"I told you to run, damn it!"
A voice—harsh, desperate, already thinning with distance—growled behind her.
Seraphina didn't turn around.
Thunder cracked overhead, swallowing the sound of her bare feet slapping against the wet forest floor.
Cold rain lashed her skin. Each breath tore at her chest, ragged and sharp, her throat burning as panic clawed upward. Her ripped gown clung to her like a curse, heavy and soaked. Every stumble sent mud splashing up her legs, coating her knees, her calves, her shame.
"Where is she?"
A howl rose in the distance.
Male.
Alpha.
Known.
Seraphina's chest tightened painfully.
No.
Not him.
Never again.
Her legs buckled.
She caught herself, palms scraping bark and stone, and forced herself upright. Her heart slammed against her ribs, wild and desperate, as rain mixed with blood down her arms. The silver cuffs around her wrists bit deeper with every step.
The enchanted metal hissed.
"Sera," she whispered to herself. "Don't stop. Just a little farther."
Branches snapped behind her.
Claws scraped bark.
Her entire body screamed as she pushed harder, lungs burning, vision blurring.
A voice cut through the storm, close now. Too close.
"You can't outrun me, little bitch. I still own you."
"No," she muttered, louder this time. "No longer."
She tore into the undergrowth. Leaves clung to her skin. Branches sliced her cheeks. Lightning split the sky, illuminating a ridge ahead—dark, jagged, waiting.
Another howl echoed.
Closer.
"Please," she rasped. "Let it be the border."
Her strength failed.
She fell, palms sinking into slick stone and rotting leaves. Her knees screamed. Her breath shuddered.
Then she saw it.
A line etched into the ground.
Unmistakable.
The Border of Bloodlines.
Forbidden.
Damned.
A place whispered about in dungeon corners and sleepless nights. A boundary no one crossed and lived to return. A line ruled by the Lycan King himself.
She had heard the rumors.
No one crosses the Lycan King's line.
But tonight, she would.
Footsteps skidded behind her. Growls. Heavy breathing. They were nearly on her.
Seraphina pushed herself up, legs trembling, and staggered forward.
Across the line.
The world changed instantly.
Silence fell—thick, crushing.
The growling stopped.
Her chest heaved as she turned.
Three enormous wolves stood at the border. Foam flecked their jaws. Their eyes burned red with fury.
One lunged.
Midair, it slammed into an invisible force and crashed to the ground with a shriek.
The other two whimpered.
They tucked their tails and fled.
Behind her, the forest felt dead.
Seraphina took a shaky step farther into the unknown.
Then she heard it.
A low rumble.
Not behind her.
Ahead.
Deep. Ancient. Like stone grinding against steel. The very earth vibrated beneath her feet.
She froze.
Golden eyes opened in the darkness across the ridge.
A massive figure stepped forward—muscle, fur, raw threat. Not a wolf. Not a man.
Something else.
Something more.
She stumbled back.
Her leg gave out.
Like fog, he shifted, moving without moving, presence swallowing the air. Power wrapped around her like a noose—fire, desert wind, dominance so heavy it made her dizzy.
Then he spoke.
"Who goes too far," he rumbled, "with her flesh covered in blood?"
The rain itself seemed to hesitate.
Seraphina couldn't speak.
"Reply to me."
"I—I didn't mean to—"
"Lies don't taste good."
Her strength failed completely.
"I'm not here to fight," she whispered.
"No," he said, stepping closer. "You came here to run."
His gaze pinned her. "From what?"
"I was a prisoner," she forced out. "Of Alaric. Alpha. The renegade."
The shadow stiffened.
"Alaric?" His head tilted. "You smell like him."
His nostrils flared.
"And silver."
He crouched beside her. Clawed fingertips brushed the edge of her cuffs.
Seraphina hissed as the metal sizzled.
"You reek of fear," he said softly. "Pain. And power."
"I have none," she said weakly. "Only wounds."
He rose.
"Everyone has power."
Golden eyes—ancient, merciless, knowing—met hers.
"If you must," she whispered, exhausted, broken, "kill me. But I will not return."
A low, humorless chuckle rumbled from him.
"You believe you have a choice?"
"I deserve the freedom to die."
"No one dies free," he replied. "But you may live with a brand."
A sharp whistle cut through the air.
Figures emerged from the darkness—warriors cloaked in shadow, blades gleaming. No scent. No hesitation.
One pointed. "She crossed too far. Her blood is silver. We lost her."
"She fled from Alaric," the King said. "That makes her useful."
"She is a threat."
"I am, too."
A blade lifted. "We should gut her."
The King raised a hand.
"No. She's mine."
"Wake up."
The voice struck her like a blow.
Heat. Pain. Disorientation.
The world twisted violently.
Seraphina groaned.
No rain.
No cold.
Sand burned beneath her skin. Grit scraped her eyes open. Above her, the sky blazed mercilessly. Her lungs filled with dry, ancient heat.
The forest was gone.
The border.
Gone.
The desert of Lycan stretched endlessly around her.
She lay sprawled on her back, bruised and broken. Her silver cuffs were cracked—but unbroken. Each shallow breath sent fire through her arms.
Footsteps approached.
"Is she alive?"
"Barely. She doesn't smell like any pack."
A boot shoved her shoulder, flipping her roughly. Sand scraped her face.
She hissed.
"Careful," another said. "Before the King sees her, do you want her dead?"
"She's nothing," a voice scoffed. "Rogue bait."
Seraphina swallowed. "I'm not—"
A hand clamped around her throat.
"Silence."
The warrior kneeling above her had skin like sun-cracked stone. His armor bore a golden crescent moon with teeth.
The Lycan King's mark.
Draven Kael.
"We carry her in," the leader said.
"Why?"
"Because the King judges anything that crosses the border alive."
"She's no threat."
"There will be a trial."
She tried to rise.
A guard slammed her back down.
"Move again," he snarled, "and you'll regret it."
Her body shook with exhaustion.
A calm, commanding voice cut through the heat.
"What's your name?"
She squinted.
A man stood apart from the others, draped in black robes. No armor. No blade.
Authority radiated from him.
"Seraphina," she rasped.
He nodded once.
"Bring her."
They dragged her across the dunes. The sun scorched. Her vision blurred.
"If you sleep," someone warned, "you'll die."
"Maybe," she whispered, "that's the point."
Black horses waited beyond the ridge. No one offered her water.
Chained again, she was thrown into a sand sledge.
Silver burned her wrists.
As they moved, the desert stretched endlessly—charred hills, half-buried bones, vultures circling overhead.
Her vision dimmed.
Then the earth trembled.
The sledge jolted. Horses screamed. Men shouted.
"Earthquake?"
"No."
The sand ahead shifted.
Something massive moved beneath it.
A deep moan echoed.
Then silence.
A guard stared at her. "She's cursed."
"You think everything is cursed," the leader snapped. Then paused.
"Look at her eyes."
Seraphina blinked.
"They weren't silver before."
Her chest tightened in terror.
Silver?
"She's one of them."
"That's impossible."
The leader said nothing.
Then quietly, "Ride faster."
"The King must see this himself."