I didn't try to run again.
Not because I gave up.
Because I needed to learn.
The more time I spent in the Shadowfang fortress, the more I realized how little I understood the rules of the game I'd been forced into. The bond pulsed quietly beneath my skin now, no longer burning—but always there, like a second heartbeat that didn't answer to me.
So I watched. I listened. I waited.
And I wandered.
The guards didn't stop me anymore. Killian had made that part of the game clear. Let her roam, let her think she's free. It'll break her slower.
But I wasn't breaking.
I was collecting.
The fortress was built like a labyrinth, layers upon layers of stone, stairwells that spiraled endlessly, halls that bent at unnatural angles. It wasn't just ancient. It was alive—with secrets, with memory, with power that hummed through the stones when no one else was around.
One night, after another tasteless dinner in silence, I wandered farther than before. Down past the barracks, past the training yards, past even the storage vaults. The torches became fewer, the air colder.
The hallway ended in a rusted gate.
Locked, of course.
But I'd learned by now that nothing in this place stayed locked for long if you knew where to press.
The latch gave way with a grinding creak.
I stepped inside.
The room was circular, the walls rising up into a dome. Faded tapestries lined the stone, their threads fraying with age, their symbols half-lost to time.
And in the center wall—an enormous mural carved directly into the stone.
I stepped closer.
It wasn't just a painting. It was a story.
Figures spiraled across the stone: wolves in war, women crowned in flame, blood spilled in a circle, bound by what looked like a lunar sigil. At the center of it all was a woman—tall, regal, her arms outstretched, hair like fire pouring over her shoulders.
She wore no crown.
She wore a wolf's skull.
I stared.
There was something in her face—something wrong.
No. Not wrong.
Familiar.
The nose. The chin. The shape of her jaw.
It was me.
Not a resemblance. Not a coincidence.
Me.
I stumbled back, heart racing.
What the hell was this?
I turned to leave—only to find someone already standing at the doorway.
A girl. Slender, sharp-eyed, with a linen apron and a silver wolf insignia pinned to her collar.
I recognized her. One of the servants. She'd brought my food the night before.
"You're not supposed to be down here," she said, voice low.
"No one stopped me."
"That doesn't mean it's safe."
I took a step closer, still breathing hard. "What is that mural?"
Her eyes flicked toward it, and for a second, something passed through her expression. Not fear. Reverence.
"You don't know?" she asked.
"If I did, I wouldn't be asking."
The girl hesitated. Then said quietly, "That's the First Marked One. The last of the Moonblood."
"The what?"
She walked past me, touched the stone with the tips of her fingers. "A bloodline long thought extinct. Women who carried both the mark of the wolf and the gift of prophecy. They were hunted down, destroyed… or used."
I stared at the image again, bile rising in my throat. "She looks like me."
"That's because you carry her blood."
"No." I shook my head. "I'm human."
"You were raised human," she corrected. "Doesn't mean you are."
I stepped back, mouth dry. "You're wrong. My mother was human. My father is—was—"
"Victor Ashborne?" She snorted. "You think that man tells the truth about anything?"
I clenched my fists. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you should know what you are before the others find out."
"What others?"
The girl didn't answer. She only turned to leave.
"Wait," I said. "You think I'm—what—some kind of… blood witch?"
She looked back over her shoulder. "I think you're not what he wants you to believe you are."
My breath caught.
He.
Killian.
I didn't know what I hated more in that moment—the secrets, or the realization that the only person who might've told me the truth… chose silence.
I didn't sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her—the woman in the mural. Her face. My face. Not just similar. Identical.
She wasn't just a part of some legend. She was part of me. And no one had thought to tell me.
Except a servant girl brave—or foolish—enough to whisper truth into the cracks of a fortress built on secrets.
I didn't wait until morning. I didn't ask for permission.
I stormed into the western wing like I belonged there, ignoring the startled glances of the guards and servants. I knew where he was.
Killian's private quarters sat at the highest end of the stronghold, past a set of carved doors marked with the crest of his pack—silver fangs wrapped around a crescent moon.
I didn't knock.
The doors burst open with a shove.
Killian stood at the far end of the room, shirtless, water glistening on his skin. He had just come from bathing, his hair damp, dark curls brushing his temples. He looked like sin wrapped in control—and I didn't care.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I demanded.
His eyes narrowed. "Tell you what?"
"That there's a woman in your sacred hall who looks exactly like me." I advanced across the room. "That she was one of the Moonblood. That your people whisper about me like I'm a prophecy waiting to explode."
He said nothing.
The silence hit harder than a slap.
"You knew," I said. "You've known this whole time."
Killian took a breath. "It wasn't time."
I let out a laugh—sharp, bitter. "Not time? You marked me, kidnapped me, chained me to this place—and now you're suddenly worried about timing?"
"I was trying to protect you."
"Bullshit."
His jaw clenched.
I stepped closer. "Was this always the plan? Tie me to you, keep me in the dark, and hope I never find out who I really am?"
"You think I want this?" he snapped, his voice suddenly cutting through the air like a blade. "You think I wanted a bond with a woman who doesn't know the first thing about this world? Who runs from it every chance she gets?"
"Then why did you do it?"
He stared at me like the answer should be obvious. "Because if I didn't claim you, someone else would've. Someone who wouldn't care if you lived through the transformation."
My breath caught.
"What transformation?"
He hesitated.
That told me everything.
"You think I'm going to turn into one of you?" I asked.
"I don't know what you'll become," he said quietly. "And that's what terrifies everyone."
I stumbled back a step, like his words had weight.
"I'm not a monster," I whispered.
"No," he said. "You're something worse."
I turned away before he could see the tears sting my eyes.
"You could've told me," I said. "The moment I woke up in that stone prison. The moment I asked who I was to you."
"You weren't ready."
"You don't get to decide that."
He crossed the space between us in a breath, grabbing my wrist—not harsh, but firm enough that I couldn't pretend not to feel the pull between us.
"I was trying to give you a chance to adjust," he said. "Before the others start making moves. Before your name spreads beyond these walls."
I yanked my arm free.
"You marked me. You bonded me. And now you're telling me I'm part of some bloodline no one dares speak aloud?" I shook my head. "You're not protecting me, Killian. You're controlling me."
His expression didn't change.
But I saw something shift in his eyes—something that looked a lot like guilt.
"You're not a prisoner," he said.
I stepped back. "A cage with velvet lining is still a cage."
Neither of us spoke for a long moment.
Then I turned toward the door.
"You should've let me run," I said without looking back. "Because now that I know what I am, I'm going to find out everything you're still hiding. And when I do—"
He stopped me with a sentence colder than winter steel.
"You don't want the full truth, Seraphina. Because once you hear it… you'll never be able to go back to who you were."
I glanced over my shoulder.
"Good," I said. "I'm done being her anyway."