Aveloria woke up in a cold sweat. Her breathing was heavy, her palms clammy as she sat upright in bed. The room was quiet, but her pulse wouldn't calm down. The dream still clung to her like a fog, wolves made of shadows tearing through the palace gates, their growls shaking the walls, their eyes glowing like red coals. She had seen herself standing in the middle of the chaos, helpless as everything she loved burned.
It wasn't just a nightmare. It felt like a warning.
She rubbed her face and glanced toward the window. The first hint of dawn was pushing through the glass, a pale light line across the sky. Her heart felt heavy and restless. She hadn't been sleeping well since the Festival of Moons. Between the gossip, the council's denial of the wanderer attacks, and her tangled fate with three mates, her mind was a storm she couldn't quiet.
She got up, threw on her riding clothes, and tied her hair back. Maybe if she left the palace for a few hours, just rode until her lungs burned, she could think clearly again.
The corridors were silent at that hour. Only a few guards lingered by the entrance, nodding respectfully as she passed. The cold air hit her the moment she stepped out into the courtyard. The scent of hay and leather filled her nose as she entered the royal stables.
Her horse, a white mare named Lysandra, neighed softly when she saw her.
"Shhh," Aveloria murmured, stroking the animal's neck. "Just you and me today."
She quickly saddled the horse and led her out, glancing around to ensure no one was watching. The last thing she needed was another argument with her guards, or, goddess forbid, Marek and Theron again showing up at her door before sunrise.
Just thinking about them made her jaw tighten.
The training ground behind the barracks was supposed to be quiet, where she could focus. Galen had helped her arrange a schedule to practice combat and shifting, but word traveled fast.
Marek and Theron showed up within minutes of each other.
Marek came first, wearing his usual noble smirk. "I've brought an offer," he said proudly, tossing a scroll at her feet. "The strongest warrior in the western region. He's trained the best alphas in the realm. I'll have him report to the palace by tomorrow."
Aveloria had frowned. "You didn't even ask if I wanted that."
Theron arrived then, his tone sharp and challenging. "You think she needs some overpaid brute from the west to teach her?" He turned to Aveloria, his eyes locking onto hers. "I can train you myself. I've taught half my pack to fight with their bare hands. You'll learn faster with me."
Marek laughed bitterly. "You? You'll use her training as an excuse to stay close to her. Don't think I don't see through your little strategy."
"Better than hiding behind gifts and gold," Theron shot back, stepping closer. "Or behind your father's name."
The tension snapped like a whip. Before anyone could react, Marek shoved Theron, and Theron grabbed him by the collar in return.
"Enough!" Aveloria had shouted, stepping between them, but neither listened. They were too busy throwing insults, too proud to stop.
She turned and walked away, furious, half at them and half herself. She had died once because she let others make choices for her. This time, she wasn't going to repeat that mistake.
Aveloria let out a loud boss as she remembered it all. All she wanted was some peace and quiet. As she guided her horse through the gates, she exhaled heavily.
"I need space."
The road leading out of Lycanthria curved through the thick woods, sunlight barely reaching through the dense branches. The air smelled of pine and damp soil. She rode for what felt like hours, deeper and deeper, until the palace towers were long gone from view.
She didn't realize how far she'd gone until she saw the old, broken milestone covered in moss. Its marking was faint, but she recognized the word: Bitterlands.
A chill ran through her. The Bitterlands weren't part of the safe territories. They were a no-man's zone, lands abandoned after centuries of war between wolves and rogues. A few wolves who crossed into them never returned.
Still, she didn't turn back. The air here felt different, thicker, quieter. Her horse grew uneasy. Its ears twitched, and it stomped nervously.
"What is it?" Aveloria whispered, tightening her grip on the reins.
That was when she heard it. A low growl. Not far off.
Her body became rigid. Slowly, she turned her head. She saw a tall and broad figure moving between the trees, with skin as pale as moonlight and veins dark as ink running up its arms.
A Wanderer. Its eyes glowed red, and its lips peeled back into a grin.
Her instincts kicked in immediately. She jumped off her horse, drawing the silver dagger strapped to her thigh.
The creature lunged before she could blink. She rolled to the side, barely dodging its claws. The sound of its snarl made her stomach twist.
Aveloria swung the dagger at its neck, but the Wanderer blocked it easily and slammed her backward into a tree. Pain shot through her ribs.
She gasped, struggling to breathe as it loomed over her, claws raised.
Her wolf pushed inside her, begging to break free, but the shift wouldn't complete. Her eyes flickered gold, her nails lengthened, but the pain of half-shifting tore through her bones.
"Fight, damn it," she hissed under her breath.
She kicked the creature in the stomach, grabbed her dagger again, and stabbed it in the side. It screamed, black blood spilling out. But before she could move again, it grabbed her by the throat and slammed her to the ground.
Her vision blurred as she coughed hard.
Then, another figure appeared out of nowhere, faster than she could follow. A hand grabbed the Wanderer's head and twisted sharply. The sound of bones snapping echoed through the trees.
The body fell to the ground with a heavy thud.
Aveloria blinked, gasping for breath as her eyes adjusted. The man standing over the corpse wasn't a Wanderer. His scent was different, wild, but not corrupted.
He looked down at her, panting slightly, his eyes glowing faintly amber.
"You're lucky I came this way," he said casually, wiping his blade on the grass. "That thing would've shredded you in seconds."
Aveloria coughed and pushed herself up. "I didn't need saving."
He raised an eyebrow. "Really? Because from where I stood, you were about to become dinner."
"I was handling it," she said, brushing the dirt from her clothes even though she clearly wasn't. Her knees still shook from the fight.
He chuckled under his breath. "Sure, heiress."
Her head snapped up. "How do you—"
He nodded toward her neck. "That necklace. Only one person in the realm wears the crest of Lycanthria's royal house."
Aveloria instinctively touched the pendant hanging around her neck. "You shouldn't be this close to the borders," she said firmly. "Rogues aren't allowed near the kingdom."
"Good thing I don't take orders from the kingdom," he said, smirking. "Name's Lucien."
She studied him cautiously. He was tall, lean but muscular, his honey blonde hair falling slightly over his brow. There was a faint scar across his jaw, and his eyes, sharp, carried an intensity that made it hard to look away.
Everything about him screamed danger, but not the kind that frightened her. The type that drew her in.
"You're a rogue," she said quietly.
He tilted his head. "Depends on who's asking. Some call me that. Others call me an adventurer. I prefer that term."
She frowned. "An adventurer who fights Wanderers?"
"Someone has to," he said. "They've been showing up more often these days. You must've wandered pretty far for one to find you here."
Aveloria looked around, realizing how deep she was in the forest. "I didn't mean to cross the border."
Lucien gave a half-smile. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. Most wolves wouldn't even step near the Bitter-lands."
"I'm not most wolves," she muttered.
"Clearly." He crouched beside the Wanderer's corpse and inspected the black veins on its arms. "This one was fresh. New to the corruption. They're getting bolder."
Aveloria's chest tightened. "They're coming back."
He looked up. "You sound sure."
"I've seen them before." Her voice wavered for a second. They killed me once. She wanted to say.
He studied her quietly for a long moment, then straightened. "Then you know what they're capable of."
She nodded. "Too well."
Lucien sheathed his blade. "You should head back before more show up. Wanderers rarely travel alone."
Aveloria stood, brushing the dust off her sleeves. "You saved my life. I should at least thank you properly."
He shrugged. "You already did. You're alive, aren't you?"
She stared at him, not sure whether to be annoyed or amused. "You really don't care much for formalities, do you?"
"Not my thing." His lips curved into a teasing smile. "Besides, I think the royal court would faint if they knew their heiress was out here playing warrior."
"I'm not playing," she said firmly.
"Didn't look like it," he said, nodding at the cut on her arm. "You've got heart, but you fight like someone scared to let go."
Her brows furrowed. "I wasn't scared."
He stepped closer, his tone dropping. "You were holding back. I could see it. Like you were fighting yourself."
She looked away, not sure how to respond. "You don't know me."
"Maybe not," he said, "but I know what it's like to fight a battle inside your skin."
For a moment, they stood there in silence, the only sound the rustle of leaves above them. Something about him felt familiar, not his face, not the quiet confidence in his voice, the way he carried himself like someone who had nothing to lose.
Lucien broke the silence first. "If you ever want to survive out here, stop thinking like a princess and start fighting like someone with no choice."
Aveloria met his gaze. "And what are you fighting for?"
He smiled. "Freedom. The kind none of your nobles could ever imagine."
His words lingered in the air, heavy but honest.
Aveloria exhaled slowly. "Maybe we're not that different."
Lucien smirked. "Maybe not. But don't let that fool you—I'm still not the kind of man you should trust."
She raised an eyebrow. "Is that a warning?"
"Consider it advice," he said, stepping back. "The Bitter-lands aren't safe for anyone. Not even royalty."
She watched him turn away, moving through the trees with quiet, effortless grace. Before disappearing into the shadows, he glanced back once.
"Try not to die next time, Aveloria of Lycanthria."
And then he was gone.