The scent hits me before I see the body.
Iron. Salt. Death.
Not just blood—though there’s plenty of that, pooling thick and dark on the black marble of the east wing corridor—but something deeper. Older. Wrong. Like the air itself has been poisoned. I freeze in the doorway, my nostrils flaring, my wolf instincts snapping to full alert. The storm outside has passed, but the fortress still hums with tension, the wards flickering like dying embers. And now, this.
A murder.
And not just any murder.
This one reeks of magic.
I step inside, boots silent on the stone, my hand resting on the hilt of my dagger. The corridor is narrow, lined with torches that cast long, wavering shadows. The body lies sprawled near the junction leading to the servant’s quarters—male, fae, mid-level guard, judging by the silver insignia on his tunic. His throat is torn out, the wound jagged, brutal, too wild for a clean kill. Claw marks rake his chest, deep enough to split bone. His eyes are wide, frozen in terror. One hand is clenched around the hilt of his own blade—drawn, but never used. The other clutches a scrap of fabric, white and delicate, stained with blood.
And beside him—carved into the stone, still wet with gore—is a sigil.
My breath stops.
It’s not the mark of any house. Not fae, not vampire, not witch. It’s older. Darker. A spiral of interlocking lines, like two serpents coiled around each other, their fangs bared. I’ve seen it before—etched into ancient texts, whispered in forbidden rituals. It’s a binding sigil. A curse. And it’s tied to the Winter Court.
Lord Veyth’s sigil.
My jaw tightens. This isn’t just a killing. It’s a message. A declaration. And it’s meant for *them*.
For Kaelen.
For Brielle.
I crouch beside the body, careful not to disturb the scene. My fingers hover over the sigil, but I don’t touch it. Not yet. Magic this old, this potent, could be trapped. Could be *alive*. Instead, I lean in, inhaling deeply. The scent of blood is overwhelming, but beneath it—faint, almost imperceptible—is something else.
Glamour.
Not just any glamour. This is Winter Court craftsmanship—smooth, elegant, designed to deceive. Whoever did this didn’t just kill the guard. They left a false trail. A distraction.
And that means they’re smart.
And dangerous.
I stand, scanning the corridor. No footprints. No scorch marks from magic. No signs of a struggle beyond the body itself. Whoever did this moved fast. Silent. Precise. And they knew exactly where to strike.
The east wing.
Close to the servant’s quarters. Close to the blood donors. Close to *her*.
Brielle.
My gut twists. This isn’t random. This is targeted. And if they’re coming for her, they’re coming for *him* too.
I turn, striding down the corridor, my steps quick but controlled. The fortress is waking—shouts echo from the lower levels, the clash of steel, the crackle of magic. The murder has been discovered. The guards are mobilizing. But I don’t head for the command post. I head for the heart of it all.
Kaelen’s chambers.
The bond between him and Brielle is strong—stronger than either of them realizes. It’s not just magic. It’s *fate*. And if someone’s trying to break it, they’ll come for her first. Because she’s the weak point. The one with the most to lose. The one who still believes she came here to kill him.
But I know the truth.
I’ve seen the way he looks at her. Not with possession. Not with hunger.
With *recognition*.
And I’ve seen the way she fights it. The way she clings to her mission, to her rage, to the memory of her mother. But it’s crumbling. I saw it in the training room. I saw it in the ritual chamber. I saw it in the library, when she didn’t pull away from his kiss.
She’s not here to kill him.
She’s here to *save* him.
And if they don’t realize it soon, they’ll both be dead.
I reach the chamber doors—massive slabs of black iron etched with blood runes. They’re closed. Silent. But I feel them before I see them.
The bond.
It’s humming—low, steady, but strained. Like a wire stretched too tight. I knock once, sharp, authoritative.
The door opens.
Kaelen stands there, fully dressed, coat fastened, fangs still bared, eyes blazing crimson. Behind him, Brielle—wrapped in a black silk robe, her hair tangled, her face pale, the fresh bite mark on her neck pulsing faintly. Her eyes lock onto mine, sharp, wary, but there’s something else beneath the surface. Not fear.
Defiance.
“Riven,” Kaelen says, voice low, controlled. “Report.”
“East wing,” I say. “Guard dead. Throat torn out. Claw marks. Sigil carved into the stone—Winter Court. Veyth’s mark.”
Kaelen doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just steps aside, gesturing for me to enter. “And the fabric?”
“White. Delicate. Blood-stained. Likely from a woman’s gown.”
Brielle stiffens. “Lyria.”
I nod. “Possibly.”
“Or a trap,” Kaelen says, closing the door behind me. “Veyth wants us to think she’s involved. Wants us to turn on each other.”
“And are we?” I ask, meeting his gaze.
He doesn’t answer.
But I see it—the flicker in his eyes. The tension in his jaw. The way his hand drifts to the mark on his chest, the one *she* carved into him last night. The one made with her blood.
They’re already fractured.
And Veyth knows it.
I turn to Brielle. “You were with him all night?”
She doesn’t look at me. Just wraps her arms around herself, her fingers brushing the bite mark on her neck. “Yes.”
“And the bond?”
“Stable,” Kaelen says. “No disruptions. No intrusions.”
“Then whoever did this didn’t come through the bond,” I say. “They came through the fortress. And they knew exactly where to strike.”
“The east wing,” Brielle says. “Near the servant’s quarters. Near the blood donors.”
“And near *you*,” I add.
She meets my gaze. “You think they were after me.”
“I think they were sending a message.” I step closer, lowering my voice. “The sigil on the stone—it’s the same as the one on your spine. The one your mother sealed in you.”
Her breath catches. “How do you know about that?”
“I know a lot of things,” I say. “I know you don’t belong here. I know you came to kill him. I know you’re starting to doubt that mission.”
“And?”
“And I know someone wants you dead.” I glance at Kaelen. “Both of you.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just crosses the room, pouring a glass of dark liquid from a decanter—blood, old and potent. He drinks it in one swallow, the crimson staining his lips. “Veyth is testing us,” he says. “He wants to see how far he can push. How much we’ll fracture.”
“And?” I ask. “Will we?”
He turns, his gaze locking onto Brielle. “No.”
She looks away. “You can’t promise that.”
“I can.” He sets the glass down, stepping toward her. “I didn’t survive centuries of war by letting my enemies divide me. And I’m not going to start now.”
“Then what?” she demands. “We just wait for the next body? The next message? The next *lie*?”
“No.” He reaches for her, but she steps back. His hand falters. “We find out who’s behind it. And we destroy them.”
“And how do we do that?”
“By using the bond.”
She freezes. “What?”
“The sigil on the stone—it’s tied to the curse. And the curse is tied to *you*.” He moves closer, slow, deliberate. “If we can trace the magic, if we can follow the thread back to its source, we’ll find Veyth.”
“And if it’s a trap?”
“Then we’ll be ready.”
She looks at me. “Do you believe him?”
I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
She exhales, long and slow. Then, reluctantly, she nods. “Fine. But I’m not doing this blind. I want proof. I want *truth*.”
“You’ll get it,” Kaelen says. “But not here. Not now. We need to inspect the scene. Together.”
She lifts her chin. “Then let’s go.”
We move through the fortress in silence—Kaelen leading, Brielle beside him, me bringing up the rear. The corridors are alive with activity—guards patrolling, witches scanning for residual magic, vampires feeding on the tension like it’s blood. The air is thick with suspicion, with fear, with the unspoken question: *Who’s next?*
When we reach the east wing, the body is still there, surrounded by investigators—fae enforcers, vampire priests, a witch with silver-rimmed glasses and a voice like cracked ice. They part as we approach, bowing their heads, stepping aside. Kaelen doesn’t acknowledge them. Just crouches beside the body, his fingers hovering over the sigil.
Brielle kneels beside him, her breath shallow, her hands trembling. “It’s the same,” she whispers. “The same as mine.”
“Yes,” Kaelen says. “And it’s fresh. The magic is still active.”
He glances at me. “Riven. Shift. Test the scent.”
I don’t argue. I drop to my knees, letting the change take me—bones cracking, muscles shifting, fur sprouting like shadow. In seconds, I’m on all fours, my wolf form sleek and powerful, my senses sharp enough to taste the air. I lower my nose to the sigil, inhaling deeply.
And then I feel it.
Not just the glamour. Not just the blood.
Something else.
A thread.
Thin, almost invisible, but there—woven through the magic, through the death, through the *intent*. It’s not Veyth’s scent. Not directly. But it’s tied to him. Like a leash.
I shift back, crouching beside the body, my breath coming fast. “There’s a trail,” I say. “Faint. But it’s there. Someone used a blood-link to channel the magic. A proxy.”
“Who?” Kaelen asks.
“I don’t know.” I glance at Brielle. “But it’s close. And it’s *female*.”
Her eyes narrow. “Lyria.”
“Possibly,” I say. “But it could be someone else. Someone using her as a pawn.”
“Then we find her,” Kaelen says. “Now.”
We move fast—down the corridor, toward the guest wing where Lyria’s chambers are located. The guards don’t stop us. No one does. Kaelen’s presence is a weapon in itself—silent, terrifying, undeniable. When we reach her door, it’s ajar, the scent of jasmine and blood thick in the air.
Kaelen pushes it open.
The room is a mess—furniture overturned, silk drapes torn, a shattered mirror on the floor. But no Lyria.
And no body.
“She’s gone,” I say.
“Or taken,” Brielle murmurs.
Kaelen steps inside, scanning the room. Then he freezes. On the bed—folded neatly, untouched by the chaos—is a white gown. Delicate. Blood-stained.
The same fabric from the murder scene.
He picks it up, his fingers brushing the stain. “This wasn’t left behind,” he says. “It was *placed*.”
“A message,” I say.
“No.” He turns, his eyes burning crimson. “A *bait*.”
Brielle steps forward. “You think they want us to follow.”
“I know they do.” He tosses the gown onto the bed. “And we’re going to let them think we have.”
“And then?”
“Then we spring the trap.”
He turns to me. “Riven. Track the scent. Find the source. But don’t engage. Not yet.”
“And you?”
“I’ll stay with her.” He glances at Brielle. “She’s the real target. And I’m not letting her out of my sight.”
She doesn’t argue. Just nods, her jaw tight, her eyes sharp.
I don’t blame her.
Because I know the truth.
They’re not just pawns in Veyth’s game.
They’re the *prize*.
And if they don’t realize it soon, they’ll both be dead.
I shift again, dropping to all fours, and lower my nose to the gown. The scent is stronger now—jasmine, blood, and beneath it, that thin, almost invisible thread. I follow it—down the corridor, through the lower levels, into the catacombs beneath the fortress. The air grows colder, the walls slick with damp, the torches flickering like dying stars.
And then I see it.
A door.
Hidden behind a false wall. Ancient. Rune-carved. And sealed with blood.
My wolf ears flatten.
Someone’s inside.
And they’re waiting.
I shift back, pressing my back against the stone. I don’t call for them. Not yet.
Because I know one thing for certain.
This isn’t just a trap.
It’s a test.
And if they fail—
They’ll lose everything.