POV: Soraya
The fortress feels different after Azhara’s little performance. Wolves watch me longer, whisper louder, step farther away in corridors as if betrayal clings to my skin like the scent of desert smoke. It should make me shrink, keep my head down, avoid every open space—but something inside me is too numb for fear. Too exhausted to tremble.
I stay in the shadows of a side hall, pretending to study a hanging tapestry, when I sense him.
Raevan’s presence approaches like a storm front—heat, pressure, tension. I don’t have to turn; my wolf recognizes him before my mind does. My heart accelerates anyway, stupid and traitorous.
“Soraya,” he says quietly.
I stiffen.
He steps closer, slow as if approaching a frightened animal. “Please look at me.”
I don’t.
He exhales through his nose. “You can’t avoid me forever.”
“I can try,” I whisper.
He flinches. “I didn’t believe Azhara. I still don’t.”
“That doesn’t matter,” I say, keeping my eyes fixed on the weaving threads before me. “What they believe matters. And they believe her.”
“I don’t,” he repeats, voice rougher.
“You shouldn’t say that so loudly,” I murmur. “Someone might accuse you of thinking for yourself.”
His jaw tightens at my sarcasm. “Soraya—”
“No.” I finally turn to face him. “No apologies. No explanations. Please just let me breathe.”
Pain flickers across his features. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“I know,” I whisper, and that’s the problem. Intent doesn’t erase impact, and the impact has carved itself deep into the cracks of my ribs.
He reaches out, hesitates, then drops his hand. “There’s a gathering tonight. The council—”
“I’m not going.”
“You should,” he says softly. “You can’t let them believe their lies mean something.”
I laugh once, brittle. “I already lost that battle.”
“No,” he says, stepping closer. “You didn’t.”
“Please,” I whisper again, “go.”
He studies me for a long moment, eyes burning with something I refuse to name. Then he nods, barely. “If you won’t come for them… come for yourself.”
I look away.
He leaves.
And the air feels thinner without him.
***
Vienne finds me hiding in the alcove behind the kitchens, where I’ve stolen a moment of silence among sacks of flour and bowls of spice. She kicks the door shut and leans against it, arms folded.
“You’re avoiding the entire fortress,” she says.
“Should I start shaking hands instead?”
She snorts. “Cheeky. I like it better than the crying version of you.”
I raise a brow. “Did you come here to insult me?”
“No,” she says. “I came with information.”
I tense. “About Azhara?”
“No. About Raevan.”
My stomach drops. “Vienne, I really don’t need more complications.”
“Tough. You’re getting one anyway.” She digs into her sleeve and pulls out a folded cloth. “Do you know what this is?”
I blink. “A… dress?”
“A gown,” she corrects, shaking it open. Silk the color of desert twilight spills down—deep sapphire threaded with silver patterns that resemble moonlit dunes. Stunning. Regal. Wild. Nothing like anything I’ve worn.
“It’s beautiful,” I admit quietly.
“And it’s yours,” she says, shoving it into my arms.
I freeze. “Mine?”
“Raevan picked it,” she says flatly. “Personally.”
The world stutters.
“What?” My voice comes out too soft. Too fragile.
“He sent it to your chamber before the whole… stair incident,” she explains. “Said you should have something worthy of the gathering.”
Heat floods my cheeks, spreading down my neck. My pulse tumbles out of rhythm.
“No,” I whisper. “No he didn’t.”
“Yes,” Vienne says. “And apparently he spent an hour arguing with tailors about color palettes, necklines, and whether or not silver embellishment was ‘too bold.’ The tailors are traumatized.”
My throat tightens. “Why would he do that?”
Vienne gives me a look that could slice bone. “Because he cares, storm girl.”
I clutch the fabric to my chest. “I don’t want his pity.”
“That’s not pity,” she says. “That’s obsession.”
I swallow hard. “He’s engaged.”
“Betrothed,” Vienne corrects. “Not bonded. Not fully. Not by choice.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I whisper. “I can’t keep being an embarrassment. Or a target.”
Vienne steps forward, gripping my shoulders. “Then stop being prey.”
The words land in the center of my chest like thrown fire.
“You’ve spent your whole life surviving,” Vienne continues. “Now it’s time to live. To walk into that hall wearing the gown the Alpha chose for you, not because you belong to him—but because you belong to yourself.”
“I don’t want them to laugh at me.”
“They will,” Vienne says. “Until they don’t. Until you make them choke on it.”
Silence. I look down at the dress again. The fabric glows in the dim light, shimmering like captured dusk. It doesn’t look fragile. It looks powerful.
Maybe I could be, too. I straighten my spine.
“No more hiding,” I whisper.
Vienne grins. “Good. I’ll help you get ready.”