POV: Elara Ashwyn
The door explodes open.
I jump, my hand flying to my belly instinctively, but it's not an attack. It's a girl—maybe my age, maybe younger, with sharp features and even sharper eyes that take me in like she's cataloging every weakness I have.
She's covered in training dust and dried sweat.
"So you're the wolfless wonder the King dragged out of the Shadowlands," she says, and her voice is all sarcasm and dangerous humor. "Congratulations on the promotion. Most people have to work their way up from stable hand."
"Who are you?" I demand.
"Raven." She walks toward me like she owns the room, stops a few feet away, and tilts her head. "King's spy. Your new trainer. Your closest friend if you're smart, your worst enemy if you're stupid."
She circles me slowly.
"You look angry," she says, and there's something almost approving in her tone. "Really angry. Good. Angry women make the best warriors."
Despite everything—the revelation about the King, Sage Elira's ominous warnings, the weight of a crown I never wanted—I find myself liking her immediately.
"I don't want to be a warrior," I say. "I want to survive. I want to protect my child."
"Same thing," Raven replies, snapping her fingers. "Come on. The King said to orient you before the evening council meeting. And trust me, you need to understand this place before you sit in that throne room looking lost."
Before I can protest, she grabs my hand and pulls me from the chamber.
Raven moves through the palace like she knows every shadow, every shortcut, every secret passage. She talks constantly—a stream of commentary that's equal parts instruction and mockery.
"This corridor connects to the western training grounds. Those fighters are refugees from the Northlands. They fought with honor, lost a battle, and got exiled for it. Now they're some of our deadliest warriors."
We pass through an enormous atrium where children of all ages—some human, some wolf-blooded—train together without hierarchy.
"That's the youth center," Raven explains. "First rule of this kingdom: your wolf form doesn't determine your worth. There's a human girl down there who fights better than wolves twice her size. A wolf boy with a twisted spine who's the smartest strategist we have. The King built this place on one principle: broken doesn't mean useless."
I feel something shift inside me. Something like belonging.
"How did you end up here?" I ask as she leads me past a bustling market. Warriors, healers, and merchants move freely without the rigid hierarchy that defines Silvercrest.
Raven's expression hardens.
"I was the alpha's daughter's best friend," she says quietly. "In the Thornwick Pack, up north. One night, the Alpha decided he wanted to mate with me. Not ask. Decide. I refused him."
She stops walking, and when she turns to face me, her eyes are cold fury.
"He couldn't have that. His pride was hurt. So he called a pack meeting and declared me a rogue sympathizer. Said I'd been secretly meeting with exiles to undermine pack stability. Produced fake evidence—just like they did to you, I'm guessing. The whole pack believed him."
"What happened?" I whisper.
"He branded me," she says, pulling up her shirt to reveal a scar on her shoulder—a mark burned into her flesh. "Cast me out. Left me to die in the wilderness like you. And I would have, except the King found me. Gave me a choice: work for him, fight for this kingdom, help him save others like us."
She drops her shirt and starts walking again.
"Took me about three seconds to accept."
We reach a balcony overlooking the training grounds. Fighters move in perfect synchronization below, and there's something beautiful about it—not the rigid obedience of pack hierarchy, but genuine cooperation.
"Can I ask you something?" I say carefully. "About the King. About his mask."
Raven's entire body goes tense.
"What about it?" she asks, her voice suddenly careful.
"Why does he wear it? What's underneath that—"
"That's his story to tell," Raven interrupts firmly. "Not mine. What I can tell you is this: he never removes it. Not for anyone. Not for anything. There's magic involved—old magic, dark magic, the kind that predates the Moon Court."
She grabs my shoulders, forcing me to look directly at her.
"The King is one of the most powerful beings I've ever encountered. But that mask? It controls something inside him. Something that needs controlling. So you don't ask about it, you don't try to remove it, and you definitely don't touch it. Understood?"
"Understood," I say quietly.
"Good." She releases me and her expression softens. "I like you. I think we're going to be friends. Which means I'm going to tell you something nobody else will."
She pulls me closer, lowering her voice.
"The King's condition is getting worse. I don't know how much you know about his curse, but it's eating him from the inside. The shadows, the mask, all of it—it's slowly consuming him. He's been holding on for a hundred years, waiting for something. Someone."
My heart stops.
"Waiting for what?"
"For you," Raven says. "Or more specifically, for your power to awaken. When you're a full Moon Priestess, when your abilities are complete—that's when he thinks you can save him. That's what this is really about."
Before I can respond, alarms begin to sound.
Not the casual warning bells of routine drills. The sharp, urgent clanging that means danger. Raven's hand goes to the blade at her hip instantly, and her entire demeanor shifts from friend to warrior.
"What is that?" I ask.
"I don't know," she breathes, pulling me toward the balcony railing. "But it's coming from the border gates. Something broke through the shadow barriers."
Below, the peaceful kingdom erupts into organized chaos. Warriors grab weapons. Healers move into defensive positions. Citizens retreat toward the interior of the palace. Lord Theron appears in the training grounds, barking orders, his scarred face grim with determination.
And then I see it.
A figure descends from the sky—actually descends, like it's flying on wings of pure light. Not the King's shadow magic. Something else entirely. Something that burns against my eyes to look at it.
A woman, radiating moon-silver power, lands in the center of the courtyard.
"I am High Oracle Morgana," her voice echoes across the entire kingdom, amplified by magic that makes my teeth ache. "Representative of the Moon Court of the Seven Kingdoms. I come with an official decree."
She raises her hand, and silver-white light floods the palace.
"The wolfless abomination known as Elara Ashwyn is harbored in this criminal sanctuary. Surrender her immediately, or I will burn this kingdom from existence and everyone in it shall be erased from the Moon's blessing."
Raven curses violently, pulling me back from the balcony.
"The King said this might happen," she hisses. "But not this fast. Not with her. She's ancient, Elara. Almost as old as the King himself."
Below, I watch as the Obsidian King emerges from the shadows, fully cloaked, fully masked, his presence radiating barely contained fury.
When he speaks, his voice carries the weight of a thousand years of rage.
"The Moon Court has no authority here, Oracle. This is the Obsidian Throne. And the woman you seek—"
He pauses, and I feel his masked gaze lift toward my balcony.
"—is my Luna Queen. My equal. And if you try to take her, I will remind you why the Moon Court feared me enough to bury my kingdom in shadow."
The High Oracle laughs.
"Then you've chosen war with the Seven Kingdoms," she says. "And we both know how that ends, Obsidian King. Badly. For you."
She raises both hands, and silver-white magic begins to tear the very air apart.