Balconies filled with faces. Whispers buzzed through the streets.
“Isn’t she the one who vanished five years ago?”
“She’s a rogue now. She lies.”
“But look at the child... her eyes. She has his eyes.”
I reached into my cloak and pulled out the parchment—stained but intact. “This is the blood-oath. Signed and sealed by his own hand. If he denies me, let the Elders bear witness. I will summon judgment under the Elder Moon!”
The guards hesitated, eyes flicking to the parchment. The Nightfang seal shimmered faintly beneath the cracked wax.
One turned. “Wait here.”
Moments later, the great doors opened.
Damien stood tall in his ceremonial cloak, his shoulders draped in furs. Power clung to him like armor. And beside him, Elara—gilded in silver and silk, her Luna mark gleaming on her brow like a stolen crown.
I met his eyes.
He blinked. Recognition flickered.
“Look up,” he said, voice low.
I did. My lip curled into something between a smile and a snarl.
His face paled.
He knew me.
And I knew the war had just begun.
Chapter Three
“Selene...?”
The voice came from the steps of the Nightfang Alpha manor. Low. Controlled.
But I caught the crack in it.
Damien descended slowly, each step a study in forced composure. But I saw it—the flare of disbelief in his stormy gaze. The tremble in his fingers before he stilled them.
“If you wanted to speak to me,” he said under his breath, “you could have sent word through the Shadow Runners. Why show up like this?”
Ayla shifted in my arms, her tiny frame pressed close. She whimpered softly in her sleep. Starved. Cold. So light it broke my heart.
Damien’s eyes darted to the gathering crowd near the iron gates. His jaw clenched. “I wrote to you. Told you not to return until it was safe. There are... complications.”
Complications.
I stared at him. After everything. After the betrayal. After our deaths.
He still looked like a god among wolves—tall, broad-shouldered, his Alpha mark pulsing faintly beneath the collar of his formal jacket. Gold thread glinted at his cuffs, and the Nightfang crest gleamed on his chest.
And me?
I was nothing but a ghost in torn leathers and mud-soaked boots, carrying our child like a secret he tried to bury.
“You promised,” I said quietly. “Three years, you said. You’d bring us home. You’d make me Luna.”