I came here to protect the pack.
And now I’m standing in the shadowed corridor outside the Fae Enclave, my back pressed to cold stone, my breath steady, my claws retracted—but my wolf snarling beneath my skin.
Seraphine is here.
Not just here.
She’s moving.
I saw her slip through the eastern passage an hour ago—her blood-red gown like a wound against the gray stone, her pale face sharp with purpose. She didn’t come to the Great Hall. Didn’t attend the Council session. Didn’t even glance at the dais where Kael and Morgana sat, their bond humming like a live wire between them.
No.
She went straight to the private chambers.
And I followed.
Not because I don’t trust her.
Because I know exactly what she is.
A predator.
And predators don’t come to the Iron Court for diplomacy.
They come to hunt.
The corridor is silent—torchlight flickering with unnatural blue at the edges, the scent of iron and pine thick in the air. The runes on the walls pulse faintly, reacting to magic, to blood, to lies. I press my palm to the stone, feeling the vibrations beneath—footsteps. Soft. Deliberate. Witchcraft.
Someone’s casting.
Not in the war room.
Not in the ritual chambers.
In Morgana’s chambers.
I move.
Silent.
Fast.
My boots don’t touch the ground. My breath doesn’t stir the air. I’m Beta of the Iron Pack, second only to Kael, and I’ve spent a lifetime learning how to vanish—how to become shadow, how to be the blade no one sees until it’s too late.
The door to Morgana’s chambers is ajar.
Just a crack.
Enough.
I press my eye to the gap.
And I see her.
Seraphine.
She’s crouched beside the chest at the foot of the bed, her fingers tracing the lock—black nails, long and sharp, glowing faintly with vampire magic. The chest is sealed with werewolf sigils, enchanted to only open to Morgana’s blood. But Seraphine isn’t trying to break it.
She’s copying it.
A small vial dangles from her other hand—dark liquid swirling inside. Fae venom. The same poison that nearly killed Kael. The same poison the High Court used to try to break their bond.
And she’s not alone.
Two figures stand behind her—hooded, cloaked, their faces hidden. Fae. I recognize the scent—moonflowers and frost. One carries a scroll sealed with black wax. The other holds a dagger—silver, etched with runes that pulse with dark magic.
They’re not here to steal.
They’re here to frame.
My wolf snarls.
I don’t move.
Not yet.
Because if I charge in now, if I expose her, she’ll vanish. She’ll deny it. She’ll claim I’m lying. And without proof—without irrefutable proof—Kael won’t believe me.
Not about her.
Not when it comes to Morgana.
Because he’s not just the Wolf King.
He’s a man in love.
And love makes even the strongest wolves blind.
So I wait.
I watch.
Seraphine finishes tracing the sigil, then presses her palm to the chest. A pulse of dark magic flares—silent, invisible to anyone who isn’t looking. The lock clicks. The lid opens.
She reaches inside.
Not for clothes.
Not for jewelry.
For the treaty scroll.
The original.
It’s supposed to be in the Council vault. But Morgana took it—she’s been studying it, searching for flaws, for loopholes, for anything that could protect Kael from the High Court’s schemes. She keeps it here. Hidden. Protected.
And now Seraphine has it.
She unrolls it slowly, her fingers brushing the ancient parchment. Then she pulls a quill from her sleeve—dipped in black ink, laced with blood magic. She begins to write.
Not on the scroll.
On a copy.
A perfect forgery.
She’s altering it.
Adding clauses. Removing safeguards. Inserting language that will hand control of the Supernatural Council to the vampires. To her.
And then—
She dips the quill in the vial.
Smears fae venom across the bottom of the scroll.
Blood magic flares—golden, then black, then gone.
It’s not just a forgery.
It’s a curse.
Anyone who touches it will be marked. Their magic twisted. Their loyalty rewritten.
And when the Council discovers it—when they find it in Morgana’s chambers—
They’ll believe she’s the traitor.
That she’s working with the Fae.
That she’s trying to destroy the treaty.
And Kael—
He’ll have no choice.
He’ll have to arrest her.
Or lose the trust of his pack.
My claws extend.
My fangs press into my lip.
I want to burst in. Want to tear her apart. Want to rip out her throat and feed it to the wolves.
But I don’t.
Because if I do, she’ll vanish. She’ll claim I attacked her. She’ll turn the Council against me. And Morgana—
She’ll still be framed.
So I do the only thing I can.
I watch.
I memorize every detail—the way she folds the scroll, the way she seals it with black wax, the way she slips it into a hidden pocket in her gown. I watch as she places the original back in the chest, as she locks it with a whispered spell, as she rises and turns to the two Fae.
“It’s done,” she says, voice smooth, dark. “When the Council finds it, they’ll believe she’s the one who poisoned Kael. That she’s working with the High Court to destroy the treaty.”
“And the King?” one of the Fae asks.
“He’ll have no choice,” Seraphine says. “He’ll arrest her. Or lose his throne.”
“And if he refuses?”
“Then we’ll make him,” she says, smiling. “Because by dawn, the entire pack will believe she tried to kill him.”
They vanish—cloaks dissolving into mist, footsteps fading into silence.
She stays.
Just for a moment.
She walks to the bed, runs her fingers over the sheets—still warm from where Morgana and Kael slept last night. Her black eyes burn with something I’ve never seen before.
Not hatred.
Not greed.
Envy.
“You don’t deserve him,” she whispers to the empty room. “You don’t deserve this.”
Then she’s gone.
I wait.
Count to fifty.
Then I move.
I step into the chamber, my boots silent on the stone. The air is thick with the scent of her—cold roses and iron—and something darker. Betrayal. The chest is still locked. The treaty scroll is still inside. But I know the truth.
And I know what I have to do.
I pull a silver vial from my coat—etched with werewolf runes, filled with tracking magic. I press it to the spot where Seraphine stood, where her magic lingered. The liquid swirls, reacts, flares with golden light.
It’s a blood trace.
And it’s unbreakable.
I seal it, tuck it into my pocket.
Then I leave.
The fortress is stirring—Alphas patrolling the walls, Betas reinforcing the gates, envoys whispering in shadowed corners. The final signing of the Blood Moon Treaty has been delayed, but not canceled. And every instinct in my body screams that the calm before the storm is over.
I find Kael in the war room.
He’s standing over the maps, his presence a storm, his gold eyes burning. Morgana is beside him, her hand laced with his, her gold eyes sharp, fierce, alive. She’s not the woman who came here to kill him.
She’s the woman who saved him.
And I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that.
Like she’s the only air in the room.
“Riven,” he says, turning. “You have news.”
Not a question.
A command.
I nod. “Seraphine was in Morgana’s chambers.”
Morgana tenses. “What?”
“She didn’t go in,” I say. “She used magic to open the chest. She had help—two Fae. They altered a copy of the treaty scroll. Added cursed ink. Smudged it with fae venom.”
Kael’s fangs bare. “Where is it?”
“She took it,” I say. “But I have proof.” I pull out the vial. “Blood trace. Unbreakable. It’ll lead us to her.”
“Then we go now,” Kael says, turning to the door.
“No,” I say.
He stops.
Turns.
His gold eyes burn. “Explain.”
“She’s not just framing her,” I say. “She’s setting a trap. If we go after her now, if we accuse her without proof, she’ll vanish. She’ll claim we’re lying. She’ll turn the Council against us. And Morgana—” I look at her. “—they’ll still believe you’re the traitor.”
“Then what do we do?” Morgana asks, voice steady.
“We let her think she’s won,” I say. “We let her plant the scroll. We let the Council find it. And then—” I press the vial into Kael’s hand. “—we expose her. In front of everyone. With proof.”
Silence.
Kael studies me. Then nods. “You’re right.”
“You’re trusting me,” I say.
“I’m trusting my Beta,” he says. “And my instincts. You’ve never led me wrong.”
“And if I’m wrong?”
“Then I’ll kill you myself,” he says. “But I don’t think you are.”
I don’t flinch.
Just nod.
Morgana steps forward. “You’re risking your life for me.”
“I’m protecting the pack,” I say. “And the King.”
“And me,” she says. “You could have walked away. You could have let them believe I was the traitor. But you didn’t.”
“Because you’re not,” I say. “And because if you fall—” I look at Kael. “—he falls. And the pack with him.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just presses her palm to the mating mark on her shoulder. It pulses—warm, alive, claimed.
“Then we wait,” Kael says. “We let her think she’s won. And when she makes her move—” He turns to me. “—you’ll be ready.”
“I am,” I say.
The hours pass like knives.
I stay in the shadows. Watch. Listen. Wait.
And then—
At dawn, it happens.
A scream echoes through the fortress.
Not from pain.
From shock.
I move.
I reach the Great Hall just as the Council gathers—Alphas, Betas, envoys from the vampire and fae courts. The High Elder stands at the dais, his staff raised, his face pale.
“A traitor has been found!” he announces. “In the chambers of Morgana, daughter of the Northern Witches—”
Gasps ripple through the chamber.
“—we have discovered the altered treaty scroll. Cursed. Poisoned. A weapon meant to destroy the King.”
Kael steps forward, his presence a storm. “Show me.”
The Elder holds it out—a scroll sealed with black wax, smudged with dark ink.
Kael takes it.
Sniffs.
His fangs bare. “Fae venom. Blood magic. This is a forgery.”
“It was found in her chambers,” the Elder says. “What do you say to that?”
Kael doesn’t answer.
Just turns to me.
I step forward.
“I say,” I say, voice low, dangerous, “that the real traitor is not Morgana.”
“And who is?” the Elder demands.
“Seraphine,” I say. “The Blood Queen. She altered the scroll. She planted it. And I have proof.”
Gasps.
Whispers.
“You lie,” someone hisses.
“Do I?” I say, pulling out the vial. “This is a blood trace. Unbreakable. It leads to her. To the eastern passage. To the moment she used magic to open the chest.”
“And why should we believe you?” the Elder asks.
“Because I’m not the one who benefits,” I say. “She is. She wants the treaty to fail. She wants war. And she’s using Morgana to do it.”
“Prove it,” Kael says.
“Then let’s go,” I say. “Now. To the eastern passage. Let the magic speak.”
The Council hesitates.
Then—
They follow.
We move through the fortress—stone corridors slick with dawn light, torches flickering with unnatural blue at the edges. The scent of iron and pine fills the air, mingling with something darker—power.
We reach the eastern passage.
I press the vial to the stone.
It flares—golden light erupting across the wall, the runes glowing, the air crackling with magic. A trail appears—faint, shimmering, leading deeper into the tunnels.
“It’s real,” someone whispers.
“Then follow it,” Kael says.
We do.
The trail leads through hidden passages, through veils of glamour, through the underbelly of the Iron Court. And then—
We find her.
Seraphine.
She’s in a chamber carved from black stone, her blood-red gown like a wound against the gray, her pale face sharp with fury. She’s not alone. The two Fae are with her. And on the table—
The original treaty scroll.
Unaltered.
Untouched.
And in her hand—
The quill.
Dipped in black ink.
Still wet.
She freezes.
Her black eyes lock onto mine.
And for the first time—
I see fear.
“You don’t get to win,” I say, stepping forward. “Not this time.”
She doesn’t speak.
Just smiles.
Then vanishes—cloak dissolving into mist, footsteps fading into silence.
But it doesn’t matter.
Because we have the proof.
And the Council knows the truth.
Morgana is innocent.
And Seraphine—
Is the traitor.
I return to the war room slowly, my boots silent on the stone, my presence a shadow. The fortress is quiet. The pack watches. But I don’t care.
Because I’ve done my duty.
Kael is there. Morgana is there. They don’t speak. Don’t move. Just stand together, their bond humming like a live wire between them.
“It’s done,” I say.
Kael nods. “You saved her.”
“I protected the pack,” I say.
“And me,” Morgana says.
“And you,” I say. “But don’t thank me yet. The real war hasn’t started.”
She doesn’t flinch.
Just presses her palm to the mating mark on her shoulder. It pulses—warm, alive, claimed.
And I know—
She’s not just a weapon.
She’s a queen.
And I’ll be damned if I let anyone take her from us.
I came here to protect the pack.
And now—
I think I’ve found something worth fighting for.
And worse—
I don’t want to be anyone else.