Sylra's POV
The journal felt heavier in my hands than it had before.
I sat in the window alcove of my chambers, morning light spilling across the yellowed pages, searching for something—anything—that might explain why my transformation had failed so catastrophically. My mother's elegant handwriting blurred as I skimmed entry after entry, hunting for the answer that had to be here somewhere.
I found it three-quarters through the journal, tucked between notes on diplomatic protocols and sketches of ceremonial gowns.
The Curse of Blood.
My fingers stilled on the page. The ink here was darker than the surrounding entries, pressed harder into the paper as though my mother had written these words with urgency. Or fear.
"When one of royal blood causes deep harm to a person who truly loves them, the curse awakens," I read aloud, my voice barely above a whisper. "The royal's wolf turns from gold to crimson—the Blood Wolf. Their hands will never feel clean. Their dreams will show them the pain they caused. The curse cannot be broken. It can only be carried."
I read it again. And again. The words carved themselves into my mind with the precision of a blade.
Deep harm to a person who truly loves them.
Rovan's face surfaced in my memory—not the cold Alpha who had announced a second mate, but the man I'd married three years ago. The one who had looked at me with warmth, who had made promises I'd believed with my whole heart. Had he loved me then? Had that love been real before it curdled into indifference?
I thought of the bond rejection, of his screams as our connection tore apart, of the way he'd fallen to his knees clutching his chest. I had caused that. I had chosen to cause that.
Had I awakened the curse?
My stomach twisted. I looked down at my hands, half-expecting to see blood staining my palms. They looked the same as always—callused from training, nails bitten short, a fresh bruise darkening my knuckles from yesterday's sparring session.
But would they ever feel clean?
I thought of what ruling might cost me. The decisions I would have to make. The people I might have to sacrifice for the good of the kingdom. Every war required casualties. Every throne demanded blood.
And then I thought of Caelen.
The way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't watching. The crack in his voice when he'd called me the first person who saw him as more than a weapon. The pain that had flickered across his face when I'd compared him to Rovan and walked away.
Could I ever hurt someone who loves me?
The question sat heavy in my chest, unanswered and unanswerable.
A sharp knock at my chamber door shattered the silence. I closed the journal quickly, sliding it beneath a cushion before calling out, "Enter."
The door swung open to reveal a palace messenger, young and nervous, clutching a sealed letter. Behind him, I caught a glimpse of Caelen's dark figure standing guard in the corridor.
"Princess Sylra." The messenger bowed low. "An urgent communication from the border."
I took the letter, breaking the seal with my thumb. The handwriting inside made my breath catch.
Rovan's hand. I would recognize it anywhere.
"What does it say?" Caelen's voice came from the doorway. He hadn't moved from his position, but his gray eyes tracked the letter with predatory focus.
I scanned the contents, my chest tightening with each line. "He's requesting an audience. Here, at the palace."
"Absolutely not." Caelen stepped into the room, his carefully maintained distance forgotten. "It's a trap. He brings his warriors to our border and then asks for a private meeting? He's either planning an assassination or—"
"He's coming alone." I looked up from the letter. "No guards, no delegation. Just him."
"That's worse. That means he's planning something that doesn't require witnesses."
"Or it means he actually wants to talk."
Caelen's jaw clenched. "You can't seriously be considering this."
"I'm considering all possibilities." I set the letter aside and rose from the window seat, facing him directly. "What exactly are you afraid of?"
The question hung between us. Something flickered across Caelen's face—there and gone so quickly I almost missed it. But I didn't miss it. I saw it clearly, written in the sudden tension of his shoulders, the slight flare of his nostrils, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides.
Jealousy. Fear. Possessiveness.
He buried it in an instant, his expression smoothing into careful neutrality.
"I'm afraid of you dying," he said flatly. "Which is my job."
"That's not what I saw."
His gray eyes met mine, and for a heartbeat, the mask slipped again. "What you saw doesn't matter. What matters is your safety."
"What I saw matters to me."
Silence stretched between us, charged with everything we weren't saying. The messenger shifted uncomfortably near the door, clearly wishing he were anywhere else.
"Do you want me to deny the request?" Caelen asked finally. His voice was carefully neutral, but I could hear the strain beneath the words. The effort it cost him to offer me this choice when every line of his body screamed that he wanted to make it for me.
I held his gaze for a long moment. Part of me wanted to push, to force him to acknowledge what had just passed across his face. To make him admit that his objection wasn't purely professional.
But that conversation would have to wait.
"No," I said. "Let him come."
Caelen's expression didn't change, but I saw his throat work as he swallowed. "And if this is a trap?"
"Then you'll be there to protect me." I crossed to my wardrobe, pulling out the black leather jacket embroidered with the Thorne crest. "You're very good at your job, after all."
"Sylra." My name on his lips stopped me mid-motion. "Why? Why agree to see him?"
I turned back, the jacket clutched in my hands. For a moment, I considered telling him the truth—about the journal, about the curse, about the fear that I'd already done irreparable damage to my own soul. But the words wouldn't come.
Instead, I said simply, "Because it's time to end this. The bond, the legal claim, all of it. I need to look him in the eye and finish what I started."
Something shifted in Caelen's expression. Understanding, maybe. Or acceptance.
"I'll arrange increased security," he said quietly. "The meeting will take place in the throne room. Guards at every entrance. I'll be positioned within striking distance at all times."
"I wouldn't expect anything less."
He nodded once, then turned to leave. At the doorway, he paused without looking back.
"Whatever he says to you," Caelen said, his voice rough, "whatever he offers, whatever he promises—remember what he chose when he thought you were nothing."
The door closed behind him before I could respond.
I stood alone in my chambers, my mother's journal hidden beneath the cushion, Rovan's letter crumpled in my fist, and Caelen's words echoing in the sudden silence.
Remember what he chose when he thought you were nothing.
I intended to.