The Keep was drowning in chaos. The anti-magic silver brute, momentarily stunned by the chandelier’s collapse, had recovered. He now stalked the halls, a walking siege engine, systematically neutralizing the remaining Pack guards who attempted to aid Kian. The brute’s objective was simple: secure the perimeter, ensure Kian could not leave, and prevent Amelia’s escape.
Upstairs, in the Luna chamber, Amelia was not resting. She was burning.
The ritual to create the binding token had drained her Essence severely, but the moment she sensed Kian engaging the brute downstairs—and realized Vorn was the true target—she had begun a far more dangerous undertaking.
She was using her residual Luna power to invert the anti-magic dampening effect, but only on herself. The room was cold, vibrating with the strain. Her skin was clammy, but her silver eyes blazed with a manic, desperate energy.
Gareth burst into the room, panting heavily. “Luna! We have to go! Kian is engaged—he ordered me to get you out! Now!”
“No,” Amelia gasped, clutching her chest. “I cannot leave yet. I needed Kian to go to the Citadel. I needed him to find the ward.”
“Ward? What are you talking about, Amelia? Kian is fighting for his life! If we don’t move, the brute will be here!”
“It’s already too late for the brute,” Amelia whispered, a faint, chilling smile touching her lips. “He was only bait. The true purpose was to hold Kian here until Vorn’s message got through. But Vorn has the token. I need to know where Kian went.”
She closed her eyes, forcing her consciousness through the broken connection of their bond. She didn't seek Kian's emotions; she sought the psychic residue he had left in the air when he fled. She traced his path: south, toward the jagged peaks of the Sunken Citadel.
A sudden, catastrophic psychic scream tore through the bond, agonizing and brief. It was not Kian’s pain, but the pain of the earth. It was the sound of raw magic being violently rerouted—the sound of a sacrifice.
Amelia’s eyes snapped open, blazing with terror and devastating comprehension. “He did it. He found the ward. He initiated the counter-ritual.”
“Initiated what? Amelia, what did you do?” Gareth demanded, seizing her arm.
“I didn’t compromise my power, Gareth. I built the failsafe,” Amelia confessed, her voice thick with anguish. “The only way to seal a wound made by a True Luna’s Essence is with a True Alpha’s life. I placed the ward at the nexus. Vorn thought he was sacrificing me, but he was leading Kian to the altar.”
Gareth stared at her, horrified. “You sent him to die?”
“I sent him to save the North!” she cried, tears streaming down her face. “He is the only one who could handle the corrupted Ley Line’s power. But now… now he’s trapped. And I’m alone.”
Suddenly, the Keep grew silent. The stomping of the brute stopped abruptly downstairs.
Gareth shifted, snarling, ready to defend. “He’s coming.”
A moment later, the door creaked open slowly, and the brute stepped inside. He stood massive and silent, the anti-magic silver armor gleaming, his mace resting on the floor.
“The King is no longer a concern,” the brute announced in his heavy, distorted voice. “My task is complete. My terms are met.”
He looked directly at Amelia. “I am here to escort the Luna to the rendezvous point. Lord Velaxis requires you now.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Amelia said, rising shakily from the bed.
“Oh, but you are,” the brute countered, taking a slow step forward. “The Shadow Harvest ritual is complete. The Ley Line is sealed. Your King did the work for us, sacrificing his life force to bind the corruption. The North is neutered, Luna. The last thing we need is for your compromised power to revive him. You are coming with me to be neutralized.”
Gareth launched himself forward with a savage growl, tackling the brute head-on. The two wolves collided in a deafening crash, rolling across the stone floor. Gareth fought with the desperate fury of a Beta defending his Alpha’s mate, but the silver armor was too resilient. The brute shrugged off Gareth’s attack, his spiked mace slamming down, catching Gareth’s flank with a sickening crunch.
Gareth howled, his body momentarily paralyzed, the anti-magic dampening his shift.
Amelia knew she couldn’t win this fight physically. She focused her remaining strength, not on healing Gareth, but on the brute’s armor. She had only inverted the anti-magic on herself, but she knew the principle.
She channeled a thin, focused beam of pure Luna Essence—the raw, wild energy of her bond with Kian—and aimed it not at the brute’s body, but at the locking mechanism of his helmet.
The silver instantly reacted, not dampening, but heating. The brute shrieked, clutching his head, dropping his mace. He staggered backward, ripping the helmet from his head.
Amelia gasped, staring at the exposed face. It wasn't an Eastern soldier. It was a man she knew.
“Commander Roric!” Amelia exclaimed, recognizing the man who was supposed to be Kian’s most trusted battle tactician and the leader of the Guard.
Roric’s face was twisted in a rictus of hate. “It was always about power, Luna. Your King was too soft. He always chose Pack over Empire. The East offered me the power to rule the only land that mattered—the land of eternal winter. Now that he’s gone, the North is mine.”
Roric lunged, faster than the brute had moved before, his hands seizing Amelia’s throat. “You are the last piece!”
Amelia fought back with every ounce of strength she had left, clawing at his face, but his grip was iron. Her vision tunneled. She couldn't shift; she couldn't breathe.
Gareth, despite his terrible injury, let out a massive, defiant roar. He shifted, staggering to his feet, and launched himself again, biting down hard on Roric’s exposed arm.
Roric screamed, releasing Amelia. He threw Gareth across the room, but the distraction was enough.
Amelia stumbled back, gasping for air. Her eyes found the brute’s abandoned mace. She scooped it up, the sheer weight of the weapon almost too much for her weakened frame, and swung it wildly. It connected with Roric’s head, and the commander slumped, unconscious.
Gareth lay still, bleeding heavily, the silver necklace still pulsing faintly in his chest, the transfer stabilized but his life force hovering on the edge of oblivion.
Amelia looked down at Roric, then at Gareth, then out the window toward the distant, jagged peaks of the Citadel, where Kian lay trapped and perhaps dying.
I cannot save them both. I cannot heal Gareth, and I cannot retrieve Kian.
She made her final, terrible choice.