“That’s a lie!” I choked. “You forced them! Draven, check the scry-stones—there are runes in here!”
I knew there were. Every elite lounge had moon-etched recording sigils.
Draven didn’t even look at me. His lip curled.
“Lunessa, don’t sink this low. Stop framing Myrielle.”
My knees buckled. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Myrielle sighed sweetly. “She probably didn’t mean it…”
Draven cut her off coldly. “Don’t blame her. She grew up feral—it made her cunning.”
I collapsed, fingers digging so hard into my palms that blood trickled onto the marble floor.
In that moment, something worse than Myrielle’s cruelty became clear.
It was Draven’s blindness.
His devotion to her.
His betrayal of me.
A bitter, cracked laugh tore from my throat.
“So this is how lowly you see me, Alpha Draven,” I whispered, voice scraping like gravel.
“In your eyes… I’m truly nothing more than that kind of she-wolf.”
Tears finally spilled, dripping onto the moonstone tiles beneath my feet.
Something flickered across Draven’s expression—a faint crease of confusion, a hint of sensing my inner turmoil through the weakened bond—but before he could speak, Myrielle’s melodic voice sliced in.
“Draven,” she cooed, threading her arm through his. “Everyone’s gathered. Why don’t we head to the training grounds? It’s my name-day. We should do something spirited.”
The guests chimed in instantly.
“Yes! A run with the spirit-steeds sounds perfect!”
“Let’s go!”
Whatever Draven had been about to say vanished.
“Fine,” he said curtly. Then he glanced at me. “Change into something proper. Let’s put what happened earlier behind us.”
I didn’t respond. I pulled away from his hand, turned my back and changed into the garments his attendant delivered.
When he saw his palm left hanging in the air, a flash of confusion crossed his face—like he’d just realized something precious had slipped from his grasp.
The spirit-steed grounds spread wide under the hot afternoon sun, smelling of dust and enchanted leather. Moonbred stallions raced across the field, their hooves thundering against the earth.
Myrielle had changed into a pale riding set embroidered with lunar sigils, the sunlight making her glow with deliberate radiance. Draven stood by her side, adjusting her gloves, tightening the saddle’s arcane straps—every motion gentle, practiced, intimate.
She turned suddenly, feigning surprise when her gaze fell upon me.