Five days until the marking ceremony.

Lia woke to voices drifting through the night air.

Elders. Multiple. Arguing in hushed, urgent tones from the direction of the main lodge. At this hour—well past midnight—that meant trouble.

She should stay inside. Mark's warning still rang clear: Don't open this door.

But those voices were talking about something. And given yesterday's healing, given the way the Elders had looked at her with hunger in their eyes—

Lia pulled on her boots.

The night was cold and still, stars scattered like salt across black velvet. She moved through shadows, keeping to the treeline. Her half-blood heritage made her weak in most ways, but she could move quietly. Nearly human footsteps, almost silent.

The main lodge glowed with firelight. Lia crept to the back wall where age had warped the wood, leaving gaps. She pressed her eye to the largest crack.

Five Elders sat around the fire. Morna. Torin. Three others she rarely saw—the eldest, who spoke only at the most important gatherings.

"The bloodline sickness grows worse," Elder Cain said, his face a map of wrinkles. "My grandson died last week. Three days old. Lungs too weak. That's the third pup this year alone."

Silence fell, grim and heavy.

"Which is why we need her blood," Morna said. "Not drops. Not rationing. The great blood offering. As much as she can give."

Lia's breath caught. As much as she can give.

"That could kill her," Torin said quietly.

"Then she dies serving her purpose." Morna's voice was ice. "She's half-blood. A vessel. Nothing more."

Lia's nails bit into her palms. Vessel. Always that word.

"But the prophecy—" one Elder began.

"The prophecy is precisely why we must act quickly." Morna stood, firelight casting her shadow long across the walls. Her voice took on a ritualistic cadence:

"When silver blood walks among wolves,

The ancient power shall wake.

Old orders will crumble to dust,

And the marked shall rule or break."

The words hit Lia like ice water. Her whole body went cold.

Silver blood.

Could they mean—no. Impossible. She was just half-blood. Mongrel. Worthless, they'd said so for five years. This had to be about someone else. Some legendary figure from the past.

But that warmth in her chest—the thing that had exploded in silver light yesterday—pulsed once. Hard. Like it was responding to the words.

Lia pressed her hand to her sternum, trying to quiet it. Trying to understand.

"'Old orders will crumble,'" Torin repeated slowly. "That could mean—"

"Chaos," Morna snapped. "Everything our ancestors built—hierarchy, bloodline purity, pack order—threatened. We cannot allow it."

"But what if the prophecy means salvation?" Cain said quietly. "The marked shall rule or break. What if—"

"Superstition." Morna's voice cracked like a whip. "I don't care what ancient ravings say. That girl's only purpose is providing blood to heal our people. The ceremony is perfect. Once Derek marks her, the bond forces compliance. She'll have no choice but to submit to whatever we require."

Cold flooded Lia's veins. The marking wasn't a claiming. It was a leash.

A magical leash that would let them bleed her until there was nothing left.

"And Derek?" Torin asked.

"Derek is compromised." Morna's tone went cold. "You saw him yesterday. He can barely control himself around her. That makes him unreliable. If his... attachment becomes a liability, we have contingencies."

"You're talking about removing our Alpha," an Elder said, shocked.

"I'm talking about survival. The pack comes first. If Derek chooses her over us—" Morna's voice hardened. "Then we do what must be done."

Lia's heart hammered against her ribs. They'd kill Derek if he tried to protect her.

But would he even try? Or was his claim just another cage, another way to use her?

Silver blood walks among wolves.

Lia looked down at her hands, at the faint scar on her palm from yesterday. When her blood had touched that boy, it had glowed. Actually glowed, silver and bright and impossibly alive.

Was that what the prophecy meant? Was she—

No. She couldn't be. Prophecies were for important people. Pure-bloods. Alphas. Not discarded half-bloods who spent five years being called mongrel.

But the warmth in her chest pulsed again, insistent.

A twig snapped behind her.

Lia spun, heart in her throat.

Derek stood three feet away. Gold eyes catching starlight.

His gaze moved from her to the gap in the wall. Understanding flickered across his features.

Then his hand shot out, gripping her arm—firm, burning hot—and he pulled her into the forest.

Lia tried to speak but he pressed a finger to his lips. Silent. They moved quickly through trees until the lodge was far behind, until they reached a moonlit clearing.

Only then did Derek release her.

His hand left a phantom heat on her arm.

"What," he said quietly, dangerously, "were you thinking?"

"I heard voices. I needed—"

"You risked everything." His voice was controlled but she heard the edge. "If they'd caught you—"

"They're planning to drain me!" Lia's fear morphed to anger. "At the ceremony. They'll use the bond to force me to give blood until it kills me. And they don't care."

Derek's jaw clenched. "I know."

Two words. Devastating.

"You know?" Lia stared. "You knew and you still claimed me—"

"I claimed you to protect you from exactly that." Derek's hands clenched at his sides. "The ceremony was supposed to buy time. Time to find another way. Time to—"

He stopped abruptly, head turning.

Footsteps. Coming from the lodge.

"Mark," Derek said. "Checking on you." His eyes snapped to hers, urgent. "Go back. Now. If they realize you heard—"

"What about you?"

"They won't suspect me." His voice went flat. Cold. The warmth vanished behind ice. "Because I'm simply keeping my property secure. Nothing more."

The word stung. Property.

But Lia saw his hands shaking before he clenched them into fists.

Before she could respond, Derek's expression changed. His nostrils flared, head tilting slightly. He was scenting something on the air.

"Go," he said, but his voice had gone rough. Strained. "Now. Before I—"

He cut himself off, jaw clenching so tight she heard teeth grinding.

"Before you what?" Lia demanded.

Derek took a step back from her. Then another. Like he was forcing distance between them.

"Just go," he rasped.

Lia turned, racing back through trees. Behind her, Derek's footsteps headed a different direction—not toward the settlement, but deeper into the forest. Running from something.

Or running from her.

She reached the cabin seconds before Mark appeared on the path. Threw herself onto the cot, pulling Derek's cloak over her.

Mark's knock came. "Lia?"

"Sleeping," she made her voice groggy.

"Thought I heard something."

"I'm fine."

Pause. "Lock the door."

His footsteps retreated.

Lia lay in darkness, mind racing. The prophecy. The plan. Derek claiming he was protecting her while calling her property.

Silver blood walks among wolves.

The marked shall rule or break.

She was marked. By Silver Creek. Soon by Derek.

But could she really be what that prophecy meant? It seemed impossible. Ridiculous, even. She was nobody. Nothing.

Except her blood had glowed silver yesterday. Except that warmth in her chest responded to the prophecy's words like recognition. Except the Elders were terrified enough of some ancient prediction to plan her death.

Maybe she wasn't nobody.

Maybe that was exactly what they were afraid of.

A sound outside made her tense.

Derek stood at the clearing's edge, barely visible in starlight. Something was wrong with his posture. Rigid. Strained.

His hand pressed against his chest. Trying to hold something back.

Then his head tilted back. Even from here she saw elongated canines.

His eyes found her window.

Gold. Burning.

His lips moved. She couldn't hear but she could read them:

"Don't. Come. Closer."

He wasn't talking to her.

He was warning himself.

Derek's hand dropped to his side, fingers curling into claws. He took one step toward the cabin. Stopped. Every muscle locked.

"Don't," she saw him mouth again. Barely audible across the distance: "Don't come near her. Don't—"

His voice broke into something between growl and plea.

Then he ran. Not walked. Ran into the forest with inhuman speed.

Lia stood at the window, shaking.

She'd seen trapped animals gnaw off their own limbs to escape.

Derek looked at her cabin like she was the trap.

And he was desperate not to gnaw free.

She pressed her hand to the window, fingers splaying against cold glass. That strange warmth in her chest pulsed, responding to something. His proximity? His distress?

A connection. Growing stronger with each encounter.

The marking would forge a bond. The Elders wanted to use it to control her.

But what if it unleashed whatever was clawing inside Derek instead?

Lia moved from the window. Sat on the cot. The prophecy echoed in her mind, the words feeling heavier now, more real:

When silver blood walks among wolves, the ancient power shall wake.

She thought about five years of contempt. Of molding herself to fit their world. Of swallowing insults with grateful smiles.

Five years of being called vessel. Half-blood. Mongrel. Damaged goods.

And now they wanted to chain her with magic and bleed her until she broke.

Unless she was something they hadn't anticipated. Unless that prophecy wasn't about some legendary figure from the past.

Unless it was about her.

Something cold crystallized in her chest. Not the silver warmth—something harder. Sharper.

If they wanted to call her dangerous, maybe she should become exactly that.

Lia pulled Derek's cloak tight, breathing in pine and steel and wildness.

Five days until the marking ceremony.

Five days to figure out what she was.

And what she was capable of becoming.

Four days until the marking ceremony.

A wooden plaque hung on Lia's cabin door at dusk, the words carved deep: *The pack gathers tonight. Derek Damsi's mate will attend.*

Mark appeared with a bundle of rough cloth. "For tonight," he said, not meeting her eyes. "I'll come get you at moonrise."

Lia unwrapped it after he left. Her stomach dropped.

Servant's dress. Undyed linen, coarse and cheap. Not even the midnight blue from before—this was deliberately degrading.

The Elders' message was clear: Derek's claim changes nothing. You're still beneath us.

Lia's hands clenched in the fabric. That cold rage flickered back to life.

They wanted to humiliate her? Fine. She'd endure it. Learn from it. And remember every slight when the time came.

---

The Great Hall blazed with firelight and chaos. Long tables groaned under roasted meat, mead flowing freely. The pack celebrated a successful hunt—three elk, enough meat to last weeks.

Lia stood at the threshold in her servant's dress, Derek's cloak the only thing of value she wore. Every eye turned. Whispers erupted.

"...the half-blood..."

"...even Derek's mate gets servant's cloth..."

Lia lifted her chin and walked in.

The pack parted. Not respect—morbid curiosity. They wanted to see where Derek would seat his claimed mate.

The head table sat raised. Elders in the center. Derek stood to the right, arms crossed, face carved from stone. His eyes swept the room but never landed on her. Never acknowledged her at all.

To his left, Aileen Graham held court in blue silk that probably cost more than everything Lia had ever owned. Jason sat beside her, hand possessive on her waist.

Mark appeared at Lia's elbow, guiding her forward. But not to the head table.

To a corner. Near the kitchens. Where servants ate.

The pack's laughter started low, building to a roar.

Lia sat. The bench bit into her thighs through thin fabric, splinters catching skin. The plate before her reeked—gristle, fat, cartilage. Parts even dogs wouldn't touch. While the pack feasted on prime cuts, she got literal garbage.

Around her, the feast continued. Loud. Raucous. She forced herself to sit still, keep her face neutral even as humiliation burned.

From the head table, she caught fragments of conversation. Derek's voice, low and controlled, discussing border patrols with an Elder. Aileen's laugh, bright and sharp. Jason agreeing with something Morna said, his voice carrying that edge of ambition she remembered from their years together.

They'd all moved on. Found their places. Their purposes.

And she sat in the corner with scraps.

Then Aileen stood.

She moved with deliberate grace, wine cup in hand, silk swishing. The crowd quieted, sensing entertainment.

Aileen approached Lia's table. Her smile was poison-sweet.

"Oh, Lia," she cooed, loud enough for half the hall. "You look so... comfortable here. It suits you, don't you think?"

Lia said nothing. Kept her eyes forward.

"I mean, we wouldn't want you out of place." Aileen circled like a predator. "Bloodlines matter. And yours is so..." She wrinkled her nose. "Diluted."

Laughter rippled through nearby tables.

"Though I suppose Derek sees some use in you." Aileen's voice dropped to a stage whisper. "Even if it's just as a blood bag. Tell me, does it hurt? When they cut you open? Or have you gotten used to it?"

The silver warmth in Lia's chest pulsed hot. Her nails bit into her palms.

"Nothing to say?" Aileen leaned closer, perfume cloying. "I suppose that's wise. We wouldn't want the mongrel to—oh!"

She stumbled. Her wine cup tipped.

Red liquid splashed across Lia's chest, soaking through rough linen to the skin beneath. Cold. Humiliating. The wine spread across the fabric, dark as blood.

"Oops," Aileen gasped, mock horror on her face. "How clumsy. Did I ruin your lovely dress?" Her eyes glittered. "Oh wait, it's servant cloth. I'm sure they have more."

The hall erupted. Some laughed outright. Others whispered. All watched, waiting for the half-blood to break.

Lia stood slowly. Wine dripped down her front, pooling at her feet. The liquid had soaked through to her skin, cold against her collarbone, running down between her breasts.

She met Aileen's gaze directly.

"You didn't push me," Lia said quietly. "So I'll ask once: was that an accident?"

Aileen's smile sharpened. "Does it matter? You're not going to do anything. You're not pack. You're barely—"

The temperature in the hall dropped.

Lia felt it before she saw it—a shift in the air, a pressure building like a storm about to break.

Derek was moving.

Not walking. Not even running. One moment he was at the head table. The next he was there, massive frame cutting between them, and Lia hadn't seen him cross the space.

His face was still controlled. Stone. But something had changed in his eyes. Something dark gathering at the edges.

"Step back," he said to Aileen. His voice was quiet. Measured. But wrong somehow. Like the calm before thunder.

Aileen's confidence wavered, but she held her ground. "Derek, I was just—it was an accident—"

"Step. Back." Each word came out harder than the last.

Derek's hands hung at his sides, but Lia saw them now. Trembling. Not fear—restraint. His fingers kept curling inward, and she caught the flash of claws extending, retracting, extending again. Like his body was fighting a war with itself.

His scent had changed too. That wild edge she'd noticed before was sharpening, intensifying, until it cut through the smell of roasted meat and mead and wood smoke. Several nearby wolves shifted nervously, instinctively responding to a predator in their midst.

But Derek still hadn't looked at Lia. His gaze was fixed on Aileen, and there was something building in those glacial blue eyes. Something golden trying to surface.

"Derek," Elder Morna's voice carried from the head table, sharp with warning. "Control yourself."

He didn't acknowledge her. Didn't move. Just stood there, every muscle coiled, breathing carefully through his nose.

Then Aileen made a mistake.

She stepped toward Lia. Not away. Toward.

"Really, all this fuss over spilled wine—"

Derek's head snapped around with inhuman speed.

His nostrils flared. Once. Twice. Drawing in deep breaths of air, and Lia realized what he was smelling.

The wine. Soaked through her dress. Against her skin. Her scent mixing with the alcohol, the heat of her body releasing it into the air in waves.

She saw the exact moment it hit him.

His pupils dilated so fast it looked like darkness swallowing his eyes from the inside out. His chest heaved. Every tendon in his neck stood out in sharp relief.

And gold bled into the blue. Not a flicker. A flood.

"Everyone," Derek said, his voice different now—rough, strained, barely controlled—"needs to move away from her. Now."

But Aileen didn't understand. Thought this was about her, about protecting her from punishment. She actually smiled, touching Derek's arm. "See? You agree it was just—"

Derek's hand shot out and gripped her wrist. Not hard enough to break—but hard enough to make her cry out in shock.

"Not from her," he growled, and the sound wasn't quite human anymore. "From me."

He released Aileen and she stumbled back, fear finally breaking through her arrogance.

Derek's whole body was rigid now, shaking with the effort of standing still. His hands had curled into fists so tight that blood welled up between his knuckles where claws had pierced through his own palms. It dripped onto the floor, dark droplets spreading across wood.

And his eyes—fully gold now, burning with inhuman intensity—were locked on Lia.

Not on her face. On her throat. On the pulse point jumping frantically beneath her skin. On the wine-soaked fabric clinging to her chest, rising and falling with each rapid breath.

His lips pulled back. Canines extended. Longer than they should be. Sharp enough to tear.

The growl that rumbled from his chest made the nearest wolves scramble back, chairs scraping, panic rising.

"Mark," Derek forced out, the word distorted, half-human. He was still staring at Lia, and she could see the struggle in those gold eyes. Recognition warring with something else. Something hungry and desperate and barely leashed. "Get. Her. Out."

"Derek—" Morna stood, voice sharp with command. "Remember yourself!"

"NOW!" The word erupted from Derek, more roar than speech, and the windows rattled.

Mark was already moving, gripping Lia's elbow, hauling her toward the door. But Lia couldn't look away from Derek.

He stood frozen in the center of the hall, blood pooling at his feet from his pierced palms. His chest heaved with harsh breaths. Every muscle locked in place, and she understood—he was forcing himself to stay still. Fighting every instinct screaming at him to move.

To come after her.

His eyes tracked her movement across the hall with the focus of a predator watching prey escape. Gold. Burning. Wild.

And beneath the wildness, something that looked like terror. Like he was watching himself lose control and couldn't stop it.

"Everyone out!" Morna commanded, real fear in her voice now. "Clear the hall immediately!"

The pack didn't need telling twice. They fled, chairs scraping, panicked voices rising.

Mark dragged Lia through the door and didn't stop until they were deep in the forest, the sounds of chaos fading behind them.

"What the hell just happened?" Lia gasped, her heart hammering. "Why did he—"

"The wine," Mark said, breathing hard. "On your skin. Your scent mixed with it, and he—" He stopped, running a hand through his hair. "I've never seen him that close to losing it completely."

A howl split the night. Agonized. Enraged. Utterly inhuman.

From the direction of the hall.

Mark's face went white—not just pale, but bloodless, like he was seeing something he'd hoped never to see again. His hands trembled.

"Stay here," he ordered, voice tight with barely controlled fear. "Don't move. Don't go back to the cabin. Not until I know he's—"

He didn't finish. Just ran back toward the sound.

Lia stood alone in the dark, wine-soaked and shaking. That warmth in her chest was going haywire, pulsing in rhythm with her hammering heart.

She could still see Derek's eyes. Gold. Desperate. Fixed on her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Like she was prey.

Or salvation.

Or both.

Time crawled. Eventually Mark returned, breathing hard, his shirt torn.

"He's... contained. Barely." His voice was hollow. "Morna and three other Elders talked him down. He's in his quarters now. Alone. Locked in."

"What happened after I left?"

Mark met her eyes, and she saw real fear there. "He tried to follow you. Jason got in his way." He swallowed. "Derek broke his arm without even looking at him. Just... shoved him aside like he was nothing. Then he saw Aileen standing there and something in him just... snapped."

"Did he hurt her?"

"He would have." Mark's voice was grim. "He had her by the throat, lifted clean off the ground. His claws were out. She was screaming. It took four of us to pull him off. And even then..." He shook his head. "He wasn't seeing us. Wasn't seeing anything. Just that gold in his eyes and this sound he was making. Not quite a growl. Not quite..."

"What?"

"Not quite sane," Mark finished quietly. "Then he just... ran. Out into the forest. We found him two miles out, tearing into trees. His hands were shredded. Blood everywhere. But he wasn't stopping."

Lia's stomach turned. "Is he—"

"He'll heal physically. But Lia, this is bad. The Elders saw everything. They're meeting right now, deciding if he's still fit to lead."

"They'd really remove him?"

"After tonight?" Mark's laugh was bitter. "They're terrified. Derek nearly killed two pack members in front of everyone. And all because someone spilled wine on you."

Not just the wine, Lia thought. The scent. Her scent mixing with it. Calling to whatever beast lived inside Derek's skin.

"Go back to the cabin," Mark said. "Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone but me. Not even—" He stopped himself.

"Not even Derek," Lia finished.

Mark nodded, his expression miserable.

---

Hours later, Lia woke to sounds outside.

Violent. Rhythmic. Wrong.

She moved to the window.

Derek stood at the clearing's edge, moonlight turning everything silver. His back was to her, shoulders heaving with each breath. As she watched, he raised both hands—wrapped in crude, blood-soaked bandages—and slammed them into an oak tree.

Again. Again. Again.

Fresh blood seeped through the bandages with each impact. The tree bark splintered. Wood groaned. But he didn't stop.

Mark appeared from the shadows, keeping his distance.

"Derek," he called quietly. "Brother. You need to stop. You're going to—"

"I know what I'm going to do," Derek's voice was raw, barely recognizable. "That's the problem."

He hit the tree again. The bandages on his right hand came loose, falling away. His knuckles were destroyed—skin torn, bone visible in places.

"It's starting again," Mark said, and his voice broke. "Just like before. Just like Father."

Before? Father?

Lia pressed closer to the window, breath fogging the glass.

Derek finally stopped, pressing his forehead against the ruined bark. His whole body shook. One hand moved to his chest, pressing hard, fingers clawing at his own skin through his shirt.

"Four more days. Just four more days.

Then the bond will force it to stop. The beast will be contained. It has to be."

He slammed his fist into the tree.

"Then this ends. This... need. This madness."

He wasn't sure if he meant the beast's need. Or his own.

He turned, and in the moonlight Lia saw his face clearly.

Tears tracked through blood and dirt. His eyes were still gold—hadn't returned to blue. And his expression was shattered, broken in a way that made her chest ache.

He looked toward her cabin. For a moment, their eyes met across the distance.

"I'm sorry," she saw him mouth. "I'm so sorry."

Then he walked into the darkness.

Mark remained, staring after him. His face was grief-stricken.

"He's not going to survive this," Mark said to the empty air. To himself. To no one. "Even if he makes it to the ceremony. Even if the bond works. He's not going to survive what he's becoming."

He turned and walked away, leaving Lia alone at the window.

Four days until the marking ceremony.

Four days until Derek either found salvation or destruction in the bond.

And Lia was beginning to realize she might be both.

Three days until the marking ceremony.

Lia woke to voices outside her cabin. Not Mark's careful footsteps. Not Derek's heavy tread. Multiple voices. Unfamiliar. Elders.

She pressed herself to the wall, barely breathing.

"—confirmation from the council. The ceremony moves forward regardless of his... condition."

"And if he loses control during the marking itself?"

"Then we ensure the bond completes first. Once it's sealed, she's bound. Compliant. Whether he survives the process or not is... secondary."

Secondary.

Derek was secondary. His life, his struggle, all of it—just collateral in their plan to chain her.

The voices faded. Lia remained frozen against the wall, heart hammering.

Three days. They'd said three days. But those voices had carried an urgency that suggested they might not even wait that long. "Moves forward regardless" could mean tomorrow. Tonight.

She had to run. Now.

---

Elric's hut squatted at the territory's far edge, half-hidden by overgrown brush. Lia found him grinding herbs in the dim interior, his milky eyes tracking her movement with unsettling accuracy.

"The half-blood," he rasped. "Come to ask what you should've asked years ago."

Lia's throat tightened. "My father. You knew him."

"Knew him. Watched him die." Elric's hands never stopped working. "Couldn't save him. Maybe can't save you either, but I'll try."

"How did he die?"

"Ran. Just like you're planning to." Elric finally looked up. "Tried three times. They caught him every time. Fourth time... he was too weak to run anymore. So they just took what they needed until there was nothing left."

Lia's vision blurred. "But how did they keep finding him?"

"Your father was smart. Careful. Knew every trick." Elric's hands stilled. "Didn't matter. Every time he used his gift—every time that power woke inside him—they found him. Like he was ringing a bell only predators could hear."

Ice flooded Lia's veins. Yesterday's healing. The way wolves had looked at her after. Mark's cryptic warning.

"So I can't use it. Can't heal. Not if I want to escape."

"Even if you don't, girl, the power's awake now. It'll call anyway. Quieter, maybe. But still there." Elric shuffled to a shelf, pulling down a worn pouch. "Your father was making this when they caught him. Never got to test it."

He pressed the pouch into her hands. Warm. Smelling of bitter earth and something acrid.

"Shadow moss. Bone ash. Bitter root. Won't stop the calling completely. Nothing can. But it'll muffle it. Make you harder to track."

"How much time?"

"A day. Maybe two." His clouded eyes glistened. "After that, you'd better be far enough away that it doesn't matter."

Lia clutched the pouch. "Why help me?"

"Because I didn't help him." Elric's voice cracked. "Your father asked me to run with him the third time. I was too afraid. Too old." He turned away. "So I watched them drain him. And I did nothing."

"That Alpha. Derek. You said something's happening to him—"

"Damsi bloodline carries a curse. Too much power, not enough humanity to contain it. Derek's father went mad from it. Killed three pack members before they put him down." Elric looked at her. "Derek's walking the same path. The ceremony might save him. Or kill you both faster."

"Is there another way?"

"If there is, it's not in my knowledge. And girl?" Elric's voice hardened. "That's not your burden. You don't owe him salvation. You owe yourself survival."

---

Back at the cabin, Lia moved with methodical precision.

Small pack. Elric's herbs. Dried meat. Waterskin. Knife.

She changed into dark clothes. Derek's cloak—she hesitated, fingers brushing the heavy fabric. His scent still clung to it.

She left it on the bed.

The ring Derek had given her sat on her finger. Simple silver. She'd worn it without thinking.

Lia pulled it off, feeling strangely naked.

She found parchment, charcoal. Her hand shook as she wrote:

*I can't be what you need. Can't be bled for politics or bound to save you from yourself. Whatever you're fighting, I hope you win.*

*But I won't be the price.*

She stared at the words. Something felt unfinished.

*I'm sorry it wasn't different.*

*—L*

She set the ring on the note. Silver gleaming against black ink.

Outside, night had deepened. Three-quarter moon hung fat and bright.

A figure stood at the clearing's edge.

Lia's heart stopped.

Mark stepped into moonlight, face carefully neutral.

"Going somewhere?" he asked quietly.

Lia's hand tightened on her pack. "You going to stop me?"

"Should I?" Mark moved closer, not threatening, just sad. "The ceremony's moved up—tomorrow night, not three days. They're afraid Derek will lose control completely if they wait." He paused. "I don't blame you for running."

Tomorrow night. Her stomach dropped.

"Then let me go."

"I am." Mark pulled out a small brass compass. "Western path. Follow it to the stream, then north. Stay in the water long as you can. There's an abandoned trapper's cabin about ten miles out."

Lia took the compass, throat tight. "Why?"

"Because Derek's losing himself, and you're the trigger." Mark's voice cracked. "Not your fault—something about your presence, your scent, wakes the beast in him. If you're gone, maybe... maybe he'll have a chance to fight it without you being there to set it off. Maybe he'll survive."

"You think my leaving will save him?"

"I think your staying will definitely kill him. And probably you too." Mark's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "So yeah. Run. Live. Let him fight his own demons without you being caught in the crossfire."

Footsteps approached from the settlement.

"Go," Mark urged. "Now."

Lia shouldered her pack and ran toward the forest edge. But something made her stop. Made her turn back.

The main settlement sprawled below, most windows dark and shuttered against the night. But one window—high up in the Alpha lodge, Derek's quarters—glowed with faint candlelight.

A shadow stood there. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Unmoving.

Had been standing there, she realized with sudden certainty, for hours. Maybe all night. Watching her cabin in the distance. Unable to come closer. Unable to stay away.

The shadow's hand pressed against the window glass. Even across the impossible distance, Lia felt it—that pull, that connection, like a thread drawn taut between them.

She should go. Should run. Should never look back.

But she stood frozen, staring at that distant shadow, and something in her chest ached.

*I'm sorry*, she thought. *I'm sorry you're fighting something I can't help you defeat. I'm sorry I have to choose myself.*

The shadow didn't move. Just stood there, hand against glass, watching her.

Lia turned and ran into the darkness.

---

The western path twisted through dense trees. Behind her, Mark's voice carried: "...checking perimeter... no, haven't seen her..."

The stream was ice when she found it, shocking against her skin. Lia waded in, gasping, following the current north. The cold would mask her scent. The water would hide her trail.

She didn't know how long she walked. An hour? Two? Legs numb, teeth chattering. The stream narrowed, became too shallow.

Lia climbed out, boots squelching. She fumbled for Elric's herbs, crushed them between her palms, smeared the bitter paste across her skin, her clothes, her hair.

The scent was acrid. Wrong. But if it bought time—

A howl split the night. Distant. Coming from the settlement.

They'd found her missing.

Lia forced herself to breathe slowly. To calm the panic.

*Don't call to them. Don't let the power wake.*

Another howl. Closer.

More howls. Multiple directions. Spreading out.

Lia ran.

Branches tore at her face. Roots tried to trip her. Lungs burning, but she couldn't stop. The howls were closing in.

A massive shape burst from the undergrowth ahead.

Lia dove sideways, rolling, scrambling behind a thick oak. She pressed herself against bark, hand over her mouth, forcing her breathing to slow.

Heavy footsteps. Sniffing. A hunter, maybe ten feet away.

"Lost the trail," a gruff voice called out. "She went in the water. Could be anywhere."

"Spread out. She can't have gone far."

The footsteps moved away. Lia waited, counting heartbeats. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.

She moved.

Grabbed a handful of Elric's herb paste from her pocket, smeared it on the oak's bark at shoulder height. Then she ran perpendicular, quiet as she could.

Behind her, she heard a hunter return to the oak. Heard him sniff. "Got the scent! This way!"

His footsteps crashed in the wrong direction.

Lia allowed herself a grim smile and kept moving.

But more howls erupted. They were adapting. Spreading wider.

She burst through brush into a small clearing. Saw what she needed—a fallen log, hollow from rot. Lia squeezed inside, pulling moss over the opening behind her.

Footsteps thundered past. Two hunters. Three. So close she could hear their breathing, smell their musk.

"Check that log," one said.

Lia's heart stopped.

Footsteps approached. A shadow fell across the moss.

Then another howl—urgent, from a different direction. "Found something! North ridge!"

"Move!" The shadow at the log vanished. All of them ran toward the howl.

Lia stayed frozen in the log, shaking. That had been too close.

She waited until silence returned, then crawled out.

The forest opened suddenly.

Lia stumbled into a clearing and froze.

Cliff edge. Sheer drop into darkness, mist rising from an unseen river below.

The border.

Footsteps crashed behind her. She spun.

Four wolves emerged. Pack hunters, eyes reflecting moonlight.

"Lia Dorman." The lead hunter's voice was flat. "The Elders demand your return."

"No."

"The ceremony is tomorrow night. You will attend. Willingly—" his lips pulled back in a snarl, "—or bound."

The others spread out, flanking her. Backing her toward the cliff.

Lia's foot found empty air. Pebbles tumbled into darkness.

She looked at each of them. At the hunters who'd chased her. At the territory behind them where the Elders waited to bleed her dry. At the distant lodge where a shadow still stood in a window, watching. Waiting.

"Tell Derek—" Her voice cracked. She thought about the note. The ring. The apology. About his gold eyes and shaking hands and the way he'd looked at her like she was both salvation and destruction.

"Tell him I'm sorry. Tell him... I hope he wins."

The hunter lunged.

Lia stepped backward off the cliff.

For a heartbeat, weightless. Free.

Then gravity took hold.

Wind screamed past.

Darkness rushed up.

The last thing she heard before the water swallowed her— A roar.

Distant. Anguished. Inhuman.

Then nothing but black and cold and the river's endless roar.