POV: Raevan
The moment she steps through the great doors, the hall forgets how to breathe.
Conversations die mid-sentence. Goblets hover halfway to lips. The musicians miss a note, strings whining in protest before catching the melody again. Even the torches along the carved sandstone walls seem to lean closer, dragging light over the woman framed in the archway.
Soraya.
Wearing the gown I chose.
The sapphire silk clings and flows exactly the way I imagined when I argued with the tailors for an hour, pretending it was about Ashra colors and formality when it was really about her. Silver thread catches the lanternlight, tracing dunes and moons along the hem. Her hair is braided back from her face, leaving her eyes unshadowed, sharp, unafraid.
She looks nothing like the frightened exile we dragged from Saren.
She looks like she belongs on a throne.
Beside me, Azhara’s fingers tighten around my arm. She makes a small, fragile sound that might convince anyone else she is still weak, still shaken from the “fall.” I know better. I saw the calculation in her eyes before she stepped backward onto the stairs.
“She came,” Azhara whispers, as if surprised. “After everything… she still came.”
Of course she did. Soraya never learned how to stay down.
I don’t answer. My throat has closed around the sight of her.
She starts walking.
Not fast. Not timid. Each step is measured, cloak sliding back to reveal the dress in full. Wolves turn to follow her path. Some stare with open dislike. Others with wary curiosity. A few with something like respect.
When she reaches the center of the hall, she pulls the cloak from her shoulders in one smooth motion.
The hall exhales.
I feel her magic before I see it—just a whisper under the surface, a faint hum in my chest that answers the bond mark against my skin. She is holding herself too tightly, power pressed down beneath anger and pride, refusing to spill.
Azhara leans closer, nails biting into my arm. “You should ask her to leave,” she murmurs. “People are unsettled. Her presence… divides them.”
“Good,” I say softly. “They should be divided.”
Her grip tightens. “Raevan.”
I ignore her. My eyes stay on Soraya.
She does not look at me.
She stands before the dais, chin high, gaze sweeping the assembly as if cataloguing threats. When her eyes pass over me, they don’t linger. They glide across my face, over Azhara’s hand on my arm, and move on as if we are carved stone and nothing more.
The cut is precise. Deliberate.
Deserved.
Elder Marra clears her throat, trying to reclaim control. “Soraya Zehrael,” she announces, “you are… welcome among us this evening.”
It is the most grudging welcome I have ever heard.
Soraya inclines her head. “I appreciate the reminder,” she says calmly. “In case anyone has forgotten.”
A few younger warriors choke on their drinks. Somewhere, Kaide coughs loudly to hide a laugh.
My chest aches.
She is furious and shining and utterly beyond my reach.
The gathering resumes slowly, conversation splintering and reforming in low tones. Nobles swarm Azhara with condolences and praise. Warriors cluster around Kaide, hungry for his version of events. Servants weave through the press, pouring wine, carrying spiced meat and flatbread and sweet dates.
And Soraya stands slightly apart. Not invited into any circle. Not yet.
I should go to her.
Apologize again. Ask if she is all right. Tell her that seeing her standing in my colors is the only reason I can still breathe in this suffocating hall.
I take a step forward.
Azhara tightens her grip. “You’ll start another storm if you go to her now,” she murmurs. “The elders already question your judgment.”
“Let them question it,” I say.
“Raevan, please.” Her voice trembles just enough to be heard by the nearest nobles. “Do not humiliate me in front of the pack.”
Several eyes turn our way. Perfect. She doesn’t just play me; she plays whoever is listening.
My jaw tightens. “Release my arm.”
Her fingers loosen, but she doesn’t move away. “They’re watching,” she whispers. “Every move you make tonight will be weighed. If you chase her, they’ll say you choose a cursed girl over the future of Ashra.”
Maybe I do.
I don’t say it aloud.
Across the hall, Kaide approaches Soraya with a goblet of water. They speak quietly. She smiles—small, tired, but real. My chest tightens painfully.
I take another step in her direction.
Kaide’s gaze flicks to me. His expression shutters. He shifts his stance so his body blocks my line toward Soraya, as if he has become a wall made of loyalty that no crown can move.
I stop.
Our eyes lock over the crowd.
Don’t, his glare says clearly. She needs space, not another storm.
I could pull rank. I could order him aside. But I know that if I do, something important between us will crack.
Kaide turns back to Soraya, offering his arm. She takes it. Together, they move toward a quieter corner of the hall, away from the center, away from me.
I stand frozen on the dais, Azhara’s hand still resting lightly on my arm like a manacle disguised as comfort.
When the last song fades and the hall begins to empty, I tell myself I will speak to her before she leaves. I watch every exit, track every cloak, listen for her footsteps. Somehow, she slips past me anyway, vanished into stone and shadow like she was never here at all.
Only when the great doors close do I realize my nails have drawn blood in my palms.
The dread wolf, undone by a girl in a dress, utterly.