The fire crackled low in the center of the clearing, but its warmth did nothing to dispel the chill growing in Aria's bones.
She sat alone, staring into the flames as though they might burn away the image haunting her—the vision she had seen when she placed the crown on her head.
Not the vision of Mara. Not even of war.
But herself.
Or rather… the twisted version of herself. The one cloaked in silver and shadow, seated on a throne made of bone and ash. Her eyes had been sharp as daggers, her lips curved in a cold smile that mirrored Mara's too closely. And the crown—her crown—had been jagged with thorns.
She looked like a queen. But not one of peace. One of ruin.
Aria clenched her fists, her claws threatening to burst through her skin. Her wolf stirred inside her, restless, agitated. And worse—afraid.
She's not you, Aria told herself.
But when she glanced at the reflection shimmering in the sword beside her, her wolf growled.
At her.
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