SLOANE The Frostfang Wastes don’t welcome visitors. Not even the Alpha. Not even his mate. The wind howls through the jagged peaks like a chorus of the dead, tearing at my cloak, biting through leather and wool with teeth of ice. The sky is a bruised purple, thick with storm, the sun long buried beneath the horizon. Beneath my boots, the ground is cracked stone and frozen earth, littered with the bones of ancient beasts and the remnants of old magic—rune-carved stones half-buried in snow, their power long faded but their warnings still sharp. This place remembers. And it *hates* us. Lazarus walks ahead, silent, his broad frame cutting through the wind like a blade. His coat is open, fangs bared, eyes gold with the wolf close beneath the surface. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t speak. But I feel him—his presence like a pulse in my blood, his scent—pine and iron and something darker—filling my lungs with every breath. The bond hums between us, low and steady, no longer a scream of pain or heat, but a quiet thrum, like a heartbeat beneath the skin. It’s not broken. It’s *changed*. And so am I. I press my palm to the bite mark on my inner thigh—still tender, still warm, still pulsing with memory. Not of pleasure. Not of pain. But of *choice*. I could have stayed in Eldergrove. Could have refused this mission. Could have let him go alone. But I didn’t. Because the truth Elira gave me—about my mother, about my father, about *us*—didn’t destroy me. It *freed* me. Not from the bond. Not from the war. But from the lie. I didn’t come here to kill Lazarus. I came here to *save* her. And if that means walking into the heart of the Frostfang Wastes, into the lair of the Alpha Conclave, into the very place where my mother was taken… Then so be it. A gust of wind slams into me, nearly knocking me off my feet. I stumble, curse, and catch myself against a stone monolith, my fingers brushing a half-buried sigil. It flares—faint, red—under my touch, then dies. Lazarus turns. His eyes lock onto mine. Not angry. Not possessive. But *watchful*. “You okay?” I nod. “Just the wind.” He doesn’t answer. Just watches. And I know what he sees. Not weakness. Not fear. But *doubt*. Because this isn’t just a mission. It’s a test. For both of us. Can I stand beside him and not see the monster? Can he lead me into his world and not treat me like a prisoner? Can we walk into the past and not be destroyed by it? He turns back. “We’re close.” I follow. The path narrows, winding between two towering cliffs, their faces carved with ancient runes—protection, warning, *exile*. The air grows heavier, the magic thicker. My skin prickles. My breath comes shallow. And then—light. Not fire. Not torches. But *moonlight*. It spills over the ridge ahead, illuminating a vast stone circle—twelve pillars arranged in a ring, their tops carved with wolf heads, their bases stained with old blood. In the center, a fire burns, blue and cold, casting no warmth, only shadow. The Alpha Conclave. And they’re waiting. Lazarus stops at the edge of the circle. I stop beside him. Twelve figures stand in the ring, cloaked in furs, their eyes glowing gold in the dark. They don’t speak. Don’t move. Just *watch*. And then—movement. An elder steps forward, his face lined with age, his hair white as snow, his fangs long and yellowed. He wears a cloak of black wolf pelts, clasped with a brooch shaped like a broken moon. “Lazarus Vane,” he says, voice like stone grinding on stone. “You bring the witch.” Lazarus doesn’t flinch. “I bring my mate.” A ripple goes through the circle. The elder’s eyes narrow. “She is not of the pack.” “She is of the bond,” Lazarus says. “And she stands with me.” Silence. Then—“Why are you here?” “To find the truth,” I say. All eyes turn to me. The elder’s gaze is sharp, calculating. “And what truth is that, witch?” “The truth about my mother.” A pause. Then—“She was executed for blood treason.” I step forward. “She was *taken*.” The elder doesn’t blink. “There is no record of that.” “There doesn’t need to be.” My voice is steady. “Queen Mirelle took her. And I’m here to get her back.” A low growl rumbles through the circle. The elder’s lip curls. “You accuse the Verdant Queen of lying?” “I know she did.” I press my palm to the sigil on my wrist—the mark of the bond. It glows faintly. “Because the bond doesn’t lie. And it tells me my mother isn’t dead.” Silence. Then—“And what do you want from us?” “Answers.” I look at Lazarus. “We need to know what happened the night she died.” The elder turns to Lazarus. “You know the cost.” “I do,” Lazarus says. “And you still bring her?” “I do.” Another silence. Then—“Very well. The Conclave will speak. But only *he* may enter.” “No.” Lazarus steps in front of me. “She stays with me.” The elder’s eyes flash gold. “You defy the law?” “I *am* the law.” Lazarus’s voice drops, low, dangerous. “And she is *mine*. If she doesn’t go in, I don’t either.” The elder stares. Lazarus doesn’t blink. And then—“Let them enter.” The circle parts. We walk in. The fire burns cold against my skin. The runes in the stone hum beneath my feet. The elders surround us, their presence like a wall, their eyes sharp with suspicion. The elder who spoke steps forward. “Sit.” We do. He sits across from us, his hands folded on his knees. “You wish to know what happened the night your mother died.” “I do.” He exhales. “She came to the Wastes seeking sanctuary. She claimed her daughter—a hybrid—was in danger. She asked for our protection.” “And you refused,” I say. “We *couldn’t*.” His voice is quiet. “The Conclave does not interfere in human matters.” “But she wasn’t just human,” I say. “She was a witch.” “And witches are not welcome here.” He looks at Lazarus. “Your father knew that.” Lazarus’s jaw tightens. “She came to *him*.” “She did.” The elder’s eyes flick to me. “And he gave her shelter. But not protection.” “What happened?” My voice cracks. “Where is she?” “She was taken,” the elder says. “Three days after she arrived. In the night. No scent. No trace. Just… gone.” “And you did nothing?” “We searched,” he says. “For weeks. But the magic was fae. And we do not cross into the Verdant Court.” “So you just *left* her?” “We could not follow.” I press my palms to the stone, grounding myself. “And my father? Alaric Vane. Did he search?” The elder hesitates. “He did. But he was Alpha. The pack needed him. He could not abandon his duty.” “And so he *abandoned* her.” “He grieved,” the elder says. “But he could not fight a war on two fronts.” Silence. Then—“And you never told me.” Lazarus looks at me. “I couldn’t.” “You *knew*.” “I did.” “And you let me believe you killed her.” “I let you believe what you needed to.” His voice is rough. “Because if I’d told you the truth before the bond… you would have died.” “And now?” “Now,” he says, “you’re strong enough to face it.” I look at the elder. “Is that all you know?” “There is one more thing.” He hesitates. “The night she was taken… there was a message.” “What message?” He leans forward. “Carved into the stone of her chamber. In fae script.” “And what did it say?” He looks at me. “*She is not yours to save.*” My breath catches. Lazarus’s hand finds mine. And then—“Who else knew she was here?” The elder’s eyes flick to Lazarus. “Only your father. And one other.” “Who?” “Kaelen.” My head snaps up. Lazarus turns. “*What?*” “He was Beta then,” the elder says. “He brought her food. Spoke to her. He knew she was afraid.” “And you never questioned him?” I ask. “We did.” The elder’s voice is low. “But he had no scent of her on him. No magic. No guilt.” “But he *knew*,” I say. “He did.” The elder looks at Lazarus. “And he never told you.” Lazarus’s grip on my hand tightens. And then—“We’re leaving.” He stands. I stand with him. The elders don’t move. We walk out. The wind hits us like a wall. We don’t stop. We don’t speak. We just *walk*. Until we’re far enough away, until the circle is a shadow behind us, until the wind is the only sound. Then—“You knew Kaelen knew.” Lazarus stops. Turns. His eyes are gold. Human. *Real*. “I didn’t.” “You *trusted* him.” “I do.” “And he *lied* to you.” “He didn’t *lie*.” Lazarus’s voice is rough. “He protected her. That’s what Betas do.” “And now she’s *gone*.” “And now,” he says, stepping closer, “we find her.” I look at him. “And if Kaelen’s involved?” “He’s not.” “How do you *know*?” “Because if he were,” Lazarus says, “he’d be dead.” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because he’s right. And because I *know* Kaelen. The way he watches Lazarus when he thinks no one sees. The way he stepped in when I was captured. The way he carried me when the bond burned. He’s loyal. But loyalty can be twisted. And secrets… secrets have a way of bleeding through. I press my palm to the bite mark. It pulses. Warm. Alive. Like a second heartbeat. And I whisper the truth I can no longer deny. “Who really killed you, Mother?” And I know. Not Lazarus. Not the werewolves. But the one who’s been feeding the war for centuries. Queen Mirelle. And now? Now I have to choose. Revenge? Or truth? And worse— *What if the truth sets me free?* But not alone. With him. --- We make camp at the edge of a frozen lake, its surface cracked and black, its depths whispering with old magic. Lazarus builds a fire—real this time, not fae—and we sit across from each other, the flames casting long shadows between us. He’s quiet. Not brooding. Not angry. Just… *present*. And I realize—this is the first time we’ve been alone like this. Not in a chamber. Not under the threat of death. Not bound by the heat or the bond. Just… us. I press my palms to the stone, grounding myself. “You really believe Kaelen’s innocent?” “I do.” “Because he’s your Beta?” “Because I know him.” Lazarus pokes the fire with a stick. “He’s seen me at my worst. He’s stood beside me when the pack turned. He’s bled for me. If he wanted me dead… I’d be dead.” I don’t answer. Just watch the flames. And then—“What if he was protecting her from *you*?” Lazarus freezes. Looks up. “What?” “What if he knew the truth about us? What if he knew I was your half-sister? And he kept it from you… to protect her?” He doesn’t answer. Just stares. And then—“He wouldn’t.” “Why not?” “Because he *knows* me.” Lazarus’s voice drops. “And he knows I would never hurt her.” “Even if you didn’t know she was family?” “*Especially* then.” He leans forward. “I didn’t know who you were. But I *knew* you. The way you fight. The way you lie. The way you *break*. I knew you were *mine* long before the bond.” I look away. Because I *hate* that I believe him. Hate that I *want* to. Hate that every time he says my name, it doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like a *vow*. And for the first time in my life— I want to believe in one. The fire crackles. The wind howls. And then—“We should sleep.” I nod. He spreads a fur-lined bedroll on the far side of the fire. I spread mine on the near side. We don’t speak. Just lie down. But I don’t close my eyes. Can’t. Because the cold is sharp, the silence heavy, the truth still burning in my chest. And then—soft, rough—his voice. “You don’t have to.” I open my eyes. He’s watching me. Across the fire. His eyes are dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I see it. Not just the Alpha. Not just the monster. But the *man*. The one who’s been alone for centuries. The one who carries the weight of an empire on his shoulders. The one who *chose* me. Not because of the bond. Not because of the heat. But because I’m *me*. And I *break*. Tears burn my eyes. My voice cracks. “I *hate* that I want you.” He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just *looks* at me. And then—“Come here.” I don’t move. Can’t. “Sloane.” I close my eyes. And then—soft, rough—his voice. “But you’re not alone in this.” I look up. His eyes are dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I wonder— *Am I the only one who’s trapped?* I press my back to the stone, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cold ground. My hands tremble. My skin burns. And in the dark, I whisper the truth I can no longer deny. “I don’t want to fight you anymore.” A pause. Then—footsteps. He crouches in front of me, his knees brushing mine. “Then don’t.” I look up. “But if I stop—” “You *choose*.” His thumb brushes the mark on my wrist—the sigil from the bond. It glows faintly under his touch. “And that’s the only thing that matters.” I close my eyes. Because I know he’s right. The bond isn’t just a curse. It’s a *choice*. And I’m starting to wonder— *What if I choose him?* Not because I have to. Not because the bond demands it. But because *I* do. Because when he says my name, it doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like a *vow*. And for the first time in my life— I want to believe in one. I stand. Walk around the fire. Lie down beside him. He doesn’t touch me. Just shifts, making space. And I press my back to his chest, his arm draping over my waist. And for the first time— I don’t pull away. Because I’m not alone. And I never was.