than they should. My stomach clenches. Heat floods through me, unwanted and undeniable. Damn him. I jerk my head back, or I try to. His fingers tighten in my hair, keeping me locked in place. My breath hitches.

"Scent doesn’t lie," he murmurs, his mouth so close that I can feel the shape of his words against my lips.

I don’t answer. I can’t. Because if I speak... he’ll hear the truth.

He lets go of my hip, his fingers trail the bare skin just beneath my ribs, and a shudder racks through me. Betrayal. My own body is betraying me!

He makes a low sound of satisfaction as he leans in, his nose grazing my jaw as he inhales deeply.

I press my palm against his chest, meaning to shove him away, but instead it lingers where it shouldn’t. Beneath my fingertips, his muscles ripple with every breath he takes. His heart hammers against my palm, an urgent beat that matches my own.

"Fight all you want, but don’t expect me to be gentle when you do."

His words are a challenge, a dangerous promise. The air between us shifts, thick, heavy, charged. Neither of us is willing to back down.

I grit my teeth, fighting the fire racing through my veins, refusing to crumble beneath his hold. But it feels relentless. His heat surrounds me, suffocating. I need space. Need to break free. I don’t care if it hurts... I’ll make him let go. Ignoring the pain trying to consume me, I drive forward, doing the only thing I can think of. Sink my teeth into his shoulder.

His sharp intake of breath is gratifying. I want to feel him tense, to hear him react, to remind him that this is still a fight he hasn’t won. But before I can relish in victory, his hands are on my hips, flipping me onto my back with infuriating ease.

I gasp. The sudden shift leaves me dizzy, and my pulse hammering in my ears. The heat of his skin sears into me as the hard muscles of his torso press me into the mattress. The sensation sends a jolt of awareness straight through me, tightening every nerve in my body.

He cages me in, his eyes glowing bright gold, showing me the wolf just beneath the surface. For a moment, we’re frozen like that, our breaths mingling in the heavy silence, my chest rising and falling against his, the heat of our bodies blending together.

"Watch yourself, Princess. I bite back." His voice is rough, the edges softening into something like laughter.

Fury and desire fight for control inside me, a storm I can’t seem to calm. "You’re a bastard," I spit, my voice weak, breathless, but the words are still sharp.

He glances at his shoulder, raising a brow. "That might bruise."

I lift my chin. "I hope it does."

A dangerous glint dances in his gaze, and his lips twitch into something that is definitely not amusement.

Before I can react, he moves, gripping my jaw firmly but with a strangely gentle pressure and forces me to meet his gaze.

He dips his head, his lips almost touching mine. "Fair is fair, Princess."

My eyes widen as his mouth moves to the curve of my neck, his teeth graze my skin in a teasing nip, followed by a slow, deliberate suck. My breath catches in my throat, my heart stuttering. It’s intoxicating, maddening, and I hate how much I want him to continue.

He moves to the tender spot between my neck and shoulder. He sucks gently, making my back arch and a shudder ripple through me. His mouth is hot, his touch possessive, a silent reminder of his dominance. Another nip makes my pulse jump and sends lightning down my spine.

The pulse at my throat pounds in time with the ache building between my thighs. My hands tremble as I thread my fingers into his hair, desperate to push him away, but instead I hold on. I’m not in control. I know it, and so does he.

A breathless whimper betrays me as I arch against him, my body speaking the truth my pride won’t let me admit.

His hands tighten at my hips, pinning me beneath him as he grinds against me. A gasp rips from my lips as a different kind of heat crashes through me, pooling low and fierce. There’s nothing between us but layers of our pants, but it’s not enough. It will never be enough.

The thought is dangerous. And yet, it takes root, refusing to be ignored.

Ronin’s breath is hot against my ear, his growl a dark promise that vibrates through my chest. I shudder, every nerve in my body aching for more, despite the warnings screaming in my head.

But those warnings are drowned out by the fire beneath my skin, not the painful fire but by the unbearable one now thrumming through my veins and between my thighs.

His hips roll against mine in a slow, deliberate grind, and a strangled whimper escapes me before I can stop it. His lips find my neck again, latching onto the tender spot between my shoulder and throat. His tongue flicks over the sensitive skin, soothing where his teeth just nipped. Another slow suck, another teasing drag of his lips, and the pressure inside me coils even tighter, stealing the breath from my lungs.

I don’t know what’s happening to me. I should be fighting this. I should be pushing him away. But instead, my fingers dig into his shoulders, holding on, my body betraying me in ways I don’t understand.

A deep, rumbling sound vibrates through his chest, something rougher than a growl, almost like satisfaction. But there’s something else beneath it, something unrestrained, something wild. His muscles tremble beneath my touch.

His breathing grows heavier, rougher, his body coils as if on the edge of something dangerous. His grip tightens almost painfully on my hips, his thumbs pressing bruises into my skin.

Then, just as suddenly, he wrenches himself back.

The sudden absence is like a bucket of ice water, and before I can stop it, a sharp, pulsing pain sinks its claws into me. A broken sound catches in my throat as I twist onto my side.

"Fuck," he curses under his breath. Strong hands wrap around me again, dragging my back against his chest before I can fall apart completely.

He shifts, adjusting me against him as his fingers slide up to brush my hair off my neck. His lips brush over my pulse, soothing, grounding, and I moan, helpless, as relief crashes through me like a wave.

I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’ve never been touched like this before, never let anyone get this close. My skin is hypersensitive, every nerve alive. My mind screams to pull away, but my body betrays me, leaning into him, craving his touch like it’s the only thing keeping me together.

He shifts against me again, sliding his hand along my waistband.

I stiffen.

"Relax," he growls in my ear, his voice rough, strained. "It’ll help. Trust me."

Before I can process what he means, his hand slips beneath the waistband of my pants.

Heat detonates through me, raw and blinding. I suck in a sharp breath as his fingers find exactly where the ache lives, and I shatter, just a little.

I cry out, my head falling back against his shoulder. My mind goes blank as my entire world narrows to the press of his hand and the sound of his ragged breathing.

This shouldn’t be happening.

I don’t want this.

I do.

I hate him.

I need him.

Every nerve in my body is a live wire. He groans low in my ear. The sound dragging me further under as his fingers move, caressing and slow and relentless.

They rub in a circle before sliding them between my folds and back.

I gasp and arch against him, my body a traitor. Everything is too much, hot, terrifying, dizzying. I can’t find where it begins or ends.

It’s unbearable.

It’s exquisite.

I need him to stop.

Gods, please don’t.

I’m losing control, I can feel it slipping away. He holds me tighter, his other hand coming up to grip my neck and jaw as he holds my head against his shoulder. I can feel him against my back, every inch of him hard and alive and straining.

"Stop fighting it," he rumbles in my ear.

A sob catches in my throat, half agony, half frustration. I don’t even know what I’m fighting. The pain, the heat, the pleasure. It's all blurring together. I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Electricity rakes through me with every touch, every breath. It’s too much. "Stop."

"Not yet, Princess," he refuses, his voice rough with promise as his fingers slide lower, circling where I ache most.

My senses explode. I didn’t know anything could feel like this, like dying, like waking up for the first time. I twist against him, my body burning with every reckless motion.

"Ronin!" I choke out his name, a plea or a curse or both.

His breathing stutters, and his forehead drops briefly against my shoulder. "Damn it, Amira," he mutters. His palm presses firmer, his fingers moving in a maddening rhythm. "Give in."

The tension coils tighter with every movement, the ache deepening until I’m shaking from it. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. A fierce pressure builds where his fingers torment me and rolls outward like a dam about to burst.

"Yes," he growls, his pace quickening. He nips my neck, and I shatter.

My back bows, and I scream. My vision goes white, every cell in my body vibrates with the force of it, searing through me.

His other hand slides from my throat to cup my breast, tightening there with the same relentless pressure. He pinches my nipple, and I convulse beneath him, a second wave so powerful that I feel him shudder in response.

I scrape at his arm, trying to hold on to something real as the world dissolves in an electric storm of sensation.

"Again," he growls in my ear, sounding almost feral. He moves with wicked precision, relentless, consuming. I thrash against him, my cries ragged, disbelief and surrender tangle together.

I’m burning again, but it's not painful. It builds higher. Building and building until it has nowhere to go but over. I moan, trembling, and arching into his touch, craving every delicious torment as he drives me over the edge once more. I fly apart, coming back together in pieces that don’t fit the way they used to. I sag against him, limp and shaking.

I float in a haze, untethered and spent, and it takes long moments for the world to edge back in. Ronin’s breathing is harsh in my ear, his grip still sure around me. I barely recognize myself, boneless, melted into him, too weak to fight his hold.

Slowly, he removes his hand. The pain’s gone. My wings, the cursed mark they’ve become, are silent for the first time.

"Amira," he says after a moment, low and rough, but there’s an edge of something else in his voice. A question. A demand. I don’t know.

"Don’t talk." It’s all I can manage. If he speaks, if I have to think or feel, I’ll lose the fragile grip I still have on myself. My eyes drift shut, my mind already constructing the walls I’ll need when I wake up.

This shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have let it. But for just this moment, I let the darkness pull me under, sinking into the quiet chaos of it all.

Chapter Twelve

I lean my head against the shower wall, letting the hot water pound against my back like it could wash away the memory of his touch… It doesn't. The thoughts swirl, unrelenting. That night with Ronin... it was a mistake. A lapse in judgment. One moment where my body betrayed everything my mind was trying to suppress.

It hadn’t happened again. And it wouldn’t.

It couldn’t… I won’t let it.

Whatever that was, it wasn’t real. Just adrenaline. Proximity. A moment I should’ve fought harder against. I should’ve pulled away, should’ve pushed him off, and walked away like I meant it.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

My skin was on fire, every nerve screaming like I’d been dropped into an open flame, and being near him was the only thing that made it bearable. That wasn’t me choosing him, it was survival.

And still, I hate that I stayed, hate even more that some part of me wanted to.

Now I’m stuck reliving it, over and over. His mouth. His hands. The way he looked at me like I belonged to him, I don’t. So why does it feel like something inside me agrees? I hate that part most of all. Because some dark, stupid part of me… wants to be.

A sharp inhale cuts through my chest. I straighten. I am stronger than this.

With effort, I reach for the handle and cut the water. Silence rushes in, thick and heavy. I wrap a towel around myself, grounding myself in the softness against my skin, still humming with frustration. The fogged mirror barely reflects my face, but the mark on my neck stands out, dark and undeniable.

A bruise, his bruise.

I look away before it sinks in any deeper, before the heat in my chest blooms into something worse. I can't afford to be distracted. Not now. Not when my wings could return at any moment. When I might finally get back to the world I belong in and unravel who betrayed me.

Lifting a hand, I reach behind me, my fingers brush the faint, raised marks where my wings once were. They're still there, trapped beneath the skin. The same… I think. But something had changed. They burned. Why?

Just the other day, it felt like the wing clipper had sliced through me all over again. A pain I know too well.

But there was no visible damage. No blood. Just the sting of something waking beneath my skin.

I shove the thought down and dry off quickly, pulling on the only armor that still feels like mine, fitted leather, laced and worn in all the right places. I strap my blades to my hips and take a slow, steady breath at the feeling.

This is familiar. Grounding. Me.

It helps me feel less like the stranger I become when Ronin’s near. I need it, need anything to stop remembering the way he looked at me, like he knew every feeling I’ve tried to bury. He doesn’t know me.

Heading from the bathroom, I descend the stairs and move into the kitchen.

Ronin had left early this morning, likely for patrol, after staying close to me for the past three days. I’m not bothered by it. He has duties to the pack and shouldn’t be putting them off. What surprises me more is that I’ve been left alone.

I expected him to station James here, like he has so many times before, but the cabin is silent. Empty.

Just as well. I should be grateful. I can savor the space and use it to rebuild the walls that feel one flick away from crumbling, because this solitude won’t last.

As soon as the patrol ends, I know he’ll be back, standing in the doorway with those storm-green eyes and that maddening sense of certainty. My fingers clench around a mug, and for a moment, I imagine hurling it... just to see it shatter. Instead, I pour water from the pitcher and force myself to sip slowly.

"Amira!" James’s voice echoes through the door. A second later, it clicks open. No knock. No hesitation.

Damn it. I spoke too soon.

He strides into the kitchen, scanning the space before spotting me. He smirks. "So you’re not dead."

"Dead?" I echo, raising a brow as I set the mug down and lean against the counter. "What do you mean?"

He walks over to the table and plucks an apple from the bowl, juggling it lazily. "Relax, it was a joke. But no one’s seen you for days. I thought maybe we pushed Ronin too far with the sparring."

I scoff, crossing my arms. "Right. You were so worried, huh? Yet, you didn’t even come check on me?"

"Oh, I came to check," he laughs. "On Ronin. He wouldn’t even let me past the front door. Said you weren’t feeling well and shut it right in my face."

My face flushes, heat crawling up my neck as I glance away. Not feeling well…

My mind betrays me instantly, dragging me back to the press of his chest against my back. How my breath caught in my throat as his hands slipped beneath the waistband of my pants. That low growl. The way I didn’t stop him.

Didn’t want to.

I grip the edge of the counter, my nails dig into the wood. Get it together.

It meant nothing. I remind myself again and again, because somehow, it still doesn’t stick. I force a breath and try to shake off the memory.

"Are you feeling ok?" James asks, his eyes narrowing.

"Fine," I say, taking a deep breath. "Why are you here? I thought you'd be with Ronin."

"I was, but we tied things up pretty quickly at the border," he says, taking a bite of his apple.

"The border?" I ask, unable to hide the interest in my voice. "What happened?"

"Rogues," James says, around a mouthful. "Nothing we couldn’t handle. Ronin stayed back to make sure everything’s settled."

"I’ve heard you all speak of Rogues before. Are they a problem often?" I ask, trying to distract myself.

He shrugs. "Sometimes, but it’s rare for them to get this close. Maybe they caught wind of something, figured there was a weakness to exploit."

"Or maybe your border control just sucks," I say.

"Jeez, you sound just like Ronin," he snorts. "My border control is fine. I’ve had a lot on my plate while the two of you have been lounging around."

"Lounging around?" I bristle. "Hardly. It’s been downright torturous."

The words come out sharper than I mean them to. But James doesn’t seem to notice, he’s too busy crunching into his food like an animal.

I glance away, annoyed at myself for how easily I’m getting annoyed. I don’t need anyone asking questions. Especially not about that night. Or about Ronin. Or why everything inside me still feels so tightly coiled.

James tosses the apple core into the sink. "Are you sure you’re okay? You’re acting weird."

"I said I’m fine."

"You don’t look fine," he says, stepping closer with a frown. His eyes narrow slightly as he reaches for my forehead. "You look all flushed and clammy."

I swat his hand away. "Don’t touch me."

"Hey, I’m just trying to help," he says, holding up his hands.

"I don’t need your help," I snap. "And I’m tired of everyone thinking I do." I brush a hand through my hair, pulling it over my shoulder, exhaling sharply. The air hitting my neck makes me wince. The spot still aches, a slow, pulsing reminder I hadn’t been able to scrub away, no matter how hard I tried.

"Whoa," James whistles, his gaze locking on my neck. A slow grin creeps across his face. "That is one hell of a bruise. And here I thought you-"

"Don’t," I snap, cutting him off. "Just ignore it."

His grin widens. "Oh, come on. How am I supposed to ignore the massive claim mark on your neck?"

My mouth opens, ready to rip him apart, but then my brain catches up.

"What did you just say?"

He blinks, clearly confused. "Uh… a claim mark?"

I narrow my eyes. "Explain. Now."

"It’s a mate thing," he says, his brows furrowing.

Mate thing.

The words hit like a punch to the chest. My heartbeat roars in my ears. I feel as though I’m bursting out of my skin, hot, aching, rattled. "This… this bruise on my neck is a… Mate thing!?"

"I mean, not like, an official one," he rushes. "It’s not a full bite. Doesn’t even look like he broke the skin. No big deal. Just a little, uh, love tap, really. Looks worse than it is."

Love tap? My stomach twists. "What the hell are you talking about?" I demand, my nails bite into my palms.

James throws up his hands, laughing nervously. "Okay, let’s not get all murder-y about it. It’s just, well, it looked like Ronin bit you. I thought maybe he, uh…"

He bit me… The room tilts.

Suddenly, I’m back in the heat, pinned beneath him. His mouth... hot on my skin. "Fair is fair, Princess." That moment, the one I keep telling myself meant nothing, was so much more.

And he knew.

He knew… He knew exactly what he was doing.

Oh. Oh, hell no!

I wasn’t breathing anymore. I was vibrating, fury curls like a storm inside me, seething past denial, past logic, straight into something primal and loud and ready to break everything.

James’s eyes widen. "You didn’t know."

"This is a mate mark!" I roar, the sound echoing through the cabin like thunder, and he bolts.

I sprint after him. I don’t remember grabbing one of my blades off my belt, but it’s in my hand when James reaches the front door. His hands on the knob, and I throw it, sinking it deep into the wood right next to his head.

He yipes, diving to the side, and scrambles behind the couch. Slowly standing with his hands raised. "IT'S NOT! Don’t kill the messenger!"

"Explain what else you know!" I scream, making my way around the couch, but he moves around the other side, keeping it between us. It’s pointless, really. Had I wanted to hit him, I would have, and no piece of furniture would be able to save him.

"Look," James pleads, edging around the couch as I move to get closer. "It’s... It’s a wolf thing, okay? A mark like that means he’s staking a claim. He probably couldn’t help himself."

"Couldn’t help himself!?" My voice rises, another octave. "You mean to tell me this is some kind of werewolf engagement!?"

"No!" he shouts, moving again as I round the couch. "It… He didn’t seal the mark… It’s not… You… This is a conversation you should be having with Ronin! I thought you understood!"

"Understood!" I snarl, stalking around the couch, my voice trembling with rage. "How could you think I understood any of this!? I am not from your world!"

James’s eyes dart to my hand. "Okay! Okay!" He holds up his hands again, backing away slowly as if dealing with a wild animal, and right now I feel like one. "Maybe it was instinct or his wolf acting up... I don't know!"

He squeaks, ducking, as I send another knife hurtling. It thuds into the wall, vibrating with the same bottled rage threatening to explode from inside me.

"Truce? Truce!" he shouts. He looks genuinely terrified, and something inside me falters.

"If I wanted to hit you, I would have," I sneer, my hands balling into fists at my side. My entire body is vibrating. Is this what they feel like when they lose their temper? They should be thankful I don’t have a wolf under my skin.

James lowers his hands, but still keeps his distance. "Look, I thought you knew… I wouldn’t have said anything if I thought-"

His words are cut off as the door swings open.

Ronin strides in, his presence filling the space before I can fully prepare myself. His gaze locks onto mine. The room charges with tension.

"Oh, thank the Goddess," James breathes.

"What the hell is going on?" Ronin growls. His voice is low, but the edge cuts through the room like steel.

James shoots a frantic look at me, then back at Ronin. "Uh…"

"You claimed me!" I roar, the words tearing from my throat like a battle cry. Rage flashes white-hot behind my eyes.

Ronin’s eyes burn like an inferno, threatening to consume us both. "Amira-"

"Don’t ‘Amira’ me!" I growl, taking a step forward. "You did this on purpose!"

His eyes flick from mine to James. "What the hell are you telling her, James?" he snarls, rounding the couch. "It’s not your place-"

"Oh no! This is YOUR fault! Don’t you dare try to take it out on him!" I snap, stepping between them.

"You weren’t saying that a few minutes ago," James mutters.

"SHUT UP!" Ronin and I both shout.

"Get out." Ronin snaps, glaring at James.

"Don’t need to tell me twice." James makes a hasty exit, the door swinging shut behind him and leaving Ronin and me in a thick, pulsing silence. Our breathing is loud, uneven, like two animals circling, waiting for the other to strike first.

I glare at him. Every nerve in my body is stretched to the point of snapping. "Is this all some game to you?" The words rumble out of me, sharp and raw.

His jaw tightens. "You think I planned this?" There’s something behind his eyes, anger, yes, but also something... something that almost looks like regret. "And I didn’t claim you."

"Then what is this?" I hiss, my fury rising like a wave I can’t stop. I whip my hair over my shoulder, the motion sharper than it needs to be.

His gaze drops to the bruise at my neck, and his eyes darken. "You were burning up. I couldn’t just let you suffer."

The memory hits before I can stop it, fire in my blood, my skin slick with sweat, the press of his mouth against mine, and the terrifying relief that followed. I shove it down, refusing to let it soften me.

"Maybe you should have," I snap. "I would’ve been fine."

"That’s bullshit and you know it!"

He steps closer, erasing the space between us. The tension stretches taut, electric. He’s close enough that I can see the pulse at his throat, feel the heat radiating off him.

"I don’t know what James told you," he says, his voice low. "But I did not claim you. That mark didn’t–"

"Break the skin," I cut him off. "So what? That makes it okay?" I scoff, shaking my head, a bitter laugh slipping out. "You want credit for almost crossing the line?"

His eyes flash. "You bit me first, Princess."

"That was spite," I shoot back. "Not a claim! Don’t twist this into something it’s not. You knew exactly what you were doing to me, what this mark would mean, and you did it anyway!"

"Yes." The word is clipped, his voice drops lower. "I knew what I was doing. I was stopping the pain, the only way I knew how. But I didn’t mark you. If I had wanted to…" His eyes lock onto mine. "I would have."

The air leaves my lungs like he knocked it out of me.

I tremble, not just with rage, but something messier. Confusion, guilt, fear. His words slice clean and cruel in their clarity. He could have marked me. But he didn’t. But that doesn’t make this okay.

It doesn’t explain the way my skin still burns where his mouth touched me. It doesn’t explain the way his presence messes with my head, makes it hard to think straight. Makes me feel like I'm losing control.

Whatever this is, it’s not mine. I didn’t choose it. I don’t want it.

I square my shoulders. "You think that makes it better?"

His brows furrow, and for a second, I see it, hesitation. Regret. Something soft trying to surface beneath all that anger.

I crush it.

"None of this matters," I say, motioning between us. "Once I have my wings back, I’m gone, Ronin. You won’t have to deal with me anymore."

His face hardens, the flicker of softness vanishing like it never existed. "FINE! Go. There’s the door. No one’s stopping you… Except for your wings."

"Wings or not, I’m done with you!" I shout back.

Storming for the door, I wrench it open, and in a flash, it slams shut with enough force to rattle the walls. I spin around as my back's pinned between the hardwood and Ronin’s chest.

"Ronin! What the hell!"

My words are cut off as his lips crash into mine. A growl vibrates deep in his chest, echoing through me. I gasp, and his tongue invades, angry, possessive.

Heat blazes through my veins. I hate him for it. I hate myself more for the way my body betrays me, melting against him.

No, I shove hard against his chest, breaking the kiss with a gasp.

THWACK!

The sound of my palm connecting with his cheek echoes through the cabin. His eyes flash bright gold. The bastard didn’t even flinch. Which only fuels my rage.

"You can’t just!"

He snarls, and then his mouth is on mine again, rough, hungry. Consuming. He slams me back into the door. His fingers digging into my hips, holding me in place like I might disappear.

But it’s not pain that makes me gasp.

It’s the wildfire of desire surging through me, hot, uninvited, impossible to ignore. My thoughts tangle and dissolve, rage bleeding into something reckless and unspoken.

I try to resist. I should resist.

I don’t want this. I didn’t ask for this.

But my body doesn’t care. My hands, traitorous and starved for something I shouldn’t name, twist into his hair instead of pushing him away. I pull him closer. I don’t want to want this. But gods help me... I do.

His mouth devours mine, and everything else disappears.

A low rumble vibrates between us — satisfaction, triumph, maybe even relief. It has its own heat, and it spreads through me like wildfire. His grip shifts as I’m lifted effortlessly, my legs wrapping around him, locking me into the battle I swore I’d walk away from. He’s everywhere, and I’m losing myself fast.

A growl rips through the air, demanding, unyielding, the wolf in him shadowing him, consuming him. Consuming me.

"Say it," he breathes against my mouth, voice low and dangerous. "Say you’re mine."

The words coil around me like a trap. I’m defiant, desperate, and lost all at once. I bite his bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood. He growls again, sharper this time, more primal, raw, filled with a hunger that sears through me. Even his taste is wild.

"Never," I rasp, breathless.

I expect fury. Instead, he laughs, a low, feral sound that twists something deep inside me. He breaks the kiss just long enough to haul us off the door. Then the world tilts.

The couch catches my fall, the impact knocking the breath from my lungs. He’s on me before I can recover, pinning me beneath him. His golden eyes burn, alive and untamable. His lips find the bruise on my neck, lingering like a brand. Pain and pleasure crackle through me as he nips it, and my body reacts before I can stop it. I don’t know if I’m cursing his name or crying out.

"Let me go." The demand tears from my throat, but my back arches into him, betraying me. Begging for more.

His fingers drag through my hair, anchoring me to him like he knows I’m lying. "Not until you say it."

"I hate you," I breathe.

"You love this." His voice is a growl, rough and possessive. He catches my mouth again, hungry, devouring. I should fight, should scream, but my body doesn’t listen. His lips trail lower, heat following every move. "And this," he murmurs, his tongue flicking over the top of my breast.

I arch into him again, helpless and furious. "I swear," I gasp, clinging to the last thread of control. "I’ll leave."

"Stubborn," he murmurs, licking up my neck. His teeth graze the bruise once more, and it blazes like fire. My gasp turns into his name, a moan I can’t quite swallow. He stills for a heartbeat, like he's savoring the moment.

Then, just as suddenly, he lets me go.

He snarls, jerking back, his eyes flickering between green and gold, wild, frantic. He stands, abrupt and cold, leaving me breathless and aching. The absence of his touch is a shock, like a slap against my skin.

I drag myself upright slowly. My limbs trembling, my pulse racing with fury… and something far more dangerous.

"I’m not yours."

The words feel heavy in the air between us. His eyes shift colors again, and that’s when I realize it. The wolf in him is fighting for control. He’s barely holding on, and I can feel it, the tension crackling like electricity, thick and suffocating.

I watch him carefully, feeling something stir deep within me. There's more to his anger than he's letting on, more than just defiance. Something is breaking inside him, and I can see it in the way his hand clenches at his side, the way his breathing hitches.

Does his wolf think I’m his?

James and I’s conversation about mates filters through my mind… "The wolf can have a mind of its own," he says.

"Are mates a choice?" I ask.

"Yeah, it’s a choice. But it’s also not." He smirks. "It’s a feeling. You’re drawn to them, like fate pulled you together. You can fight it, sure. Some do… But when it’s right? You just know."

"And if it’s not?"

He shrugs. "Then it’s not. Some people reject their mates."

It hits me with the force of a storm, shattering everything I thought I knew. The burning, the bruise on my neck, the way my skin answers to each touch, it's all connected. I struggle to breathe, panic threatening to crush me under its weight.

"That’s what this is, isn’t it?" My voice is raw, choked. "You think we’re… mates."

His eyes meet mine, and a flash of something I can’t name reflects in his gaze. He's silent, and it’s louder than any admission.

"No." I shake my head fiercely, scrambling off the couch. "It’s not possible."

His snarl is sharp with frustration. "Damn it!"

The word echoes, and he looks away. His control is slipping, and I can see how much he fights against it, how much he's fighting against me.

"You can fight it, sure. Some do… But when it’s right? You just know."

My own emotions churn like a storm. Rage, panic, and that dangerous, unwanted need that yanks me toward him even now. I take a step back, trying to distance myself from the feelings pressing down on me like a tangible weight.

"It’s not right," I say. "That’s why your wolf is fighting it."

His gaze snaps back to mine, fierce and unyielding. "What?"

"You heard me," I say, my voice hardening with the only certainty I can grasp. "If it were right, he wouldn’t be fighting it so damn hard."

He moves toward me, an unrelenting force that sets every nerve in my body ablaze. My back hits the wall, and his arms come up, bracing on either side of my head, caging me in. There’s still space between us, but his presence fills it, the heat of him wrapping around me like a smothering cloak.

"You know nothing about–" He cuts himself off, dropping his head.

"Then tell me, Ronin," I demand, fire in my voice. "Convince me this isn't just a sick game your wolf's playing."

The air crackles between us, a live wire of tension and unspoken truths. Every instinct screams at me to push him away, to break free from this magnetic pull that defies reason. But instead, I stand frozen, defiant yet trembling.

"My wolf isn’t fighting it," he says, his voice rough. Slowly, his head lifts, his gaze locking with mine. "I am."

The words slice through me, raw, exposed, unexpected. It’s more honesty than I’ve ever heard from him, and it terrifies me how much those words twist deep in my chest.

I clench my fists, my nails biting into my palms, desperate for a distraction from the chaos inside me. The pain anchors me, keeps me from unraveling completely under the weight of his confession.

"Why?" My voice wavers, betraying the uncertainty I’m trying so hard to mask. But does it really matter why? It shouldn’t. It can’t. It doesn’t. I have my world. Wings, air, clouds. He has his. Paws, fur, earth… Yet, part of me needs to know.

"Does it matter?" he says, echoing my thoughts. His voice hardens. "Once you get your wings, you’re gone. This… this between us, it’s just a distraction. For both of us."

His words hit me like a slap, reverberating through my chest. A distraction.

The air feels too thick, the weight of it pressing down on me until I can’t breathe. For a moment, I’m frozen, lost in the chaos of his words, my mind scrambling to process the blunt truth of his feelings he's just dropped on me.

My chest tightens, a hollow ache spreads through me, and my resolve hardens.

A low laugh escapes me, but it’s bitter, empty. "A distraction." I scoff, the words tasting like acid. "Don’t flatter yourself." The bite of my own words sting as they leave my mouth, but I stand firm. I have to. If I let him see even the slightest crack in my armor, he’ll know how much his words hurt.

The other thing James had said flicks through my mind.

I lift my chin. "Reject me."

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About the Author

“Write the book you want to read.”

I build worlds where rogues rise, love burns, and Queens never kneel.

I’m an independent author fueled by coffee, chaos, and a reckless need to throw fierce heroines and dangerously irresistible alphas into impossible, heart-stopping choices.

I write paranormal and dark romance filled with fated mates, forbidden desires, enemies-to-lovers battles, and the kind of passion that doesn’t just burn—it devours.

When I’m not crafting new ways to wreck my characters (and your heart), you’ll find me plotting my next twist, creating a little bookish magic, or whispering "Stay wild, pup," into the night.

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Copyright

Through The Veil between worlds, between fate. © 2025 Samantha Abbott

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews, articles, or critical essays.

This story contains mature themes, adult language, high levels of emotional chaos, and dangerously irresistible alphas. Recommended for readers 18+.

Cover design by: Samantha Abbott.

First edition published July 8th, 2025.

Property of Author Samantha Abbott: Bound In Ink