Sleep eluded me that night. Every time I closed my eyes, his face materialized: those storm-gray eyes, that cruel, beautiful mouth. The way he had looked at me, as if I were something he yearned to shatter, or devour. I struck the thin mattress beneath me. "Stop it," I hissed, my voice a ragged whisper. "He called you a half-blood like it was a disease. He's not your enemy. He's not anything."

The wolf disagreed. He's pack, it countered. Or he could be.

"He's pureblood. He probably bathes in the tears of half-breeds."

You don't know that.

"I know enough."

Abandoning the pretense of sleep, I sat by the small window in my cell. The sky above Istanbul was a dull, polluted gray, a stark contrast to the clear skies of the Black Sea coast. Somewhere out there, my mother was likely sipping her morning tea, content in her pretense that I had never existed. Good. Let her pretend. I had far greater problems now.

Dawn brought the guards. Not Dimitri this time, but two younger shifters, their movements as cold and efficient as any of the Council's servants. They led me through a different network of corridors, wider and brighter than the ones I knew, their windows offering glimpses of a courtyard I hadn't seen before.

The courtyard teemed with shifters. Dozens, perhaps a hundred, stood in hushed clusters, their eyes constantly scanning, constantly observing. I recognized some of the packs from the previous night-the Alaskans with their bone necklaces, the Mongolians with their sharp features, the Africans with their intricately braided hair.

And then I saw them. The Germans. They stood apart, a small, dark-clad contingent. They didn't speak, didn't move, merely waited, like a pack of wolves poised for the perfect moment to strike. Niklas stood at their center, clad in black: black pants, black shirt, black boots. His hair was pulled back, revealing the sharp planes of his jaw and the subtle curve of his ears. He looked like a predator cloaked in human skin. As his gaze met mine, his lip curled in a sneer.

"Ah," he announced, his voice carrying across the silent courtyard. "The dirty blood arrives."

The courtyard fell silent. I felt the weight of a hundred eyes upon me-curious, hostile, indifferent. Yet, my gaze remained locked on Niklas. "Dirty blood," I repeated, walking towards him. "How original. Did you conjure that yourself, or did your mother teach you?"

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by a few nervous titters. Niklas's eyes narrowed. "You have a mouth on you."

"And you have a stick up your-"

"Enough." Vera's voice, sharp as a honed blade, sliced through the rising tension. She appeared at the far end of the courtyard, flanked by the Alaskan and the Mongolian. Behind them, a man I hadn't seen before, tall and dark-skinned, his eyes holding an ancient depth, followed close.

"This is not a brawl," Vera continued, her tone firm. "This is a Gathering. You will show respect."

Niklas inclined his head, a barely perceptible movement, but his eyes never left mine. "Of course, Councilwoman. I was merely... greeting our newest guest."

"Guest?" I scoffed. "Is that what you call kidnapping now?"

Niklas's smile was a predatory flash. "I call it recruitment. You should be flattered."

"Recruitment for what?"

Vera stepped forward. "The Blood Call was merely the first step. You carry your father's memories, Elif. That makes you valuable. But value must be tested." She gestured to the assembled shifters. "Every year, the Council hosts a Competition. Packs from across the globe send their finest warriors-purebloods, half-bloods, it matters not. They fight. They prove their strength. And the victors receive land, resources, and the Council's favor."

"And what does that have to do with me?"

"You will compete," Vera stated. "For the Council. If you win, you earn your freedom. If you lose..." She shrugged, a gesture that conveyed finality. "You belong to the pack that claims you."

I stared at her, incredulity warring with a rising tide of anger. "You want me to fight for you? After you drugged me, kidnapped me, and cut me open?"

"I want you to survive," Vera replied, her gaze unwavering. "There's a difference."

The courtyard slowly emptied, the shifters dispersing back into their groups, no doubt whispering about the half-blood who had dared to confront Niklas Vollbrecht. I remained alone in the center, grappling with the enormity of what had just transpired.

"Elif Demir."

I turned. The tall, dark-skinned man from earlier was approaching. Up close, the lines etched into his face weren't wrinkles, but something deeper, like intricate maps of forgotten lands. "I am Kianuk," he introduced himself. "Of the Alaskan pack."

"I remember you. You were on the Council last night."

He nodded. "I was watching you. Not because of the relic. Because of your energy."

"My energy?"

"You are different from other half-bloods. You carry something within you. Something ancient." He tilted his head, studying me with an intensity that was both unnerving and insightful. "Have you ever wondered why your father chose to hide the relic instead of using it?"

Until that moment, the question hadn't even crossed my mind.

"He wasn't greedy," Kianuk continued, his voice a low rumble. "He was scared. The relic isn't merely a weapon. It's a key. And keys can unlock doors that are best left closed."

"Are you going to tell me what door?"

Kianuk offered a smile, a sad, gentle expression that unexpectedly reminded me of someone-perhaps my father, or the father I wished I had. "Not yet," he said. "You're not ready."

Before I could press further, a shadow fell over us. "Step away from her, Alaskan."

Niklas. Of course.

Kianuk remained unperturbed, his gaze steady as he looked at Niklas, then back at me. "Be careful, Elif Demir. The wolf you fear might be the only one who can save you." He turned and disappeared into the dispersing crowd.

Niklas watched him go, his jaw set tight. "What did he say to you?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

"Everything about you concerns me now." He stepped closer, close enough for me to catch his scent again-pine, smoke, and something darker, more primal, beneath. "You heard Vera. The pack that claims you gains possession of the relic's location. And I intend to be that pack."

"So you can control it?"

"So I can destroy it."

I blinked, taken aback by his unexpected declaration. "Why?"

Niklas's expression flickered, a fleeting glimpse of pain, raw and unguarded, crossing his features before the cold mask snapped back into place. "Because relics like that don't bring power," he said, his voice low and quiet. "They bring death. And I've seen enough death to last a lifetime." He turned and walked away, leaving me with a thousand unspoken questions.

The remainder of the day was a blur of introductions and explanations. Vera convened all the competitors in the main hall, outlining the rules of the upcoming trials: three distinct challenges-strength, speed, and cunning. Each pack could field a single representative. The ultimate victor would claim all.

"But Elif doesn't belong to any pack," a voice called out. A woman with hair like spun moonlight and eyes like chips of ice, likely Siberian, I surmised. "She's a rogue. A half-blood. She has no right to compete."

"She will compete as the Council's champion," Vera declared, her voice brooking no dissent.

Murmurs rippled through the assembled shifters. "The Council has never had a champion."

"There's a first time for everything," Vera stated, her gaze challenging anyone to dispute her authority. "Unless any of you would like to question my decision?"

Silence.

The white-blonde woman stepped forward. She possessed a chilling beauty, akin to a blizzard-cold, deadly, impossible to ignore. Her icy eyes met mine, holding them captive. "I am Anastasia Volkov," she announced, her voice as sharp as frost. "Leader of the Siberian pack. And I have no desire to witness a half-blood embarrass herself in the ring."

"I didn't ask for your interest," I retorted.

Anastasia offered a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You have spirit. I appreciate that. Perhaps when Niklas breaks you, I will collect the pieces and forge something useful."

"You want me in your pack?"

"I want your blood. Your father was a formidable warrior. His daughter might prove useful-if she survives." She turned and walked away, but I felt her gaze on me for the rest of the afternoon, a calculating, predatory stare. Another enemy, I thought grimly. Perfect.

That evening, I found a secluded corner of the courtyard and leaned against the cool stone wall, watching the sun dip below the Istanbul skyline. I didn't hear Niklas approach; I only knew he was there when his shadow fell across me.

"You're alone," he observed. "That's foolish."

"I'm not alone. I have myself. And myself is excellent company."

He snorted. "Your mouth will be the death of you."

"My mouth has kept me alive so far."

He sat down, not beside me, but close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. We sat in silence for a long moment, the sky bleeding into hues of orange and red.

"Why do you hate half-bloods so much?" I finally asked.

Niklas was silent for so long I thought he wouldn't answer. "Because they remind me of what I lost," he said at last.

"What did you lose?"

"Everything."

He stood abruptly. "The first trial is tomorrow. Strength. You'll be facing a pureblood from the Mongolian pack. His name is Temur. He's killed seven half-bloods in the past year."

I swallowed, a knot forming in my stomach. "Thanks for the warning."

"I'm not warning you. I'm telling you that you're going to lose. And when you do, I'll be there to collect the pieces." He began to walk away, then paused. Without turning, he added, "One more thing."

"What?"

"The wolf inside you. Does it feel different when I'm near?"

My heart stopped. "What?"

"Answer the question."

I desperately wanted to lie, to deny any connection, to assert that he was merely another arrogant pureblood who believed he owned the world. But the words wouldn't come. "Yes," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "It feels... restless."

Niklas turned his head just enough for me to see the sharp profile of his face, the tension in his jaw. "Good," he said, his voice low. "That means you're not completely broken yet." He walked away, vanishing into the encroaching darkness.

The morning of the first trial dawned cold and gray. I stood in the center of the arena-a circular pit lined with stone, surrounded by hundreds of expectant shifters. Above us, the Council sat on their elevated thrones, observing the proceedings like gods presiding over a gladiatorial contest. Across from me stood Temur. He was a giant of a man, easily six and a half feet tall, with shoulders like a bull and hands the size of my head. His eyes were black, empty, and a cruel smile stretched across his face.

"A half-blood," he rumbled, his accent thick. "I've killed your kind before. You all scream the same way."

"And you all bleed the same way," I countered.

His smile faltered. Kianuk, the Alaskan, stood at the edge of the pit, holding a staff. He raised it high, then brought it down. "Begin."

Temur charged. I dodged left, but he was faster than his bulk suggested. His fist slammed into my shoulder, sending me spinning. I hit the ground hard, my vision blurring.

"Get up," a voice from the crowd commanded. "Get up, half-blood!" I recognized Anastasia's voice, her ice-blue eyes gleaming from the stands.

I pushed myself up. Temur charged again. This time, I was ready. I dropped low, swept his legs out from under him, and watched him crash to the ground. The crowd roared.

"Not bad," Temur growled, regaining his footing. "But not good enough."

He shifted. Not fully-only his hands. His fingers elongated into sharp claws, fur sprouting from his knuckles. He lunged at me, claws extended, aiming for my throat.

I shifted too. Just my legs. Just enough to grant me speed. I leaped over his attack, landed behind him, and kicked the back of his knee. He stumbled. I grabbed his arm and twisted. Bone cracked with a sickening sound.

Temur screamed. I released him and stepped back, my heart hammering against my ribs. The crowd fell silent. Even the Council seemed frozen. Temur stared at his broken arm, then at me. His eyes, no longer empty, were wide with fear. "I yield," he gasped.

Kianuk raised his staff. "Winner: Elif Demir."

The arena erupted. I stood in the center of the pit, breathing heavily, my entire body trembling. I had won. I had actually won.

And then Niklas was there. He grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight I gasped. His eyes burned, his face inches from mine. "You cheated," he hissed.

"I won."

"You shifted. The rules state-"

"The rules say nothing about partial shifts. I read them."

Niklas's jaw tightened. For a terrifying moment, I thought he would strike me. But then he did something far worse. He smiled. "You're clever," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "I'll give you that. But cleverness won't save you in the next trial." He pulled me closer, his breath hot against my ear. "Listen to me very carefully, half-blood. You are now bound to my pack. Not the Council's. Mine. If you object, I will execute you myself. Do you understand?"

I tried to pull away, but his grip was like iron. "Why?" I whispered. "Why do you want me so badly?"

Niklas pulled back just enough to meet my gaze. And for a fleeting moment, I saw something other than hatred in his eyes. Something that looked like hunger. "Because," he said softly, "you're the most dangerous thing I've ever seen. And I want to be the one holding the leash."

He released my wrist and walked away. I stood there, trembling, and felt the wolf within me shiver with something that wasn't fear. It was desire.

Training began at midnight.

I was dragged from my cell by two of Niklas's Germans-a man and a woman with the same cold efficiency as their leader. They didn't speak to me. They didn't look at me. They just grabbed my arms and marched me through the labyrinthine corridors of the Council's stronghold until we reached a door I hadn't seen before.

It opened onto a forest.

Not a courtyard. Not a training ground. An actual forest, with trees that stretched toward a moonlit sky and soil that smelled of rain and decay. I blinked, disoriented.

"How is this possible? We're under the city."

"The Council's architects were clever," a voice said from the shadows.

Niklas stepped out from between two pines. He was wearing nothing but a pair of loose pants, his chest bare and gleaming with sweat. The moonlight caught the lines of his muscles, the ridges of his scars, the way his skin moved over bone and sinew like water over stone.

I looked away. Too late. The wolf had already seen.

Beautiful, it whispered.

Shut up, I told it.

"Where are the others?" I asked, keeping my eyes fixed on a point just above his left shoulder.

"There are no others." Niklas walked toward me, slow and deliberate. "Your training is with me. Alone."

"Why?"

"Because you're dangerous. Because you don't know how to control what's inside you. And because I don't trust anyone else to put you down if you lose control."

He stopped in front of me. Close enough that I could feel the heat rising off his skin.

"Shift," he said.

"What?"

"Shift. Fully. Now."

"I can't shift fully on command. It doesn't work that way."

"Then you'll learn." His voice was flat, uncompromising. "Shift, Elif. Or I'll make you."

The wolf stirred. Not with fear. With anger.

"Try it," I said.

Niklas's eyes flashed. In the moonlight, they looked almost silver.

He moved so fast I didn't see it. One second he was standing in front of me; the next, he had my throat in his hand and my back against a tree. His grip was tight-not enough to choke, but enough to warn.

"I don't have time for your defiance," he said quietly. "The second trial is in three days. If you fail, you belong to the Council. And the Council will use you until there's nothing left. Do you understand?"

I couldn't nod. His hand was too tight. But I understood.

"Good." He let go and stepped back. "Now shift."

I didn't shift.

Not fully. But something happened. The wolf came forward-not all the way, but enough. My eyes changed. My teeth sharpened. My fingernails darkened into claws.

Niklas watched me with an unreadable expression.

"Better," he said. "Now hold it."

"How?"

"Control your breathing. The shift is tied to your emotions. If you're angry, the wolf rises. If you're scared, the wolf hides. You need to find the middle ground."

"And how do I do that?"

"Think of something that makes you calm."

I thought of the Black Sea. The waves crashing against the rocks below my mother's house. The salt wind in my hair. The feeling of running along the cliff's edge, free and wild and alive.

The wolf settled.

My claws retracted. My teeth shrank. My eyes faded back to brown.

"Good," Niklas said again. There was something different in his voice now. Something that might have been respect. "Again."

We trained until dawn.

Shift. Hold. Release. Shift. Hold. Release. Over and over, until my muscles screamed and my mind blurred with exhaustion. Niklas was relentless. Every time I faltered, he was there-correcting my stance, adjusting my arms, touching me.

And every time he touched me, fire raced through my veins.

I tried to ignore it. I tried to tell myself it was just adrenaline, just the heat of training, just anything other than what it was.

But the wolf knew.

Mate, it said.

No, I argued.

Mate, it insisted.

"Focus."

Niklas's voice cut through my thoughts. He was standing behind me, his hands on my shoulders, positioning my body for a defensive stance. His chest was pressed against my back. I could feel his heartbeat.

"You're trembling," he said.

"I'm cold."

"No, you're not."

He was right. I wasn't cold. I was burning.

He stepped back abruptly, putting distance between us. "That's enough for tonight. Tomorrow, we work on speed."

He walked away without looking back.

That night, there was a fire.

I don't know who built it. Maybe the Germans. Maybe the Council. But when I emerged from my cell to find something to eat, I saw Niklas sitting alone in the courtyard, staring into the flames.

I should have walked away.

I didn't.

"Mind if I sit?" I asked.

He didn't answer. I sat anyway.

The fire crackled between us. For a long time, neither of us spoke. The sounds of the stronghold-distant voices, footsteps, the clink of metal-faded into the background.

"Why are you really here?" Niklas asked finally.

"You kidnapped me. Remember?"

"Not what I meant." He looked at me. In the firelight, his eyes looked almost warm. "Why are you sitting here? Next to me?"

"Because you look like you need company."

He laughed. It was a bitter sound. "I don't need anything."

"Everyone needs something."

"Not me." He picked up a stick and stabbed at the embers. "I learned a long time ago that needing things is a weakness."

"What happened?"

He was quiet for so long I thought he wouldn't answer.

"My wife," he said at last. "Her name was Liesel."

I froze. "You're married?"

"Was. She's dead." His voice was flat, empty. "Killed three years ago. By a half-blood."

The fire seemed to dim.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"Don't be. She was everything to me. And the half-blood who killed her didn't just take her life. He took my ability to trust. To feel. To need."

"Is that why you hate me?"

Niklas looked at me. Really looked at me. "I don't hate you, Elif. I hate what you represent. A reminder that the thing I loved most was destroyed by something like you."

"I'm not like him."

"Aren't you? You have the same blood. The same instincts. The same hunger."

I reached out to touch his arm. Just to comfort him. Just to let him know that not all half-bloods were monsters.

He flinched away.

"Don't," he said. "Don't touch me. Don't pity me. I don't deserve it."

"You deserve to be loved."

His laugh was hollow. "Love is for people who haven't lost everything."

He stood up and walked into the darkness, leaving me alone by the fire.

I fell asleep in my cell with his words echoing in my head.

Love is for people who haven't lost everything.

The dream came without warning.

I was standing in a forest-not the training forest, but somewhere older, darker. The trees were black and twisted, their branches reaching toward a sky that had no stars.

And in the center of the clearing stood my father.

He was covered in blood.

"Baba?" I ran toward him, but no matter how fast I moved, I couldn't get closer. "Baba, what happened?"

"The relic," he said. His voice was thin, distant, like an echo from the bottom of a well. "Don't let them find it, Elif. Promise me."

"I don't even know where it is!"

"You will. And when you do..." He looked at me with eyes that were hollow and scared. "Don't win. Whatever you do, don't win."

"What? Why?"

"Because winning makes you one of them. And once you're one of them..." His body began to dissolve, pieces of him falling away like ash. "Once you're one of them, you become a monster."

"Baba!"

"Promise me!"

"BABA!"

I woke up screaming.

The walls of my cell were the same. The cot was the same. The torch flickered in its bracket, casting shadows that danced like ghosts.

But I wasn't alone.

Niklas stood in the doorway.

He was still shirtless. His hair was disheveled, like he had just woken up. And his eyes-those storm-gray eyes-were fixed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch.

"You heard me screaming?" I asked, my voice shaking.

"I heard more than screaming." He stepped into the cell, and the door closed behind him. "I heard him."

"Who?"

"Your father."

I stared at him. "You heard my father?"

Niklas knelt beside my cot. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his gray eyes, the slight curve of his lips, the tension in his jaw.

"That wasn't a dream, Elif," he said quietly. "That was a call. Your father is trying to reach you from beyond the grave. And if he's telling you not to win..."

"He's trying to protect me."

"Or he's trying to protect the relic." Niklas reached out and touched my cheek-just a brush of his fingers, barely there. "Either way, you need to be careful. Dreams like that can kill you."

"How do you know?"

His hand dropped. For a moment, something flickered across his face. Pain. Grief. Regret.

"Because I had them too," he said. "After Liesel died. Every night for a year. And they almost drove me mad."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Niklas stood up. He looked down at me, and in the dim torchlight, he looked almost human. Almost kind.

"Because you're not my enemy, Elif. I wanted you to be. I tried to make you my enemy. But you're not." He walked toward the door. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow, we train harder."

He opened the door.

"Niklas."

He stopped.

"Thank you," I said. "For not letting me scream alone."

He didn't turn around. But I saw his shoulders relax, just a fraction.

"Don't thank me yet," he said. "The worst is still to come."

The door closed behind him.

I lay back on my cot, my heart pounding, and stared at the ceiling.

The wolf inside me was quiet now. Not sleeping. Waiting.

And somewhere in the darkness, I could have sworn I heard my father's voice one more time.

Don't trust him, kızım. Don't trust any of them.

But it was too late for that.

I already did.

Three days blurred into a fever dream. Niklas trained me relentlessly each night, pushing my body until exhaustion set in and my muscles screamed. His methods were unforgiving, yet strangely patient. When I faltered, he offered no mockery, only the demand to repeat the action. Again. And again. And again.

I began to shift on command. Not fully-not yet-but enough. Enough to fight. Enough to survive. The wolf within me was transforming. It was no longer a mere wild animal; it was me. And I was starting to perceive the world with a newfound understanding. The intricate stories carried on the wind, the vivid landscapes painted by sounds, and the undeniable scent of Niklas when he was near-a scent that was both home and danger, a pull I simultaneously craved and fled.

"Your focus is slipping," Niklas stated one evening, after I missed a block for the third time.

"My focus is fine."

"Your focus is on me. Not on the fight."

I opened my mouth to protest, but the words caught in my throat. He was right. My attention was perpetually drawn to him: the ripple of his muscles beneath his skin, the quickening of his breath during our spars, the darkening of his eyes when I landed a hit.

"You're imagining things," I countered.

Niklas moved closer. "Am I?"

"Back off."

"Make me."

The wolf surged within me. I welcomed it. For a fleeting, exhilarating second, I transformed my hands into claws and slashed at his chest. He dodged, a mere hair's breadth away, and let out a laugh.

"Better," he conceded. "Now do it again."

That night, sleep eluded me. I lay on my cot, staring at the ceiling, replaying Niklas's words: his deceased wife, his animosity towards half-bloods, and the way he looked at me when he believed I wasn't watching.

Mate, the wolf whispered insistently.

Stop saying that, I willed it.

It doesn't cease to be true simply because you refuse to acknowledge it.

A shadow flickered across my window. I sat up, my heart pounding. The window was small, far too narrow for a person to pass through, yet the shadow was undeniably human-shaped.

"Relax," a voice soothed. "It's just me."

Kianuk emerged from the darkness. He wore the same bone necklace as before, but his attire had changed-leather and fur, suggesting he had journeyed from a place considerably colder than Istanbul.

"How did you get in here?" I whispered.

"The Council's walls are ancient. They possess... vulnerabilities." He offered a smile. "Get dressed. I'm taking you somewhere."

"Where?"

"The forest. The real one. Not the training grounds."

A sensible part of me urged refusal. I should have remained in my cell, awaiting Niklas for our next session. Yet, Kianuk's calm demeanor and gentle eyes instilled a sense of trust. I pulled on my boots and followed him into the night.

The forest surrounding us was unlike the designated training area. It felt older, wilder. Ancient trees, their roots deeply embedded in the earth, stretched their branches towards the stars like grasping hands. The air was thick with the scent of moss, decay, and something else-a familiar aroma that stirred memories of my father.

"Where are we?" I inquired.

"Outside the Council's jurisdiction," Kianuk replied. "A neutral territory. The packs utilize it for rituals and meetings the Council need not be privy to."

"And what are we doing here?"

Kianuk halted and turned to face me. In the moonlight, his dark skin seemed to radiate a subtle glow, and his ancient, knowing eyes met mine.

"I'm going to teach you what Niklas cannot," he stated. "Not how to fight. How to be."

"I already know how to be."

"Do you?" He tilted his head. "You are a half-blood, Elif. Torn between two worlds. Too human for the wolves. Too wolf for the humans. You've spent your entire life feeling like an error."

My throat tightened. "How do you know that?"

"Because I once walked in your shoes. I am also a half-blood." He sat on a fallen log, gesturing for me to join him. "I lead because I am a half-blood, not in spite of it." He scooped up a handful of soil, letting it sift through his fingers. "The purebloods deem us inferior. Broken. But they are mistaken. We are not broken, Elif. We are bridges."

"Bridges?"

"Between the human world and the wolf world. Between instinct and reason. Between wildness and civilization." He looked at me intently. "Your father understood this. That is why he commanded such respect. Not for his strength, but for his balance."

I remembered my father-a man I barely recalled, who had died with unspoken secrets. "He never told me any of this."

"He was protecting you, just as I protect my own daughter." Kianuk reached into his pocket, retrieving a small leather pouch. "This is an Alaskan ritual. We call it the 'Breath of the Ancestors.' It will help you connect with the wolf within you-not as a master or a servant, but as a partner."

He opened the pouch and poured a glittering powder into his palm. It shimmered in the moonlight, a celestial blend of silver and blue, like crushed stars.

"What is that?"

"Ground wolf bone. Moonflower petals. And a drop of my own blood." He extended his hand towards me. "Breathe it in. But be cautious. The vision it imparts will reveal your true self. And truth is not always easily perceived."

Hesitantly, I leaned forward and inhaled.

The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of color.

I was running. Not as a human, nor as a wolf, but as something in between. My paws met the earth, and I felt every particle of soil, every blade of grass, the very heartbeat of every creature within a mile's radius. The forest stretched before me, ancient and boundless.

In the distance, I saw her. A wolf, as white as snow, with eyes like molten gold. She ran parallel to me, her movements a perfect echo of my own.

Who are you? I thought.

You know who I am, she replied. I am you. The you that you have been trying to conceal.

I'm not hiding.

You are. You hide from Niklas. You hide from your power. You hide from the truth your father died to protect.

What truth?

The white wolf ceased her run and turned to face me. Her eyes-my eyes-held a profound sorrow.

The relic is not an object, she conveyed. It is a person. And that person is you.

I awoke with a gasp. Kianuk knelt beside me, his hand cool on my forehead. His eyes were etched with concern.

"What did you see?" he asked.

"I saw... myself. A white wolf. She said the relic is me."

Kianuk's expression remained steady, but a flicker of something akin to fear crossed his eyes.

"We need to leave," he urged. "Now."

"Why? What's happening?"

"The Council cannot discover this. If they learn what you are..." He pulled me to my feet. "They will not seek to use you, Elif. They will seek to destroy you."

We fled.

We were halfway back to the stronghold when Niklas intercepted us. He emerged from the trees like a phantom, his eyes blazing with an intensity I had never witnessed.

"What," he growled, his voice low and menacing, "is she doing with you?"

Kianuk stepped forward, shielding me with his body. "She needed to learn. You were not teaching her what she needed."

"What she needed?" Niklas's laugh was a cold, harsh sound. "You mean you were filling her head with your Alaskan superstitions. Telling her she's special. Telling her she's more than she is."

"She is more than you perceive her to be."

"Step aside, old man."

"No."

Niklas moved. He was astonishingly fast, faster than I had ever seen him. His fist connected with Kianuk's jaw, sending the older shifter stumbling back. Before Kianuk could recover, Niklas had him by the throat, pinning him against a tree.

"I warned you," Niklas snarled. "Stay away from her."

"Niklas, stop!" I grabbed his arm, trying to pull him away. "He wasn't hurting me! He was helping me!"

"Helping you?" Niklas's head snapped towards me, his eyes wild. "Do you know what he is? He's a half-blood sympathizer. He wants to turn you against the Council. Against me."

"He's my teacher! Not you!"

The words hung heavy in the air between us. Niklas released Kianuk and turned to face me fully, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing.

"Your teacher?" he echoed. "I've been the one training you. I've been the one keeping you alive. And you go behind my back with him?"

"I didn't go behind your back. I went to someone who actually understands what I'm going through."

"And I don't?"

"You called me a dirty blood the first time we met!"

"Because I was scared!"

The forest fell silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Niklas stared at me, his expression raw and unguarded for the first time. "I was scared," he repeated, his voice softer. "Because I felt something when I looked at you. Something I haven't felt since Liesel died. And I didn't know what to do with it."

"So you decided to hate me instead?"

"I decided to protect myself."

"By hurting me?"

"By keeping you at a distance." He stepped closer. "But it didn't work. Nothing works. You're in my head, Elif. In my blood. In my bones. And I can't get you out."

I should have turned and fled back to the stronghold, never looking back. But I didn't. I stepped closer to him.

"Then stop trying," I said.

His hand rose to my face, slow and tentative, as if approaching a wounded animal. His fingers brushed my cheek, my jaw, the corner of my lips.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered.

"I won't."

"Tell me."

"No."

His other hand found my waist, pulling me against him with an urgent force. I felt the undeniable press of his body against mine, the heat emanating from him, the hardness, the frantic rhythm of his heart mirroring my own.

"This is a mistake," he murmured.

"Probably."

"We shouldn't."

"I know."

He kissed me. It was not gentle, not soft, but desperate, hungry, and laced with anger-a consuming embrace that felt like both an attack and a salvation. His teeth grazed my lower lip, his tongue claimed mine, and his hands slid beneath my shirt, gripping my bare skin, drawing me closer still. I returned the kiss with every fiber of my being. The wolf within me howled with pure joy.

Mate, it sang. Mate. Mate. MATE.

We broke apart, gasping for air. Niklas's forehead rested against mine, his eyes closed, his jaw tight.

"I can't," he rasped. "I can't want you like this. It's not right."

"Since when has anything about us been right?"

He let out a broken, breathless laugh. "Fair point."

He pulled away, his hands leaving my skin, the absence a palpable wound. "We should go," he said. "Before someone finds us."

He turned and began to walk.

"Niklas."

He stopped.

"Thank you," I said. "For being honest with me."

He didn't turn. "Don't thank me. I'm still figuring out if I'm your salvation or your destruction."

He walked into the darkness. I followed.

We were nearing the stronghold when Niklas stopped again.

"Wait," he commanded.

"What is it?"

He turned to face me. In the dim torchlight, his expression was unreadable.

"Your shirt," he said. "It's torn."

I looked down. He was correct. During the struggle, or perhaps the kiss, the fabric had ripped, exposing the skin just above my collarbone.

"It's nothing," I said, pulling the torn material together.

"No. Let me see."

He stepped closer. His fingers brushed the torn fabric aside, revealing the skin beneath. Then he froze.

"Niklas? What's wrong?"

He was staring at my chest, at the spot just above my heart. At something I had never noticed before-a small, circular scar, resembling a bite mark.

"How did you get this?" he whispered.

"I don't know. I've had it as long as I can remember."

His hand trembled. His face had gone pale.

"Elif," he said, his voice barely audible. "This isn't just a scar."

"What is it?"

He looked up at me, his eyes wide with horror and an emotion I couldn't decipher. "This..." He touched the scar with his fingertip. "This is my tooth mark."

"What?"

"I know it. I remember it." He stepped back, his hand falling to his side. "Ten years ago. In a forest. There was a girl. A half-blood girl. I bit her to save her life. To mark her. To claim her as mine so the others wouldn't kill her."

My blood ran cold.

"Who was the girl?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

Niklas looked at me, and in his eyes, the world shifted irrevocably.

"It was you," he said. "We've met before, Elif. And I think... I think I've been in love with you since I was fifteen years old."

The torches flickered. The wind howled. And the world as I knew it shattered into a million pieces.