The silk of the ritual dress was a joke. It was a thin, shimmering lie that did nothing to stop the mountain air from biting into Elara's skin. She stood in the center of the Great Plaza; her bare feet had long since gone numb against the white marble. She wasn't alone. Fifty other girls stood in the "Mirror Line." All of them were Glass-Born. All of them had been raised in gilded cages for this single, horrific moment.

The silence was a physical weight. The only sound was the low, rhythmic thud of the ritual drums and the whistling of the wind through the jagged peaks of Oakhaven. It was a lonely, hollow sound. It reminded Elara that there was no one coming to save them. The crowds of commoners were gathered at the edge of the plaza, their faces blurred by the falling snow. They weren't here to cheer. They were here to watch a harvest.

Elara kept her eyes fixed on a single, jagged crack in the marble. She didn't want to look at the High Shaman. She didn't want to see the silver-mesh gloves he wore or the long, heavy branding iron heating in the coals of the ritual fire. The iron was glowing a sickly, bright orange. It looked like a hungry eye waiting for a meal.

Beside her, a girl named Maren was shaking so hard that the silver beads on her dress were clicking together. It was a frantic, desperate sound. Maren was only nineteen. She had spent her whole life practicing the "Mirror Walk" and the "Submission Bow," but now that the moment was here, the training was useless.

"Don't look at him," Elara whispered. Her own voice sounded foreign to her. It was thin and brittle, like old glass. "Keep your eyes on the stone, Maren. If you don't look at him, you won't give him the satisfaction of seeing your fear."

"I can't breathe," Maren gasped. Her chest was heaving, the silk of her bodice straining against her ribs. "The air feels like it's turning to ice. Elara, I don't want to die. I don't want to be a battery."

Elara didn't have an answer. In the Kingdom of Oakhaven, the Glass-Born weren't people. They were vessels. They were born with a specific purity in their blood that allowed them to act as "Mirrors" for the Silver-Blood Alphas. Every hundred years, a Tithe was required. An Alpha would claim a Mirror, consume her soul through the Ritual of the Mirror, and use that stolen life to fuel another century of immortality and power.

It was a perfect system for the wolves. It was a death sentence for the girls.

"The Moon is full," the Shaman's voice boomed. It wasn't a human sound. It was amplified by the ancient stones of the plaza, vibrating in Elara's very marrow. "The Tithe is due. The Silver-Blood comes to claim what is theirs. Let the lamb welcome the wolf."

A ripple of movement went through the crowd. The soldiers in their heavy, oil-stained fur cloaks stepped back. They cleared a wide path from the palace gates to the center of the plaza.

Then, he appeared.

Prince Julian didn't walk like a prince. He moved like a predator that was trying to remember how to hide its teeth. He was tall, his shoulders broad under a heavy, obsidian-black coat made from the skin of a winter wolf. His hair was the color of a midnight sky, but it was his eyes that made the girls in the line let out a collective, terrified breath.

They weren't blue. They weren't white. They were a piercing, icy silver that seemed to cut through the dark.

Elara felt a cold shiver crawl down her spine. This was the man who would decide if she lived to see the sunrise. She watched him through her eyelashes, noting the way he held himself. He wasn't arrogant. He looked like he was in pain. His gait was slightly uneven, and his jaw was set so tightly that the muscles in his neck were bulging like cords of rope.

Julian started at the far end of the line.

He moved slowly. He didn't look at their faces. He didn't care about their beauty or their lineage. He looked at their throats. He was searching for a specific vibration, a specific pulse in the blood that signaled a perfect match.

The first girl in line was Maren's cousin. When Julian reached her, he didn't say a word. He leaned in, his nose inches from her neck. He inhaled sharply, his pupils dilating until his eyes were almost entirely black. Then, he pulled away with a look of pure disgust.

Rejected.

The girl slumped to the ground, sobbing with relief. The soldiers moved in immediately, dragging her toward the black wagons that would take the rejected girls to the mines. It was a slow death, but it was a death with a soul.

Julian moved down the line. Ten girls. Twenty. The tension in the plaza was becoming a physical weight. Elara could feel her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. She tried to remember her mother's face, but the memory was fading, replaced by the orange glow of the Shaman's fire.

Her mother had been a Mirror. She had disappeared twenty years ago, taken by Julian's father. Elara had been raised by the state, fed on the finest food and clothed in the finest silk, all to prepare her for this day. She was a prize heifer being led to the butcher's block.

Julian was getting closer.

The air around him was different. It wasn't the natural cold of the mountains. It was a dry, sterile frost that smelled of old iron, cedar, and ozone. It made the hair on Elara's arms stand up. Every step he took toward her felt like a countdown to an explosion.

He stopped in front of Maren.

Maren let out a high-pitched, broken whimper. She fell to her knees, her forehead hitting the marble. "Please," she sobbed. "Please, Highness. I'm not strong. My blood is weak. Don't take me."

Julian looked down at her. For a second, Elara saw a flash of something in his eyes. It wasn't pity. It was weariness. He reached out as if to touch her head, but his hand stopped an inch away. He pulled back, his fingers curling into a fist.

"Stand up," Julian rasped. His voice was a wreck. It sounded like he had been swallowing glass.

Maren didn't move. She just kept sobbing. Julian sighed, a sound of profound exhaustion, and moved past her.

Now, he was in front of Elara.

Elara didn't bow. She didn't look at the ground. She forced herself to look up, her chin high. She expected to see a monster. She expected to see the arrogant, starving gaze of a king who viewed her as nothing more than a meal.

Instead, she saw a man who was rotting from the inside out.

Up close, the "Wasting" was impossible to hide. Faint, jagged silver lines traced the path of the veins in Julian's neck. They were raised and angry, pulsing with a dull, sickly light that matched the beat of his heart. His skin was the color of old parchment, stretched too tight over his cheekbones. He looked like he was holding himself together with nothing but spite and jagged willpower.

Julian leaned in.

He didn't smell like a wolf. He smelled like woodsmoke and blood. His shadow fell over her, cold and heavy. He tilted his head, his silver eyes locking onto hers.

For a heartbeat, the drums stopped. The wind died. The entire plaza seemed to vanish, leaving only the two of them standing in a void of white snow and black stone.

Elara felt a jolt of electricity shoot through her. It wasn't a romantic spark. It was a violent, jarring connection that made her knees buckle. She felt his hunger. It wasn't a hunger for food; it was a soul-deep, agonizing void that was trying to swallow him whole. She felt his pain, a crushing weight that made it hard to breathe.

Julian's pupils dilated. The silver in his eyes flared, turning into a blinding, molten light. A low, guttural sound started in his throat. It wasn't a growl. It was a groan of pure, unadulterated suffering.

He reached out. His hand was large, his fingers calloused and scarred. He didn't grab her throat. He brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face, his thumb grazing her cheek.

His touch was like a brand. It was scalding hot, a sharp contrast to the ice in the air.

"This one," Julian whispered.

The voice was gravelly and raw. It didn't sound like a royal decree. It sounded like a confession. It sounded like a man who had finally found the one thing that could stop his heart from breaking.

The High Shaman stepped forward, the branding iron glowing white in his hand. A plume of black smoke rose from the coals. "A match? So soon, Highness? The ritual requires a full inspection of the blood-pulse. We must ensure the purity of the Mirror before the seal is set."

"I said this one," Julian snapped. He turned to face the Shaman, his body shifting to shield Elara from the priest's greedy gaze. The silver light in his eyes was dangerous now, a warning that the wolf was right under the surface. "Prepare the seal. Now."

The Shaman hesitated. He looked at Elara, his eyes narrowing. He was a man who thrived on the Tithe, a man who enjoyed the power of the soul-drain. "The Mirror is unusual, Highness. Her lineage is Glass-Born, but there is a shadow in her aura. A resistance. Perhaps we should test the second line. We cannot risk a faulty integration."

Julian took a step toward the Shaman. The marble under his boot didn't just creak; it shattered. A spiderweb of cracks radiated out from his foot. "I will not say it a third time, Priest. She is mine. By the ancient law of the Silver Moon, she is claimed. Do your duty, or I will find someone who can."

The Shaman bowed his head, though his jaw was tight with resentment. He raised the branding iron, the heat from it making the air shimmer. "Then let the mark be set. Step forward, Glass-Born. Accept your Prince. Accept your fate."

Elara didn't move. Her feet were glued to the marble. She looked at the white-hot iron. She looked at the crowd of people who were waiting to watch her soul be harvested. She looked at the Shaman, who was smiling as if he were about to watch a play.

This was the moment her life ended. Once the mark was set, she belonged to the Silver-Blood. She would be taken to the palace, stripped of her name, and used until there was nothing left but a cold, empty shell.

Julian looked back at her. He saw the terror in her eyes. He saw the way she was shaking. He looked at the branding iron, and for a split second, Elara saw a flash of pure, concentrated hatred on his face.

He did something that was not in the ritual.

He grabbed her hand.

His grip was tight, almost painful. He pulled her toward him, his body a wall of heat and muscle that blocked the wind. "Look at me," he muttered, his voice barely audible over the crackling of the ritual fire.

Elara looked.

"Don't scream," he whispered.

Before the Shaman could reach them with the iron, Julian leaned down. He didn't go for her shoulder or her back. He bit into his own wrist, his teeth sharp and efficient. His blood was dark and thick, smelling of iron and old magic.

He pressed the open wound against Elara's neck, right over her pulse point.

The crowd let out a collective gasp. The Shaman froze, the branding iron dropping an inch. This was a violation of every sacred law Oakhaven held dear. The seal was supposed to be a mark of ownership, a brand of the state.

By using his own blood, Julian was doing something else entirely.

The heat was overwhelming. It felt like he was pouring liquid fire into her veins. Elara's head snapped back, her eyes rolling as the "Link" opened. She didn't see the plaza. She saw a forest of black trees and silver snow. She saw a wolf with blue eyes crying out in a storm. She saw the "Wasting" in its true form: a cage of silver thorns that was slowly crushing Julian's heart.

"What are you doing?" the Shaman roared. He stepped forward, his face twisted in a mask of religious fury. "The seal must be made with the iron! The blood-bond is for the marriage of Alphas, not the Tithe of a sacrifice! You are polluting the ritual!"

Julian didn't pull away. He held Elara against him, his arm around her waist, his blood seeping into the collar of her ritual dress. He looked at the Shaman, his eyes fully black now, the pupils swallowing the silver.

"The Tithe is mine to manage," Julian said. His voice had dropped to a lethal, tectonic growl that made the very air tremble. "And I have chosen a different seal. The iron is for property, Priest. The blood is for a mate."

He straightened his back, pulling Elara flush against his chest. "She is no longer a sacrifice. She is my wife."

The plaza went silent. It was a silence so absolute that Elara could hear the individual flakes of snow hitting the marble.

A "wife" was not a battery. A wife could not be consumed by the ritual. By declaring her his mate and sealing it with his own blood before the soul-drain, Julian had just committed the highest form of treason against the Lunar Throne. He had stolen the Tithe from the Shaman. He had stolen the soul from the Moon.

The Shaman's face turned a bruised, angry purple. He raised the branding iron, his hand shaking. "You cannot do this, Julian! The King will have your head for this heresy! Your father will not allow a human to sit on the North Throne! The Wasting will take you by the next moon if you do not feed on her soul!"

"Then let it take me," Julian said.

He didn't wait for a response. He didn't wait for a blessing. He swept Elara up into his arms, his movements surprisingly fluid despite his obvious pain. He turned his back on the Shaman and the ritual fire and walked toward the black carriage waiting at the edge of the plaza.

The soldiers didn't stop him. They stood like statues, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe. They had seen many Alphas, but they had never seen one who was willing to die for a Mirror.

As they reached the carriage, Julian's strength finally flickered. He stumbled, his knee hitting the slushy ground. He let out a wet, rattling sound, a cough that brought up a spray of dark blood.

He shoved Elara inside the carriage and slammed the door, his forehead leaning against the black wood for a long moment. He was gasping for air, his chest heaving with an effort that looked like it was tearing him apart.

Elara sat on the velvet seat, her heart nearly stopping. She looked at her hands. They were covered in his blood. It was warm. It felt like it was still pulsing. She looked at her neck in the small, silver-framed mirror on the carriage wall. There was no brand. There was only a jagged, dark stain where his blood had entered her skin.

It felt like a heartbeat that wasn't hers.

The door opened. Julian climbed in, collapsing into the seat across from her. He looked like a man who had just been hit by a landslide. The silver lines on his neck were throbbing violently now, turning a dark, bruised purple. He was sweating despite the cold, the drops rolling down his pale face.

He looked at her, his breathing shallow and thready.

"You think you're safe," he rasped. His voice was a ghost of what it had been in the plaza. "You think I saved you."

Elara gripped the edge of the velvet seat. Her knuckles were white. "Didn't you? You stopped the Shaman. You took me away."

Julian let out a dry, hacking laugh that turned into another fit of coughing. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of red across his cheek. He leaned forward, his face inches from hers. The predator was back in his eyes, but it was a predator that was starving to death.

"I didn't save you, Elara," he whispered. "I just made sure the only person allowed to kill you is me. I have seven days. Seven days before the Wasting reaches my heart. Seven days before the wolf takes control and does what I refuse to do."

He reached out and grabbed her wrist. His hand was freezing. "If you want to live, you will do exactly what I tell you. You will play the part of the devoted bride. You will feed the lie that I have already taken your soul. Because if the Shaman realizes you are still whole... he won't wait for the Wasting. He will tear you apart himself."

The carriage lurched forward, heading away from the lights of Oakhaven and toward the desolate, black-stone fortress of the North.

Elara looked out the window. On the battlements of the palace, a single crow with silver eyes watched them go.

The Shaman was still watching. And the countdown had already begun.

The carriage was a cage of black lacquer and velvet. It smelled of old leather and the metallic, cloying scent of Julian's blood. Outside, the wheels groaned against the frozen ruts of the North Road, a rhythmic, bone-jarring thud that filled the silence between them. Oakhaven was behind them now. The lights of the capital had faded into the swirling white abyss of the storm, leaving only the dark and the man sitting across from her.

Julian looked like he was dying. He sat in the shadows of the corner, his head tilted back against the padding. His eyes were closed, but his breathing was a shallow, dry rattle that made Elara's skin crawl. The silver lines on his neck were no longer just lines. They were pulsing. A faint, sickly violet light throbbed beneath his skin, tracing the path of his veins up toward his jaw.

Elara gripped the edge of her seat. Her fingers were stained with the blood from his wrist, the dark red crusting under her fingernails. She should have felt relief. She was alive. The ritual fire was miles away, and the High Shaman's branding iron hadn't touched her. But as she watched the Prince of the North struggle for every breath, she realized she had simply traded a quick death for a slow one.

"Why?" she whispered.

The sound was small, but in the cramped space of the carriage, it felt like a shout.

Julian didn't open his eyes. His jaw tightened, the muscles bulging. "Why what, Elara?"

"Why spare me? You're an Alpha. You need the Tithe. You're rotting in front of me because you won't take what the law says is yours." She leaned forward, her voice sharpening with a mixture of fear and confusion. "The Shaman was right. If you don't feed, the Wasting will kill you. Why choose this?"

Julian's eyes snapped open. They weren't silver anymore. They were a dull, glazed blue, rimmed with red. The pupils were pinpricks. "You think I want to be a battery for the Shaman's throne? You think I want to be a vessel for a power that isn't mine?"

He let out a sharp, jagged breath and coughed. A spray of blood hit the front of his coat. He didn't wipe it away. He didn't have the strength.

"The Tithe isn't about strength, Elara," he rasped. "It's about control. Every Mirror consumed is another anchor the Shaman puts in our souls. My father is a husk. He hasn't had a thought of his own in forty years. He's a puppet made of silver and stolen life."

He looked at her then, really looked at her. "I will not be a puppet. I would rather rot as a man than rule as a hollowed-out god."

Elara sat back. She had been raised to believe the Alphas were monsters. She had been taught that they craved the ritual, that they hungered for the soul-drain. To hear a Prince speak of his own divinity as a curse was a heresy she wasn't prepared for.

"But you branded me," she said, her hand going to the dark stain on her neck. "You claimed me as a wife. You told the Shaman I was yours."

"It was the only lie he would believe," Julian said. He closed his eyes again, his head lolling to the side. "In the North, a wife is sacred. Even the Shaman cannot touch a mated female without the Alpha's consent. By making you my mate, I put you behind a wall he cannot climb. For now."

"For seven days," Elara corrected, remembering his words from earlier.

"Seven days," he muttered. "After that, the Wasting will reach my heart. The wolf will stop listening to me. It will see you and it won't see a woman. It will see a meal."

The carriage suddenly lurched to a halt. The horses let out a shrill, panicked whinny. Outside, the sound of shouting rose over the wind.

Julian's eyes flew open. He tried to sit up, but his body betrayed him. He let out a choked groan and slumped back, his hand clawing at the velvet upholstery. The violet light in his neck flared bright, a silent scream of agony.

"Stay here," he ordered.

"Julian, you can't even stand."

"Stay. Here."

He shoved the door open. The freezing wind screamed into the carriage, bringing a swirl of snow that coated the floor in seconds. Julian tumbled out into the slush, his boots slipping. Elara heard him hit the ground with a heavy thud.

She didn't listen. She couldn't. Survival instinct told her to run, but curiosity, or maybe a strange, budding loyalty to the man who was dying for her, made her move. She wrapped her thin silk shawl around her shoulders and stepped out into the night.

They were at a mountain pass. A heavy iron gate blocked the road, guarded by a dozen men in the black and silver livery of the Royal Guard. They weren't Julian's men. They were the King's.

A tall man with a scarred face and a heavy broadsword stood in the center of the road. He was an Alpha, though a lesser one. His eyes were fixed on Julian, who was struggling to his feet.

"Prince Julian," the guard said. His voice was cold, devoid of the respect a royal should command. "The High Shaman sent word. He says the Selection was... irregular. He has ordered a secondary inspection of the Mirror."

Julian stood tall. It was a feat of pure, suicidal will. He straightened his coat, his face a mask of icy command even as his hands shook. "The Selection is over, Captain. I have claimed my mate. My business is my own."

The Captain stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "The law of the Tithe is absolute, Highness. A Mirror must be processed by the Shaman's hand. If you have bypassed the ritual, you are in violation of the Lunar Decree. I have orders to take the girl back to Oakhaven."

Elara felt the blood drain from her face. She looked at the soldiers. They were healthy. They were strong. Julian was a ghost in a wolf-skin coat.

"The girl is my wife," Julian said. The words were a low, tectonic vibration. The air around him began to hum. "She is no longer a Tithe. She is the Princess of the North. If you touch her, you are declaring war on my bloodline."

The Captain laughed. It was a sharp, mocking sound. "Your bloodline is dying, Julian. We can all see the silver in your neck. You're a Husker. You don't have the strength to hold a spoon, let alone a territory."

He signaled to his men. Two of them started toward the carriage.

"Take her," the Captain ordered.

Julian didn't draw a sword. He didn't move his arms. He simply opened his mouth and let out a sound that wasn't human.

It was a roar, but it wasn't just noise. It was a wave of physical pressure. The snow in the air was suddenly blown backward. The horses screamed and reared. The two soldiers heading for the carriage were thrown off their feet as if they had been hit by a battering ram.

Julian's eyes were fully silver now, glowing with a light so bright it was painful to look at. The Wasting was visible in his every movement: his skin was translucent, the violet veins throbbing like a lightning storm under his flesh.

"I am the Alpha of the North," Julian roared. The Voice was thick with the power of a thousand years of kings, a sound that made Elara's knees buckle and her ears bleed. "I am the Silver Moon's chosen. You will open that gate, or I will feed your souls to the frost."

The Captain staggered back, his face pale. He reached for his sword, but his hand was shaking too much to grip the leather. The raw power coming off Julian was suffocating. It was the "cold" power of a dying star: beautiful, lethal, and utterly terrifying.

The gate guards fumbled with the locks, their movements frantic. They threw the iron doors open, the hinges screaming in the wind.

"Move," Julian commanded.

He didn't wait for them to obey. He turned and walked back to the carriage. Each step looked like it cost him a year of his life. He reached the door and grabbed the frame, his knuckles white.

He didn't get in. He just stood there, his head hanging, his breath coming in ragged, wet sobs.

Elara hurried to his side. She put her shoulder under his arm, expecting him to push her away. Instead, he leaned. He was heavy. He was solid muscle and bone, but he felt like he was made of ash. The heat coming off him was intense, a dry, searing fever that made her eyes water.

"Get in," he muttered.

She helped him into the seat and climbed in after him, slamming the door. The carriage lurched forward, the horses spurred into a gallop.

Julian collapsed. He fell onto the floor of the carriage, his body jerking with a sudden, violent spasm. The silver light in his eyes flickered and went out, replaced by a terrifying, hollow blackness.

"Julian!"

Elara dropped to the floor beside him. She grabbed his shoulders, trying to steady him. He was burning up. The silk of her dress was soaked with his sweat and the blood that was still seeping from the bite on his wrist.

The Wasting was taking its toll. The burst of Alpha power at the gate had drained whatever reserves he had left.

"The wolf," he choked out. His jaw began to lengthen, his teeth sharpening into jagged points. His fingernails were turning into black, curved claws that tore through the velvet of the seat. "It's... coming."

"No," Elara said. She pulled his head into her lap, her hands shaking. "Fight it, Julian. You said you had seven days."

"The Voice... it cost too much," he whispered. A low, guttural growl started in his chest, a sound that made the carriage walls vibrate.

He looked up at her. For a split second, the blue returned to his eyes. It was filled with a desperate, agonizing plea.

"Elara... if I change... if I can't stop it... you have to use the glass."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, jagged shard of black glass. It was a Mirror-Shard, the only thing capable of piercing an Alpha's heart. He pressed it into her hand, his claws drawing blood from her palm.

"Kill me," he gasped. "Before I eat you."

The growl in his chest grew louder, turning into a roar of pure, animal hunger. His body arched, his spine protruding through his coat in a series of sharp, silver-furred ridges.

Elara looked at the shard in her hand. She looked at the man who had branded himself to save her.

Outside, the fortress of the North loomed out of the dark, a jagged crown of black stone against the gray sky. They had arrived.

But as Julian's body began to twist into something that wasn't human, Elara realized that the fortress wasn't a sanctuary.

It was a cage. And she was locked inside with a starving wolf.

The carriage didn't stop so much as it died. The rhythmic grinding of the wheels against the frozen earth abruptly ceased, replaced by a silence so heavy it felt like a physical weight. Outside the window, the North Fortress loomed like a jagged, black tooth against the bruised purple of the night sky. It was a fortress made of shadow and obsidian, perched on a cliff that seemed to drop straight into the churning, icy heart of the Frost-Bound Woods.

Elara didn't move. She couldn't. Her hand was still clenched around the shard of black glass Julian had pressed into her palm. Her knuckles were white; her pulse was a frantic, staccato beat against the silence. Across from her, the monster she was supposed to call husband lay in a heap of furs and shredded velvet.

Julian was no longer the imposing prince who had cracked the marble of the Oakhaven plaza. He was a creature of agonizing transitions. The "Wasting" was a fever that was visible now. His breathing was a wet, guttural rattle. Every few seconds, his body would jerk with a violent spasm, his spine arching as the silver fur tried to erupt through the skin of his shoulders.

"Julian?" she whispered.

There was no answer. Only the wind howling through the cracks in the carriage door and the faint, distant sound of heavy iron gates being heaved open.

Elara tucked the glass shard into the hidden pocket of her dress. She felt the cold blood of the Prince on her hands, sticky and metallic. She reached out, her fingers trembling, and touched his shoulder. The heat coming off him was terrifying. It was like touching a stove.

"Julian, we're here. You have to wake up. You have to stand."

His eyes snapped open. For a terrifying second, there was no blue. There was only a swirling, molten silver that seemed to vibrate with a predatory hunger. He lunged forward, his hand snapping around Elara's throat before she could even gasp. His fingernails were black claws now, sharp enough to draw blood from the pale skin of her neck.

"Don't," he hissed. The Voice was gone, replaced by a sound that was purely animal.

"Julian... it's Elara," she choked out. She didn't fight him. She didn't claw at his hand. She looked directly into that silver void, forcing herself to stay still. "You told me to play the part. We're at the gates. Your men are watching."

The recognition didn't come all at once. It filtered into his eyes like ink in water. His grip loosened, his fingers retreating as the claws began to recede back into his skin. He slumped back against the seat, a dry, hacking cough tearing through his chest.

"The North," he rasped. He wiped a smear of black blood from his lip. "We made it."

"You need to get inside. I can't carry you, Julian."

"Then let me lean on you," he said. He looked at her, and for the first time, the exhaustion outweighed the hunger. "This is the first test, Elara. My garrison is loyal to the Silver Moon. Not to me. If they see me like this... they'll send word to the Shaman before the sun rises."

The carriage door was ripped open by a soldier in heavy, iron-plated armor. The cold hit Elara like a physical blow, stealing the breath from her lungs. The air in the Frost-Bound Woods didn't just feel cold; it felt sharp. It smelled of pine resin, old snow, and something else: the wild, musk-scented danger of the pack.

"Highness," the soldier said. His voice was like grinding stones. He stopped, his eyes widening as he looked past Julian to Elara.

He didn't look at her like a Princess. He looked at her like a miracle. Or a corpse that had forgotten to stop walking.

"The Mirror... she's still breathing," the soldier muttered.

Julian forced himself up. It was a slow, agonizing process that made Elara's own muscles ache in sympathy. He stepped out of the carriage, his legs buckling for a split second before he caught himself on the doorframe. He reached back and grabbed Elara's hand, pulling her out beside him.

He didn't let go. His grip was a lifeline. He leaned into her, his heavy wolf-skin coat draped over her shoulder as if to keep her warm, but she felt the truth: he was using her as a crutch.

A man stepped forward from the shadows of the portcullis. He was older, his hair a shock of white against skin that looked like tanned leather. He wore the insignia of a Garrison Commander. This was Varick. He didn't bow. He stood with his arms crossed, his gaze sliding from Julian's pale face to the dark bloodstain on Elara's collar.

"You're late, Julian," Varick said. He looked at the carriage, then back at the Prince. "The Shaman's birds have been circling the battlements for three days. They said the Selection was a bloodbath. They didn't mention you'd be bringing the girl back whole."

"The Shaman says many things, Varick," Julian said. His voice was steady now, though Elara could feel the tremors running through his entire frame. "The Mirror is my wife. She is to be treated as the Lady of this fortress. Is that understood?"

A low murmur went through the assembled guards. They were looking at Elara with a mixture of hunger and suspicion. To them, she was a hundred years of life. She was the fuel that kept the "Wasting" at bay. Seeing her standing there, unmarked and healthy, was an affront to the laws they had lived by since birth.

"A wife?" Varick spat on the frozen ground. "The North has no use for a human Princess, Julian. The men are hungry. The winter is coming on hard. They expected a ritual. They expected a healthy Alpha."

Julian took a step toward Varick. He didn't use the Voice, but the sheer, focused malice in his silver eyes was enough to make the Commander take a step back.

"I am still your Prince," Julian said. "And she is my mate. If any man in this garrison looks at her as a Tithe, he will answer to me. Am I clear, Varick?"

Varick narrowed his eyes. He looked at the way Julian was leaning on Elara. He wasn't a fool. He saw the sweat on Julian's brow. He saw the way the Prince's hand was gripping Elara's shoulder so hard the fabric was bunching.

"Clear, Highness," Varick said, though the steel in his voice remained. "We've prepared the private wing. The fire is lit. But don't expect the men to toast to a human bride. They know a dying wolf when they see one."

Julian didn't answer. He led Elara through the courtyard, his boots crunching on the black gravel. The fortress was a labyrinth of cold stone and flickering torches. There were no tapestries here. No gold. It was a place of war and survival. Every corridor felt like a throat, closing in on them as they climbed higher into the private quarters.

They reached a heavy oak door reinforced with iron bands. Two guards stood outside, their faces hidden behind silver visors. They snapped to attention, but Elara felt their eyes on her neck, searching for the brand that wasn't there.

Julian shoved the door open and pulled her inside.

The room was massive, dominated by a fireplace that roared with a desperate, orange heat. A large bed sat in the center, covered in black furs. It was a room designed for a predator.

The moment the door clicked shut, Julian let go of her.

He didn't make it to the bed. He hit the rug in front of the fire, his body collapsing as the last of his willpower evaporated. He groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that made Elara's heart stop.

"Julian!"

She ran to him, kneeling in the fur of the rug. She grabbed his shoulders, trying to roll him onto his back. He was heavier than she expected, a dead weight of muscle and bone. When she finally managed to move him, she let out a strangled cry.

His shirt was soaked. Not just with sweat, but with a thick, silver-tinged fluid that was seeping from the pores of his skin. She reached for the buttons of his coat, her fingers fumbling with the heavy toggles. She stripped the fur away, then began to tear at the linen of his shirt.

What lay beneath was a nightmare.

The silver lines weren't just on his neck. They were everywhere. They crisscrossed his chest like a spiderweb of glowing fire. Where the lines met, the skin was cracking, revealing raw, red meat beneath. On his shoulders, the silver fur was thick, the wolf trying to tear its way out through his human flesh. His ribs were shifting, the bones grating against each other as his skeleton tried to reform into something else.

"The shard," Julian choked out. He was clutching his chest, his eyes rolled back in his head. "Elara... the glass."

"No," she said. She grabbed a basin of water from a side table and a clean cloth. "I'm not killing you. Not yet."

She began to wash the silver fluid from his skin. Every time the cool water touched a crack in his flesh, Julian let out a sound that would haunt her dreams. It was a high, thin whistle of pain.

"You're a fool," he rasped, his eyes snapping to hers. "You could end it. You could be free. The soldiers... they'd let you go if you brought them my head."

"They wouldn't let me go, Julian. They'd eat me. I saw their faces." She wiped a streak of blood from his collarbone. "You're the only thing standing between me and a hundred starving wolves. So you don't get to die."

She worked in silence for a long time. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the wind hammering against the heavy stone walls. The heat in the room was stifling, a thick, heavy blanket of woodsmoke and the metallic scent of the Wasting.

As she cleaned the wounds on his chest, Elara felt a strange, jarring sensation. The brand on her neck, the place where his blood had entered her skin, was throbbing. It wasn't a physical pain. It was a vibration. A low-frequency hum that seemed to match the beat of Julian's heart.

She looked at him. He was watching her, his breathing finally beginning to steady as the spasm passed. The silver light in his eyes had faded back to a bruised, icy blue.

"The pact," she said, her voice a whisper. "You said we have to play the part. Tell me what I need to do."

Julian pushed himself up on his elbows. He looked at her, his gaze intense. "The Shaman is watching. He doesn't need to be in the room to see us, Elara. He watches through the frost. He watches through the birds. If he sees any crack in the lie... if he realizes I haven't taken your soul... he will come here himself. And my father will be with him."

"And if we keep the lie?"

"Then we have time. Time to find a way to break the Link. My mother... she was a Mirror. Like you. She left things in this fortress. Secrets the Shaman couldn't find."

He reached out, his hand hovering near her face. He didn't touch her. He looked at her as if she were a puzzle he couldn't solve.

"Why didn't you scream?" he asked. "In the plaza. When I bit you. When the Shaman held the iron. You didn't make a sound."

"I was too busy trying to remember how to breathe," Elara said. She looked at the silver scars on his chest. "I've spent my whole life waiting for the monster to come and eat me. I didn't expect the monster to be the one who was suffering."

Julian's hand finally dropped, his fingers brushing the silk of her sleeve. "Don't mistake me for a hero, Elara. I am a predator. The only reason you're alive is because I hate the Shaman more than I hunger for you."

"I'll take it," she said.

She stood up and walked to the window. The frost was thick on the glass, forming intricate, jagged patterns that looked like lace. She reached out to wipe a clear spot so she could look at the woods below.

As her finger touched the glass, the frost didn't melt.

It moved.

The crystals shifted, swirling under the surface of the pane. They began to form words. The letters were jagged and cold, etched into the glass from the outside.

THE TITHE IS OWED.

Elara stepped back, her hand going to her throat. She looked at Julian, who was watching the window with a look of pure, unadulterated dread.

"He's here," Julian whispered.

Suddenly, a loud, mechanical tapping started against the glass. *Tap. Tap. Tap.*

It wasn't a bird.

Perched on the outer ledge was a creature made of frozen air and silver feathers. It had the head of a crow, but its eyes were two glowing, red embers. It stared at Elara, its beak tapping against the stone with the precision of a clock.

Then, it opened its beak.

The voice that came out didn't belong to a bird. it was a dry, papery whisper that filled every corner of the room.

"Six days, Julian. Six days until the Moon turns red. If the Mirror is not empty by then... the North will burn."

The bird shattered. It didn't fly away; it simply exploded into a cloud of fine, silver ice that coated the window.

Elara looked at the window, then back at Julian. He was standing now, his hand gripping the bedpost so hard the wood was splintering. The violet light in his neck was flaring, a violent, jagged pulse that made his skin look like it was about to burst.

"Julian?"

He didn't look at her. He was staring at the floor, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"The archives," he muttered. "The lower levels. Elara... there's a door behind the tapestry in the Great Hall. My mother's journals. You have to find them."

"Now? You can barely walk!"

"Go!" he roared. The Voice was back, a physical force that knocked a chair over and made the fire flare up to the ceiling. "The wolf is coming, Elara. I can't... I can't hold it back anymore. Get out!"

Elara didn't wait. She grabbed a heavy cloak from a hook and ran for the door. She burst into the hallway, the cold air hitting her like a slap. She didn't look back at the room, but she heard the sound from inside.

It was a howl. But it didn't sound like a wolf.

It sounded like a man being torn in half.

She ran down the corridor, her feet silent on the stone. She reached the Great Hall, which was empty now, the torches guttering in the drafts. She scanned the walls, searching for the tapestry Julian had mentioned.

She found it in a dark alcove behind the hearth. It was a massive piece of fabric, depicting a silver wolf being chased by a hunter with a golden bow. She pulled it aside, her fingers catching on the rough wool.

There was no door. Only a wall of solid, black stone.

"Looking for something, Princess?"

Elara froze. She turned slowly.

Standing in the center of the hall was Varick. He wasn't alone. He had three guards with him, their hands on the hilts of their swords.

"The Prince is resting," Elara said, her voice steadier than she felt. "He asked me to... explore."

"Explore?" Varick took a step toward her. His eyes were fixed on her neck. "The North Fortress is no place for a human girl to wander alone. Especially not one who hasn't been properly branded."

He reached out and grabbed her arm, his grip like iron. He pulled her toward the light of the fire.

"Let's see it," Varick said. "The blood seal. If it's real, you'll have the Mark. If Julian lied... then you're just a Tithe that's overdue."

He ripped the collar of her dress down.

The guards leaned in, their breathing heavy in the silence.

Elara felt the cold air hit her skin. She waited for the sound of their swords. She waited for the end.

But Varick didn't strike. He stopped. His eyes widened, his grip on her arm loosening.

"What is that?" one of the guards whispered.

Elara looked down at her own shoulder.

The brand wasn't there. But something else was.

Beneath her skin, a faint, violet light was glowing. It wasn't a mark. It was a pattern. A map of silver lines that matched the ones on Julian's neck. And as they watched, the lines began to pulse.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound was coming from inside her own chest.

"The Wasting," Varick whispered, his voice trembling with a terror Elara had never seen before. "It's not killing him. It's moving. It's moving into her."