The heavy oak door swung outward, revealing the dark corridor. The figure stepped fully into the flickering torchlight.

High Priestess Morwen. Kaelen’s aunt.

Her silver robes swept the stone floor. Her iron-gray hair was pulled back into a severe braid. She didn't look at Elara. Her sharp, pale eyes locked entirely on me.

"Out," Morwen commanded.

I didn't hesitate. I stepped over the threshold and pulled the heavy door shut behind me, cutting off my sister's pale, terrified face. The latch clicked loudly in the silent hall.

The corridor was freezing. I kept my hands folded over my blood-stained apron.

"Show me the fabric," Morwen said.

She extended a pale, unyielding hand.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out the folded linen, and placed it onto her palm.

Morwen smoothed the edges with her thumb. She studied the jagged thorns and the blooming red petals of the Blood Rose. Her jaw tightened. A muscle jumped beneath her cheekbone.

"The knotting is northern," Morwen observed, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "The Thorne pack resides in the south. You stitch like a royal seamstress, altar girl."

"My mother traded with northern merchants," I lied smoothly. "I practice what I see."

"A dead Queen's crest," Morwen stated, ignoring my excuse. "No commoner knows this pattern. Where did an altar servant learn this stitch?"

"The sanctuary archives. I saw it on the moth-eaten tapestries in the western wing."

Morwen took a half-step closer. The scent of burning sage and old parchment radiated from her robes.

"Those tapestries burned to ash twenty years ago," she said.

I didn't flinch. I didn't drop to my knees and beg for forgiveness. Instead, a short, quiet laugh slipped past my lips.

Morwen’s eyes narrowed. She had expected terror.

"Then I must have found a surviving sketch in the margins of a hymnal," I replied.

"You lie without a single tremor in your pulse," the High Priestess noted. She handed the linen back to me. "Most girls would be weeping on the floor by now."

"Tears do not clean silver, Priestess. Nor do they heal head wounds."

Morwen’s gaze flicked to the dried blood crusted along my temple.

"You are too calm," Morwen said. "Your sister wears the scent of a freshly mated Alpha, yet you stand here with a cracked skull, guarding a piece of linen as if it holds the kingdom's secrets."

"I guard my own business."

"Your sister claims divine intervention," Morwen pressed, her pale eyes searching my face. "She claims the Moon Goddess guided her feet to my nephew. She claims she bound his wounds with her own hands."

"She saved the Prince."

"The elders swallow her story whole. They see a pretty face and a heroic rescue, and they plan a wedding." Morwen stepped past me, her shoulder brushing mine. "I do not."

I turned my head, watching her back as she moved down the hall. "The Alpha Prince has already made his choice."

"A choice made in the haze of blood loss and adrenaline." Morwen paused at the top of the stone staircase. She looked back over her shoulder. "Tomorrow at noon, the elders will summon her to the Moon Basin. The ancient bloodline test."

My fingers tightened around the linen in my pocket.

In my past life, I bled into that basin. The water turned pure silver, confirming my pure intentions and my right to the throne.

"What does the water prove?" I asked, playing ignorant.

"The Moon Basin was carved from a fallen star," Morwen said. "It does not tolerate deception. It requires a single drop of blood. If a liar bleeds into the basin, the water turns black as pitch. And the penalty for deceiving the Royal House is immediate execution."

"Then she has nothing to fear."

"We will see. I have survived four Alpha reigns, Lyra of the Thorne pack. I know the stench of ambition. Your sister reeks of it. And you..." She tilted her head. "You smell of ash and secrets."

She didn't wait for my response. She descended the stairs, her robes swallowing the shadows.

I stood alone in the corridor.

Elara was going to bleed into the basin tomorrow. She had stolen the rescue, but she didn't have the pure spirit of a savior. Her soul was rotted with ambition and spite. The water would expose her instantly.

Unless she found a way to cheat.

I turned away from the Alpha's wing and navigated the winding, drafty corridors back to the servants' annex.

The castle was dead quiet. Only the distant howl of a perimeter guard dog broke the silence. My boots made soft thuds against the stone floors.

I reached my temporary quarters at the end of the lower hall. The wooden door groaned as I pushed it open. The room was tiny, holding nothing but a narrow cot, a washbasin, and a single flickering candle on a small wooden stool.

I pushed the door shut and slid the iron bolt into place.

My skull throbbed. The adrenaline from the confrontation with Elara was finally fading, leaving a dull, rhythmic ache behind my left eye. I walked to the washbasin, dipped a rag into the freezing water, and pressed it against my temple. The sharp sting cleared my head slightly.

I needed sleep. Tomorrow, the pack would tear itself apart when the basin turned black. I needed to be rested to play the shocked, grieving sister. Let Kaelen execute her. It would save me the trouble of plotting her downfall.

I tossed the bloody rag onto the floor and walked over to the narrow cot.

I pulled the scratchy wool blanket back.

I froze.

A small object rested dead center on the mattress, hidden exactly where my head would have laid.

I reached out and picked it up.

It was a silver needle.

But it wasn't empty. Threaded through the eye of the needle was a long, thick strand of crimson silk.

The exact shade of red I used for the Blood Rose.

My heart hammered a sudden, violent rhythm against my ribs.

Someone had been in this room. Someone had bypassed the royal guards, picked the lock, and left this on my bed while I was upstairs bleeding on Elara's floor.

I ran my thumb over the sharp point of the needle.

Morwen had just interrogated me about the thread. But she had been in the corridor the entire time. She couldn't have placed this here.

Someone else knew.

Someone else in this castle recognized the dead Queen's crest. And they wanted me to know they were watching.

I looked down at the mattress again. A small piece of parchment sat tucked beneath the edge of the pillow. I hadn't noticed it at first in the dim candlelight.

I snatched the rough paper and unfolded it.

Four words were scrawled in sharp, black ink.

*Do not let her bleed.*

I stared at the warning. The needle bit into my thumb, drawing a tiny bead of blood, but I barely felt it.

The message shifted everything.

If Elara bled, she died. If she died tomorrow, Kaelen would have no anchor. His madness would consume the kingdom years earlier than it did in my past life. The slaughter would begin before I could prepare my escape.

I needed Elara alive. I needed her to wear that collar and distract the monster.

The game hadn't just changed.

Someone else was playing it with me. And they knew exactly what was at stake.

"Hold the train higher," Vala snapped at a younger girl.

I stood in the corner of the preparation room, adjusting the stiff wool of my grey bridesmaid dress.

"She wants the silk perfect," Vala muttered, stepping back to inspect her work. "As if a long piece of fabric hides where she came from. The audacity of wearing crimson before the vows are even spoken."

"Let her wear what she wants," I said, keeping my voice low.

"The elders will tear her apart out there."

"Then we will clean up the mess."

The massive double doors swung open. Elara stepped through the archway.

She wore a heavy crimson gown. Thick gold embroidery wrapped around her waist, cinching her tight. The fresh bite mark on her neck remained fully exposed, a violent purple bruise against her pale skin. She wanted every Alpha in the room to see who claimed her.

"Do I look like a future Queen?" Elara asked. She didn't look at Vala. She stared right at me.

"You look exactly as you should," I replied smoothly.

"You think they will judge me because I am a commoner." Elara stepped closer, the heavy silk dragging across the floorboards.

"They will judge you because they are wolves," I said. "They look for weakness."

"I have no weakness. I have him."

"Then the ceremony will be effortless."

Elara narrowed her eyes, searching my face for a trap. Finding only a blank mask, she scoffed.

"Keep your eyes on the floor when we walk out," she ordered.

"I know my place."

"Make sure you remember it."

A royal guard struck his spear against the stone wall outside the room. Two sharp clangs. The signal.

We followed her into the cavernous Great Hall.

Hundreds of pack leaders lined the stone walls. Furs, polished steel armor, and sharp, calculating stares filled the immense space. The air felt thick with anticipation and the heavy musk of territorial predators.

I took my seat on the low wooden bench reserved for altar servants at the far edge of the room.

At the center of the dais stood Alpha Prince Kaelen.

He wore a black tunic lined with silver. I kept my gaze fixed firmly on the edge of his dark cloak. I refused to look higher. I refused to meet his eyes.

"The savior approaches," High Priestess Morwen announced from the altar. Her voice echoed off the vaulted ceiling, cutting through the low murmurs of the crowd.

Elara stopped at the base of the stairs.

"You claim the right to stand beside the future King," Morwen continued, her pale eyes locked on my sister. "You claim your blood is pure, your intentions true."

"I do," Elara said clearly.

"Then accept the Alpha's cup."

Kaelen moved forward. He held a massive gold chalice in both hands.

My stomach tightened.

I knew that chalice. In my past life, his hands had pressed that exact metal against my fingers. The cold gold. The rubies encrusted along the base. The wine had tasted like victory. I drank it, and the pack bowed.

But Morwen hadn't suspected me. Morwen suspected *her*.

Kaelen extended his arm. "Drink, Elara of the Thorne pack."

Elara reached out. Her fingers brushed his bare skin.

A sudden gust of wind swept through the massive open windows. It carried the scent of the chalice straight toward the servant benches.

I stiffened.

Underneath the sweet aroma of fermented berries lay something else.

Something sharp. Bitter. It burned the inside of my nose just from the vapor.

Crushed sun-root.

My pulse hammered a quick rhythm against my ribs. Sun-root was a brutal, ancient herb. A taboo ingredient used by inquisitors during the old wars. If a wolf spoke a lie, the root turned their throat to ash. It blistered the tongue and scorched the lungs. It stripped away deceit by melting the vocal cords of the liar.

Morwen had spiked the ceremonial wine.

Elara lifted the heavy gold cup. A victorious smile stretched across her face. She didn't know. She thought this was a simple toast. She thought she had already won the crown.

I sat perfectly still.

I needed her alive to distract Kaelen. The warning note under my pillow demanded I intervene. *Do not let her bleed.*

But I kept my mouth shut.

I folded my hands in my lap. Let her choke. Let her burn. I would find another way to survive the Prince’s madness. I owed this thief nothing.

Elara tilted the cup toward her face.

The golden rim touched her bottom lip.

She inhaled.

Her victorious smile vanished. Her eyes snapped wide open.

She recognized it. The sharp, bitter sting of sun-root hit her nose, entirely unmistakable to anyone trained in the pack apothecaries.

Panic seized her features. The color drained from her cheeks. Her hands trembled violently.

Instead of drinking, Elara jerked backward.

The heavy gold chalice slipped from her fingers.

It crashed against the stone floor.

A deafening clatter rang through the hall. Deep red wine splashed across the pale stones, pooling around the tips of Kaelen's black boots.

The entire hall went dead silent.

Not a single wolf spoke. The murmurs died instantly. The clinking of armor ceased.

I watched the dark liquid seep into the grout between the stones. It sizzled faintly. The sun-root reacting to the air.

"A terrible omen," an elder whispered from the front row.

"She rejects the bond," another muttered.

Kaelen stared at the spilled wine. Then, he slowly raised his head to look down at Elara.

The temperature in the room plummeted. The sheer weight of his anger pressed against my chest, suffocating the air out of the hall.

"You spill the royal toast," Kaelen said. His voice was dangerously quiet.

Elara stepped back, her crimson dress dragging through the puddle. "I... my hand slipped, my Prince."

"Your hand slipped."

"The cup was heavy." Her voice shook. She gripped the fabric of her skirt, her knuckles turning white.

Kaelen stepped off the dais. His boots crunched against a loose ruby that had popped off the fallen chalice.

He stopped inches from her.

"Explain yourself," Kaelen demanded, the command echoing through the silent hall. "Now."