"Not at the same time?" Gabriel growled.
"The receptionist says the maid left with a werewolf and the captain of the royal guard in the middle of the night, crying and trembling."
Gabriel’s servant, a thin man named Lurent, bowed as he delivered the message, his eyes flickering with caution. He was used to delivering unsettling news to Gabriel.
Gabriel’s jaw tensed. "A werewolf?" he repeated, eyes narrowing into slits.
"Interesting," he murmured, almost to himself. His thoughts spun in tight, calculated circles, trying to piece together the implications. "This means the Queen knows of her existence. The King told his wife."
That, in itself, was foolish. Damien always was soft when it came to women.
Gabriel turned his sharp gaze to Lurent. "You can leave."
The servant bowed again and retreated quietly, the doors shutting with a soft boom behind him.
Left alone, Gabriel slowly lowered himself into the carved chair beside the table, fingers steepling under his chin.
It was time for the next phase of his plan.
The pieces that protect the royal couple needed to start falling—devastatingly.
Morvakar had a sinking feeling.
He hadn’t moved for hours, not since he placed the necklace on the table. It lay there still.
Morvakar rubbed his temples, his hair falling over one eye as he sighed. He looked far younger than he felt. His long coat hung open over his chest, revealing the slight tremble of his breath.
There was something he hadn’t told Damien. Something he couldn’t bring himself to say.
Because... well... there was no reason to.
No logical reason, at least. But the truth clawed at his insides.
Only one other person had the same magical fingerprint as him.
He had taught William everything he knew. He had guided William through the tides of magical maturity. William had been brilliant—more than Morvakar himself, if he was honest.
And then Morvakar had been stationed permanently in the Royal Palace. Duty had called. And like too many before him, he’d made the mistake of choosing his oath over his blood.
He stared down at the necklace on his table, his hand hovering just above it. The signature within it was faint, but it was there—his signature. The patterns were too unique, too specific to be coincidence.
Just then, he heard the sound of a heartbeat approaching.
It was soft, steady—neither rushed nor filled with fear. Whoever it was, they weren’t trying to sneak up on him. He tuned into the rhythm of the approaching soul.
It wasn’t Luna. And it wasn’t Michael.
He could tell. Luna’s steps were lighter, regal but always charged with tension beneath her grace. Michael, on the other hand, moved like a shadow.
He finally turned, brow lifting as his sharp eyes settled on the figure at the threshold.
"I have seen you before," Morvakar said, narrowing his gaze, rifling through his memory.
"Yes, I came here a few months ago to pick up—"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah... I remember." Morvakar cut in with a wave of his hand.
"The King of Blood City sent me. He said you would be expecting me," Talon said evenly.
"You are a werewolf."
"To whom does your allegiance lie?" Morvakar asked, folding his arms, voice sharp as a drawn blade.
"King Kyllian Rykers of the Werewolf Kingdom."
"That idiot!" Morvakar snapped, spinning away from him. He paced toward the shelves, muttering curses in a strange tongue. "I told him to send someone he or Luna can trust."
"Maybe that’s why he sent me. My king’s mission for me is to protect the werewolf princess with my life."
Morvakar’s gaze lingered on him now, finally seeing him with clearer eyes.
Morvakar eyed him for a moment, then turned to pick up a whistle, handing it to Talon.
Morvakar’s gaze lingered on the werewolf warrior with intensity.
"When all hope is lost," Morvakar said, "tell the queen to blow on this, and I will be there—no matter where it is."
The whistle was a promise. A magical beacon that could bend space, slice through dimensions, even call him from the brink of death if need be. It was something Morvakar had never given to anyone before.
Talon stared at it for a moment then gave a short nod, eyes hardening with purpose.
And without another word, he turned and strode out of the building.
For a long time, Morvakar stood motionless, eyes fixed on the door that had closed behind the werewolf.
Morvakar turned back to the necklace.
His fingers hovered just above it with determination.
He was going to reverse the finding spell.
To locate the person who had made it. The only one who could have left such a distinctive mark of power embedded into its core.
Luna had no idea how long she could avoid Damien.
She lay curled up on the mattress that had been dragged onto the balcony of the top floor, staring at the night sky with tired eyes. The stars shimmered above blurred occasionally by the thin veil of mist rising from the nearby mountain spring.
The wind teased strands of her hair loose from the braid that trailed over her shoulder. The balcony was high. For a few precious hours, it had been her escape.
But the illusion was wearing thin.
Her heart ached in the quiet with longing.
For one, she missed him.
Damien’s absence was like a weight pressing against her chest. She missed the sound of his voice, the rough calluses of his fingertips brushing her back at night, the way he always knew what to say—even when she didn’t want to hear it. She missed his laugh. His fierce protectiveness. The tenderness he never showed anyone else but her.
Second, he would obviously notice she was avoiding him.
They had made a vow. They had promised each other: no secrets. Not ever.
And now she had broken that.
She hadn’t told him she had stopped Isolde from leaving Blood City.