SERA'S POV
The guards don't even finish opening the doors before I kick them wide.
The boom echoes through the Kingsbane Summit like thunder. Every conversation dies. Heads snap toward me. Good. I want their attention.
Fifty of my Shadowfang Legion march behind me, boots striking stone in perfect rhythm. We trained for months to make this entrance count. Every wolf in this hall needs to understand one thing: I'm not asking for permission to be here.
The grand hall is packed with alphas—males dripping with gold chains and expensive furs, trying to prove they're worthy of competing for the High Crown. They smell like desperation and old power. My lip curls.
At the far end of the hall, sitting on a throne that should've been my father's, is High Queen Morgana Bloodcrown. Even from here, I can see her knuckles turn white as she grips the armrests.
She knows who I am. She's known for five years that I survived.
My wolf, Lunara, presses against my consciousness. "Easy," I warn her silently. "Not yet."
We walk down the center aisle. Wolves scramble out of our path. Some bare their necks in automatic submission—my Alpha Prime power rolling off me like a physical force. Others stare with their mouths hanging open.
"That's the Outlands conqueror," someone whispers.
"She controls three territories no one else could claim," another voice hisses.
"Is she really an Alpha Prime? I thought they were extinct."
Let them wonder. Let them whisper. By the time this Summit ends, they'll know exactly what I am.
Morgana finally stands, her face carefully blank. But I can smell her fear underneath the perfume and power. "This Summit is for invited competitors only. State your business or leave."
I stop ten feet from her throne. My Legion fans out behind me, a wall of lethal loyalty.
"High Queen Morgana." I don't bow. "I am Sera Ashwood, Queen of the Shadowfang Legion. I've conquered three Outland territories that you've failed to claim for thirty years. I've brought my army. I've earned my place here." I pause, letting the words sink in. "I'm competing for the High Crown."
The hall explodes with noise.
"Women can't compete!"
"She's insane!"
"An omega? Competing for the Crown?"
I don't bother looking at them. My eyes stay locked on Morgana. She knows I'm not just here for the crown. I'm here for revenge. For my father. For the five years she's hunted me like an animal.
Morgana's smile is sharp as broken glass. "You were exiled, Sera Ashwood. You have no pack, no bloodline rights, no—"
"Then I invoke ancient rite," I interrupt. My voice cuts through the chaos like a blade. "I challenge you, High Queen. The Bloodmoon Trial. Face me in combat, or forfeit your crown."
Absolute silence.
The Bloodmoon Trial is sacred law. Older than the Seven Kingdoms. Any wolf can challenge a ruler—but if the ruler refuses, they automatically lose their throne. It's designed to keep cowards from holding power.
Morgana can't refuse without looking weak in front of every alpha in this room.
Her eyes flash with pure hatred. "Challenge accepted."
Victory surges through me. Phase one complete.
I turn to leave, already planning my next move. That's when I feel it.
Three separate jolts of recognition slam into my chest. The scars hidden under my armor—three faded marks over my heart—suddenly burn like fresh wounds.
No. Not now.
I force myself to keep walking, but my wolf is going wild. "MATES," Lunara howls inside my mind. "Our mates are here!"
"They're not our mates," I snarl back silently. "They rejected us, remember?"
But the mate bonds—damaged, broken things I thought were dead—pulse with agonizing awareness. I don't have to look to know exactly where they are. My body knows. My wolf knows.
At the back of the hall. Three alpha princes. Three men who destroyed me five years ago.
I almost reach the exit when a familiar voice speaks.
"Sera."
Just my name. One word. But it stops me cold.
I turn slowly, my hand resting on the dagger at my hip. If he tries anything, I'll gut him in front of this entire assembly.
Kael Thornhart stands frozen, one hand pressed against his chest. His face—usually cold and controlled—looks like he's been hit with a war hammer. Behind him, two other men mirror his shock.
Damon Nightshade, all dark charm and dangerous beauty, stares at me like he's seeing a ghost.
Asher Silverclaw, the honorable warrior, has tears actually forming in his eyes.
All three of them clutch their chests in the exact spots where rejection scars would be. They feel it too. The broken bonds trying desperately to reconnect.
Wolves around us start whispering again, putting pieces together.
"Wait, is that—"
"The Ashwood omega from five years ago?"
"The one they all rejected at the Moonrise Ball?"
"She was supposed to be dead!"
I let the whispers build. Let everyone remember what these three princes did to a weak, powerless omega girl. Let them see what that girl became.
Then I reach up and remove my helmet.
My silver hair spills down my back like moonlight. I shake it out slowly, deliberately. When I look up, my eyes—grey with flecks of gold—lock onto each prince in turn.
Kael looks like he's drowning.
Damon's famous smirk has vanished completely.
Asher whispers something that looks like "I'm sorry."
"Address me as Queen Ashwood," I say, loud enough for the whole hall to hear. "You three lost the right to my name when you threw it away."
I turn and walk out, my Legion following like shadows.
Behind me, I hear Kael's voice, rough and desperate: "She's alive. How is she—"
I don't hear the rest. The doors slam shut behind me.
In the hallway, Lyra appears at my side. My beta's face is grim. "My Queen, we have a problem."
"What now?"
"Morgana just announced the first Combat Trial matchup." Lyra's hand tightens on her weapon. "You're fighting tomorrow morning."
My blood runs cold. "Against who?"
Lyra's eyes flash with protective fury. "Viktor Ashwood. Your uncle. The man who left you bleeding in the Outlands five years ago."