The early light of dawn spilled through the chamber windows, warm and golden. Celine lay tangled in the sheets, her body still humming from the night before, the comfort of Leon's arms still wrapped loosely around her waist. For the first time in weeks, her heart wasn’t heavy. Today they would start the preparations for the journey back home.
She almost believed they’d made it.
The knock came softly—just a single tap on the chamber door.
She rose carefully, trying not to wake Leon, and opened it to find a single envelope left on the floor.
No seal. No name.
But the handwriting was unmistakable.
Lilith.
Celine hesitated only a moment before opening it.
“I don’t expect forgiveness. But I need to speak with you before you leave the Capital. Alone. No guards. Just us. The old courtyard near the arches. Midday.”
“This will be the only time I ask.”
Her fingers trembled slightly as she folded the letter and slipped it beneath her cloak.
She didn’t tell Leon.
She told herself it was because it wasn’t worth worrying him—because if Lilith truly wanted to make amends, Celine needed to face her without protection. Without the heat of their bond burning in the background.
But part of her knew it was more than that.
She needed to know—if her sister had any humanity left at all.
***
At midday, the southern courtyard of the palace stood mostly quiet. The usual clatter of footsteps and low conversation had faded, leaving only the rustle of distant leaves and the low hum of heat rising from the stone. The arches that lined the walls cast long, curved shadows across the path, and the air hung heavy, warm but unnaturally still—as if the entire space was holding its breath.
Celine stood alone in the center, her hands loose at her sides, eyes scanning the edges of the courtyard. She turned toward the trees, then back to the far archways, her gaze tracking every flicker of movement that never quite became a shape.
“Lilith?” she called, her voice low, cautious.
No answer came. Only the wind.
She waited a few more seconds, listening, uncertain if she’d misread the note. Then she heard something behind her. It wasn’t footsteps, but the rush of fabric and air displaced by movement. She spun to face it, but the strike landed before she could react.
A cloth slammed over her mouth, and a hand clamped hard around her arm, dragging her backward. The scent from the cloth hit her in a single wave—sweet at first, but sharp and chemical, too strong to be anything natural. Her vision swam.
She fought to cry out, to call Lyra to the surface, to reach for Leon—but the air stuck in her throat, the sound barely escaping. Her body went weak too fast, her legs folding under her before she could get another breath.
The last thing she registered before her knees hit the stone was the edge of a black silk cloak moving past her field of view—smooth, familiar, unmistakably royal.
And then everything went dark.
Far above the courtyard, from the tallest tower of the palace, the Lycan King stood behind the thick pane of glass. His hands rested lightly on the stone windowsill as he watched two guards disappear into the shadows below, Celine’s limp form carried between them.
He leaned back slowly, letting the sight fade from view. A pleased breath slipped from his chest as he reached for the waiting glass of wine beside him.
“You should’ve known better, little wolf,” he murmured, the rim of the goblet brushing his mouth. “You walked straight into the story I’ve written for you.”