Chapter 1: The Prince and the Wolf in the War Room
The smell of bleach and pine cleaner did little to mask the deeper scent of old magic in Ruhn Dannon’s townhouse. Aria could feel it, a low hum in the polished marble under her flats, a whisper in the intricate tapestries depicting ancient Fae wars that covered the walls. It was nothing like home. Home smelled of wet earth and cedar and the warm, living scent of her pack.
Here, the air was cold.Perfumed.
She stood a half-step behind Ithan, her fingers curled into the back of his crisp, black button-down. The fabric was taut under her grip. She could feel the solid wall of his back muscles, coiled even at rest, and she pressed closer, drawing the familiar, comforting scent of him—alpha, brother, safety—deep into her lungs.
Voices echoed from the grand receiving room ahead, a blend of Fae diplomacy and wolfish grumbling. The Summit. A farce, Ithan had called it, but a necessary one. The war had left everyone raw, borders shaky. The Fae wanted assurances. The wolves needed space to heal.
“Easy, Arie,” Ithan murmured, his voice so low only her sharp ears could catch it. He didn’t turn, but his hand came back to briefly cover hers, squeezing once. His palm was calloused.Warm. “They’re just posturing. No one’s drawing blades today.”
She nodded against his spine, saying nothing. Her throat felt too tight for words. The noise, the unfamiliar magic, the weight of so many powerful eyes—it was a physical pressure against her skin. She focused on the details: the impossibly high, vaulted ceiling, the way the crystal chandelier scattered light like fractured ice on the floor. Anything to steady herself.
Then the main doors at the far end of the hall swung open.
The conversation in the receiving room died to a ripple of whispers. He entered not with a guard, but with the implicit understanding that he was the threat. Daemian Donnall, Crown Prince of Avallen, now that his brother was ash on a battlefield.
Aria’s breath hitched.
He was taller than she remembered from the chaotic, smoke-choked memorial weeks ago. Maybe it was the absence of armor, the stark black of his tailored jacket making him seem like a vertical slice of night. Sandy hair, ruthlessly neat. A face that was all sharp, unforgiving angles—a stark contrast to the round softness she carried. But it was his eyes she felt first. Hazel, and currently the color of a winter forest just before a storm. They swept the room, assessing, dismissing, and then… stopped.
Landed on her.
On where she was hiding behind Ithan.
A hot, shameful flush crawled up her neck, burning the tips of her ears. She wanted to vanish. To become part of the ornate wallpaper. His gaze didn’t feel like a look; it felt like a touch.Clinical. Curious. It stripped away the shelter of her brother’s back and left her feeling exposed, small in her simple dress.
Ithan went absolutely still. A low, almost imperceptible growl vibrated through him, a warning rumble felt more than heard. The few wolves in the hallway subtly shifted their stances.
Daemian didn’t seem to notice. Or he didn’t care. He cut through the center of the hall, his stride long and unnervingly quiet for someone of his height. The other Fae delegates parted for him like water around a stone. He was headed straight for them. For Ithan.For her.
Her grip on Ithan’s shirt turned desperate. The cotton threatened to rip at the seams. A whimper built in her chest, stifled only by sheer force of will. She couldn’t breathe. The clean, citrus-and-cedar scent of the Fae prince cut through the room’s aromas, foreign and intimidating.
“‘Prince Donnall,’” Ithan said, the title flat and heavy as he took a half-step forward, deliberately blocking Daemian’s direct line to Aria. His voice was Prime-steady, but Aria heard the tension in it. “We weren’t expecting a personal audience before the talks.”
Daemian stopped a few feet away, close enough that Aria had to tilt her head back to see past Ithan’s shoulder. The prince’s eyes flicked to Ithan’s face, then back down, past him, to where Aria’s knuckles were white on the black cotton.
“Prime Holstrom,” Daemian replied. His voice was smoother than she expected.Cool. Detached. “Merely assessing the landscape.” A faint, humorless curve touched his lips. “My brother preferred to walk into rooms blind. I find it… inefficient.”
His gaze settled on Aria again. That analytical stare. “Your shadow seems distressed.”
The words were a slap. Ithan’s shoulders squared. “My sister’s well-being is not a topic for your assessment.”
“Sister.” Daemian repeated the word as if testing its weight. His eyes didn’t leave her. “Aria, isn’t it? Conner Holstrom’s sister.”
Hearing her older brother’s name in that cold, precise voice unlocked something violent in her grief. It was a raw, fresh wound, and he’d just driven a thumb into it. A sharp inhale whistled through her teeth.
Ithan’s hand came up, a clear barrier. “That’s enough.”
For a long, silent second, the two males measured each other in the space between them. The air crackled with unmasked hostility. Aria could see the fatigue then, etched in the subtle shadows under Daemian’s eyes, in the too-perfect line of his posture. He was playing a part, just like they all were. But the script was thin.
Daemian’s attention finally broke from her, shifting fully to Ithan. The tension didn’t leave, but its focus changed. “The Avallen delegation wishes to discuss the northern patrol routes. Your wolves have been… skittish. It’s causing delays.”
“They’re mourning,” Ithan shot back, his tone glacial. “Not skittish. You’ll have your treaty. Let us bury our dead in peace.”
Another flick of those hazel eyes toward Aria. This time, something shifted in them. A fracture in the ice. He saw her grief, she realized. He recognized it. It was there in the clench of his jaw, a shadow that mirrored the one in her own heart. The brother he’d lost. The brother she’d lost. It was a terrible, unwanted bridge between them.
He gave a single, curt nod. “Peace,” he echoed, the word sounding strange in his mouth. He turned on his heel, the movement sharp, and walked toward the receiving room without another word.
The moment he was gone, the air rushed back into the hallway. Aria’s knees wobbled. She loosened her death-grip on Ithan’s shirt, leaving behind deep, wrinkled creases.
Ithan turned, his hands coming up to cradle her face. His green eyes, so like her own but hardened by responsibility, scanned hers. “Aria. Look at me. He’s gone. He’s not going to hurt you.” His thumb brushed her cheek, coming away wet. She hadn’t even felt the tears fall.
She shook her head, not in disagreement, but because words were impossible. It wasn’t the fear of physical harm that had paralyzed her. It was the way he’d looked at her. Like she was a puzzle, a weakness, a strange, soft creature he couldn’t categorize. And the horrifying, fleeting moment where she’d seen her own pain reflected in him.
“I hate it here,” she whispered, her voice ragged.
“I know,” Ithan sighed, pulling her into a brief, hard hug. He rested his chin on top of her head. “One hour. We give them one hour of politicking, and then we’re gone.Okay? Just stay close.”
She nodded against his chest.
The formal talks were a drone of voices, a chess game of grievances and concessions. Aria sat on a hard, silk-upholstered bench along the wall, Ithan a solid presence beside her. She kept her eyes on her hands, folded in her lap. But her senses were stretched taut, hyper-aware.
She could pick his scent out of the room’s mélange. Could feel the specific weight of his stare whenever it landed on her, which it did, more often than was polite. Each time, a spark of that same, stunned vulnerability would flare in her chest, followed immediately by a wave of anger. He didn’t get to see that. He didn’t get to recognize it.
During a recess, as delegates broke into smaller groups, she slipped out onto a balcony overlooking a manicured garden, desperate for air that didn’t smell like politics and perfume.
She’d only had a minute, just enough to gulp the cool, dusk air, when the hair on the back of her neck rose. She didn’t need to turn.
“It’s considered rude to leave a summit you’re technically hosting,” that cool voice said from the doorway behind her.
She stiffened, her fingers curling around the cold stone railing. “It’s considered rude to stare,” she said quietly, the words braver than she felt.A pause. She heard the soft scuff of his shoes on the balcony stone as he moved closer. Not beside her, but to a spot a few feet away, leaning his own tall frame against the balustrade. He looked out at the garden, not at her.
“You flinch like you’re expecting a blow,” he said, his tone devoid of its earlier arrogance. It was simply an observation.
The truth of it shamed her. She lifted her chin, staring straight ahead. “Maybe I am.”
“From me?”
“From everyone.”
He was silent for a long moment. The sounds of the city—distant horns, the sigh of a passing train—filtered up to them. “My brother,” he began, then stopped. He cleared his throat, the sound oddly rough. “Cormac. He was good at this. The talking. The… smiling.” He said the word like it was a weapon he didn’t know how to hold. “I am not.”
She dared a glance at him. His profile was sharp against the fading lilac sky. He looked younger, like this. Just a tired teenager carrying a crown that didn’t fit.
“I’m not good at it either,” she found herself saying. “The… being seen.”
His head turned. Those hazel eyes met hers in the twilight. The shattered glass was still there, but the light behind it was different. Softer. He studied her face—not her body, not her position as a weakness—but her face. The redness around her eyes, the stubborn set of her mouth.
“No,” he said softly, almost to himself. “I suppose you’re not.”
A roar of laughter erupted from inside, breaking the spell. He straightened, the mask of the prince sliding back into place, but slower this time. Less certain.
“You should go back in,” he said, his voice regaining its distance. “Your brother is looking for you. He gets a certain… tension around his eyes. It’s unattractive.”
Before she could respond, he was gone, melting back into the bright, noisy interior of the townhouse.
Aria stood there, her heart pounding a confused rhythm against her ribs. The cold stone under her hands, the scent of night-blooming jasmine from the garden below, and the lingering trace of citrus and cedar.
It wasn’t peace. But the sharp edge of her fear was gone, replaced by something more complicated, and far more dangerous.
But the sharp edge of her fear was gone, replaced by something more complicated, and far more dangerous.
The final hour of the summit was a blur. Aria stayed close to Ithan, a silent accessory to his tense negotiations. She felt the prince’s gaze like a occasional, prickling sunbeam through clouds—there, then gone, leaving a confused warmth on her skin. When it was finally, mercifully over, Ithan guided her out with a hand on her lower back, his posture only relaxing once they were down the front steps and heading toward the parked SUV.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice weary.
“Fine,” she said, which was the expected answer.
Back at the temporary pack house, the noise was different. Softer. The rumble of Pack members talking, the clatter of plates from the kitchen. It was familiar, but it didn’t settle her. Her own room felt too quiet. She scrolled through her phone, seeing nothing, the balcony conversation replaying on a loop in her head. I am not. She could hear the raw honesty in it, the frustration. It echoed her own.
Needing to move, to escape the four walls closing in, she slipped out and walked the few blocks back to Ruhn’s townhouse. Ithan was still there, debriefing with the other Alphas. She didn’t go inside. Instead, she sat on the broad, shallow steps of the grand staircase that swept up to the private quarters—to where Ruhn, Tristan, Dec, Finn, and her own temporary room were.
She just needed to not be alone in the silence.
The marble step was cool through her tights. She placed her phone beside her, screen down, and rested her head in her hands, elbows on her knees. The events of the day pressed down on her, a physical weight on her shoulders. Conner’s absence was a constant ache, but tonight it was a sharp sting, highlighted by the strange, hollow look in the Fae prince’s eyes. Two grieving strangers, orbiting different worlds.
A shadow fell across her, long and lean. She knew who it was before she looked up. That specific, clean scent gave him away.
Daemian stood at the foot of the stairs, his jacket gone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The formal prince was gone, replaced by someone younger, more tired. He looked at her, then at the phone on the step.
Without a word, he bent and picked it up.
Her head snapped up, a flash of irritation cutting through the fog. “Hey—” She reached for it, quick as a striking snake.
He was quicker. He turned the phone, letting the screen catch her face as she leaned forward. A soft click. Unlocked. His thumbs moved over the screen, swift and sure. Her outrage froze, tempered by sheer disbelief.
“What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer until he was finished. He handed the phone back to her, his expression unreadable. “In case you need anything.”
Then he turned and walked away, his footsteps silent on the runner, disappearing down a hall toward the back of the house.
Aria stared after him, her pulse thrumming in her ears. Slowly, she looked down at her screen.
Contacts.
A new entry.
DAE 🪐
Beneath it, an Avalon number with the complex country code.
A little emoji.A star. A planet. Something distant and cold and glittering.
She touched the symbol with her thumb. Her breath felt shaky. It wasn’t kindness. It didn’t feel like a prince’s protocol. It felt like a breach. An intrusion. A thread, forcibly tied between them. In case you need anything. The words were practical, but the action was not. It was territorial. It was presumptuous. It was, in its own bizarre way, the only genuine connection she’d made all day.
From the drawing room, she heard Ithan’s laugh, a deep, relieved sound. The summit was done. They had survived. She should go to him.
Instead, she sat on the cold step, her thumb hovering over the contact, as the first truly unpredictable feeling since her brother’s death bloomed in her chest—not grief, not fear, but a sharp, curious pull toward the unknown.
Instead, she sat on the cold step, her thumb hovering over the contact, as the first truly unpredictable feeling since her brother’s death bloomed in her chest—not grief, not fear, but a sharp, curious pull toward the unknown.
The sound of Ithan’s voice pulled her back. “Arie? You out here?”
She slid the phone into her pocket, the new contact a live wire against her thigh. “Yeah,” she called, her voice miraculously steady.
He appeared in the hallway, his tie loosened, his face etched with the day’s weariness. “Ready to get out of this museum?”
“More than ready.”
The ride home was quiet. Ithan drove with one hand on the wheel, the other rubbing his temple. “He’s a piece of work, that prince,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Thinks a crown makes him the smartest person in every room.”
Aria stared out the window at the blur of city lights. I am not, the prince had said. She didn’t defend him. She just tucked the memory away, a secret pebble in her pocket.
Later, in her temporary room at the townhouse—a guest room too elegant to feel like hers—she tried to focus. Her laptop glowed on the desk, a blank document titled “Comparative Arcane Theory: The Gates as Liminal Architecture” staring back. A final essay for her senior year at Luna’s Harbor High. It was stupid. Who cared about the theoretical magical permeability of interdimensional portals when your brother had been murdered by one? When the city’s most powerful Fae had used one to disappear? She chewed the end of her pen, her mind a numb blank.
A soft chime from her phone, face-up on the desk, cut through the silence.
Faegram: 1 New Follower.
She blinked. That was… odd. Her account was a ghost town. She’d set it up years ago because Bryce and Danika had bullied her into it. You’re a cute kid, Arie, the internet needs to see your face! She’d mostly posted silly stuff—pictures of her brothers, of the pack, of sunsets from the roof of the old distillery. She hadn’t opened the app in over two years. Not since the phone had become a horror-show of notifications, of panicked texts, of news alerts screaming about the Pack of Devils, about Conner, about the synth. Not since the world had ruptured.
With a strange, heavy feeling in her gut, she tapped the notification.
The app opened to her profile. Her last post was a single, somber black square, uploaded the day after the funeral. No caption. Just void.
Below it, the follower notification pulsed. D.Donnall.
Her breath stopped.
She clicked the name. His profile was minimal.No posts. A single picture, likely automated: a formal, distant shot of him in ceremonial armor, his expression unreadable. Crown Prince of Avallen. Verified.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.Why? Why would he do this? It felt more invasive than the number in her phone. This was public. This was a trail.
Another notification bloomed at the top of her screen.
D.Donnall liked your photo.
She pressed a hand to her mouth, a low sound escaping. She scrolled down, down, back through the frozen timeline of her life. Past the black square. Past the last blurry concert photo from six months before everything ended. And there it was.
The liked photo.
From two and a half years ago. A lifetime.
In it, Conner, at twenty-three, his smile a brilliant, cocky slash, had her slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain. She was fifteen, wearing denim overalls, her light brown hair hanging toward the grass, her face flushed with laughter and upside-down blood rush. Ithan, twenty, stood just beside them, a teasing glint in his green eyes. He was holding her iced coffee—the one Bryce had bought her—just out of her flailing reach. The sun was sharp, casting long shadows on the lawn outside the old pack house. You could almost hear the echo of her shrieking “Ithan, I swear to the gods—” and Conner’s rumbling laugh.
A perfect, captured second of a world that no longer existed.
He’d scrolled. He’d gone back, deep into the archive of her before, and he’d stopped here. He’d put a digital fingerprint on this specific, sacred memory.
Tears, hot and sudden, blurred the screen. They weren’t tears of sadness, not entirely. They were a confusing storm of violation and a terrible, aching recognition. He hadn’t liked a recent post. He hadn’t liked a generic picture. He had gone straight to the heart of it. To the proof of what she had lost.
Her fingers trembled. The cursor in her essay document blinked, oblivious.
Slowly, she navigated back to his profile. She hovered over the ‘Follow Back’ button.
Down the hall, she heard Ithan’s door click shut. The familiar sound of her brother settling in for the night. Safe.Protective. Unaware of the quiet seismic shift happening in her room.
She didn’t click follow.
But she didn’t close the app either. She just sat there in the pool of light from her desk lamp, staring at the glowing image of her brothers, at the notification that bound a grieving Fae prince to a ghost, feeling the walls of the world she’d built for herself—the small, safe world of grief and silence—develop a crack, and through it, a cold, starlit wind began to blow.