The air smelled of smoke and blood.

Selene Duskbane pulled her hood tighter around her face as she slipped into the outer courtyard of Veyrath Fortress. The towers loomed like black fangs against the swollen full moon, their gargoyles watching with empty eyes. The fortress itself looked half-ruined, half-eternal, its walls scorched with old fire, its banners torn by centuries of storms. Even standing near it made her chest ache, as if the stone itself pressed against her lungs.

She shouldn’t be here. She knew it. Wolves like her, low-born, unblessed, descendants of a disgraced bloodline, were forbidden from stepping foot inside the fortress on ritual night. The Moon fire belonged to the pure-blooded dynasties, the heirs, the nobles, the chosen of the goddess.

But Selene had never been good at staying where she belonged.

She ducked past a pair of guards distracted by a goblet of mead and moved deeper into the press of bodies. Wolves of every rank filled the courtyard: warriors with scarred throats, nobles dripping with furs and jeweled collars, drunk younglings howling into the night. At the center, torches ringed the sacred circle of stone where the ritual would take place.

The air shimmered with heat from the braziers, the smoke spiced with herbs meant to call down the goddess. Shadows leapt across the walls as the moon cultists raised their arms, their voices swelling in a chant older than memory. The sound vibrated through Selene’s bones, both beautiful and terrifying, like a lullaby sung at the edge of a grave.

Her pulse raced. She should have turned back. One glimpse of the ritual would be enough. But her feet carried her forward, step after step, as if something unseen tugged her closer.

A howl tore through the night. The crowd erupted in answering roars. Two warriors stepped into the fire-ring, bare-chested, their bodies gleaming with oil and sweat. They bowed to the moon, then launched at each other with claws and teeth. The sound was sickening. Bone snapped like dry wood. Blood sprayed against stone. One wolf fell to his knees, howling as the other sank fangs into his shoulder.

Selene flinched but couldn’t look away.

The fights weren’t duels. They weren’t contests. They were sacrifices. Wolves tearing each other apart to prove to the goddess and to their Alpha that their blood was worthy. The crowd drank it in. They howled and cheered, their eyes glowing in the torchlight. To them, this was beauty. This was devotion.

To Selene, it was madness. And yet…

Her breath quickened. Her skin prickled. Something deep inside her, something she didn’t want to name, stirred at the violence, at the heat, at the raw display of power. The Duskbane line had always been cursed that way. Bound to the goddess not by blessing, but by sacrifice.

She forced her gaze away, clutching the edge of her hood. She needed to leave before someone recognized her. Before the fortress swallowed her whole.

Then the crowd hushed.

It wasn’t silence, not exactly. It was the sharp inhale of hundreds of lungs, the scrape of claws retreating into palms, the heavy weight of heads lowering.

He had arrived.

Dorian Veyrath.

Heir to the throne. Prince of the cursed bloodline. The wolf every whispered rumor feared and desired.

Selene felt him before she saw him. His presence pressed against her chest, made the hair on her arms rise. Then he stepped into the circle, and the courtyard bowed to him as if the goddess herself had descended.

He was taller than she expected. Broad shoulders, a chest carved with muscle and scars, black hair brushing his jaw. His cloak trailed behind him like shadow made flesh. But it wasn’t his body that held her, it was his eyes.

Golden. Burning.

The moment his gaze swept across the circle wolves dropped to their knees.

Selene froze.

Dorian didn’t need to roar. He didn’t need to posture. His aura filled the courtyard like smoke, like fire, like something ancient and inevitable. Even the elders in their jeweled collars lowered their gazes.

A challenger stepped forward.

The wolf was huge, scarred, drunk on his own arrogance. He bared his teeth and spat blood onto the stones at Dorian’s feet.

The crowd gasped. Challenging the heir of Veyrath was death.

Selene’s stomach twisted as the fight began.

The challenger lunged. Dorian didn’t move until the last instant, then sidestepped with inhuman grace. Claws flashed. Flesh tore. Blood sprayed into the firelight.

It was over in heartbeats.

The challenger collapsed, throat ripped open, eyes staring blankly at the moon. Dorian straightened, blood dripping from his claws, and the crowd roared in savage ecstasy.

Selene couldn’t breathe.

She told herself it was horror. That the trembling in her limbs was fear. That the heat pooling low in her stomach was disgust. But she couldn’t look away.

She should have bowed her head. She should have turned and fled. Instead, she stared at him like a fool.

And then his head lifted. Golden eyes burned across the courtyard, slicing through torchlight, smoke, and shadows.

They found her. Selene’s heart stopped.

The heir of Veyrath saw her. And in that instant, it felt as though the night itself had chosen her, dragged her into its jaws, and refused to let go.

The crowd’s roar still echoed against the fortress walls when Dorian Veyrath lifted his blood-streaked hand. Silence fell as if the sound had been cut away by a blade.

Selene’s lungs locked. Every instinct screamed at her to bow, to drop her gaze, to hide in the press of bodies but her feet wouldn’t move. She stood frozen, the hood of her cloak shadowing her face, praying he hadn’t truly seen her.

But she felt it. The weight of his stare. Heavy. Burning. Inescapable.

She tried to shrink back into the crowd, pushing between broad shoulders and furred cloaks, but her chest heaved as the chant rose again.

“Veyrath. Veyrath. Veyrath.”

The sound wasn’t just voices it was worship, devotion, fear wrapped into one name. The name of a dynasty cursed by the goddess herself.

Dorian stepped from the circle. He didn’t walk. He prowled. Each stride sent ripples of silence through the wolves around him. Warriors bowed. Nobles pressed their foreheads to the stone. Even the elders bent their spines.

Selene’s hood slipped.

Her pulse spiked. She yanked it lower, but too late. His gaze sharpened. He saw her.

Move. Move.

Her boots scraped stone as she shoved her way toward the courtyard’s edge. Torches blurred past. The press of bodies closed in. She tried not to panic, not to draw more attention than she already had. If she could reach the gate before he—

He was there.

Dorian Veyrath stepped from the crowd as if shadows had carried him, blocking her path. The torchlight painted his jaw in gold and fire. His chest still gleamed with another wolf’s blood. He didn’t look winded. He didn’t look mortal.

Selene froze.

Every instinct screamed at her to flee, but her knees wouldn’t bend. Her wolf, the part of her bound to blood and moon, cowered inside her chest, pressed flat beneath the weight of his aura.

He looked down at her. Slowly. Deliberately.

“You don’t belong here.”

His voice wasn’t loud, but it threaded through the noise, silencing every sound inside her. It was a growl and a command, velvet laid over iron.

Selene swallowed hard. “Neither did you,” she managed, her voice a whisper she hoped the crowd couldn’t hear. “Until the goddess cursed your bloodline.”

Golden eyes narrowed.

The space between them hummed, thick with danger.

He stepped closer. Not fast. Not threatening. Just… inevitable. The heat of him reached her, smelling of smoke, steel, and something wilder.

Selene forced herself not to retreat, though every muscle screamed. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She lifted her chin, trying to mask the tremor in her body with defiance.

Dorian studied her like a predator studies prey. Not hungry, not rushed, patient. Certain the chase was already over.

“Tell me your name.”

The words weren’t a request. They were law.

Selene’s lips parted, but no sound came. She bit down hard, refusing. If she gave him her name, she gave him power. Wolves knew that much.

His mouth curved. Not a smile. Something sharper. Crueler.

“Defiant little wolf,” he murmured, his hand rising slowly toward her hood.

Selene’s breath caught.

No. She couldn’t let him see her face. Couldn’t let the heir of Veyrath, prince of monsters, heir to the curse know who she was.

Her hand shot up, grabbing his wrist before he could tug the hood back.

For an instant, the world stopped.

Gasps rippled through the nearby crowd. Touching him, defying him was unthinkable. Wolves fell silent, their eyes darting between the heir and the foolish cloaked girl who had dared to catch his hand.

Selene’s palm burned against his skin, his heat searing through her. The strength in his arm was terrifying, a restrained storm she couldn’t hope to match.

Dorian leaned closer, golden eyes blazing. His voice slid low enough for only her to hear.

“You’ve made a mistake.”

Selene’s heart hammered.

But she didn’t let go.

Selene’s fingers trembled where they clutched his wrist, but she refused to let go. She knew she should. She knew this was the kind of defiance wolves were executed for. But some reckless part of her, some cursed piece of her bloodline, kept her hand locked on his skin as though it might shield her.

Golden eyes burned down into hers. Closer now. Too close.

“You should kneel,” Dorian said, his voice soft enough that no one beyond their circle would hear. “Every wolf here bows to me. Why don’t you?”

Selene’s throat tightened. Her wolf inside her quaked, begging her to drop, to bare her neck, to submit like the rest. But Selene forced her chin higher.

“Because I’m not yours.”

For a breath, silence stretched. His expression didn’t shift. He only stared at her, gaze steady and unblinking, like a predator deciding how long to toy with its prey before the kill.

Then his mouth curved again, slow and dangerous. “Not yet.”

Her chest constricted. Heat pooled in her stomach, tangled with fear so sharp it made her dizzy. She tried to pull her hand away, but his wrist flexed, muscles like iron beneath her grip, holding her in place without even closing his fist.

The crowd had begun to notice. Heads turned. Whispers slid like snakes through the wolves pressed close to the circle. Who was she? Why was the heir speaking to a cloaked girl when he should have been taking his victory lap, claiming the night’s devotion?

Selene’s stomach knotted. She had to leave. Now.

She shoved his wrist harder, trying to break free, but it was like pushing against a wall. He let her struggle, golden eyes glinting, watching every movement, every shiver.

“Careful,” he murmured. “Struggle too much, and I’ll think you want me to chase you.”

Her pulse leapt. His tone was a threat but also a promise. A dangerous, thrilling promise that left her skin burning.

Selene forced herself to breathe. Forced herself to focus. She couldn’t let him pull her into whatever game this was. She needed distance. She needed shadow. She needed to disappear before he dragged her into the center of the circle and ripped her hood away before the entire court.

Gathering her strength, she twisted sharply, slipping free by a hair’s breadth. The hood slipped lower over her face as she ducked into the crush of bodies.

The crowd swallowed her.

For a moment, she thought she’d done it. Thought she was lost in the press of fur and sweat and smoke. Thought she could slip out through the gate before he—

Heat pressed at her back. A presence, unmistakable, curling over her shoulders and down her spine like claws.

She didn’t dare look, but she knew. Dorian Veyrath was behind her.

Selene’s hands shook as she pushed deeper into the throng. Wolves jostled her, cursed at her, laughed at her clumsiness, but none of it mattered. She had to get out. Every step closer to the gate sent hope fluttering in her chest.

Then a hand caught her wrist.

She turned, heart hammering.

Dorian stood inches away, the torchlight painting his skin in fire, blood still drying on his chest from the fight. His grip on her was unyielding but not crushing, as though he wanted her to understand: he didn’t need force. He only needed will.

Golden eyes locked on hers. “Running already?”

Selene’s breath shuddered. She tried to wrench free, but his hold tightened just enough to still her.

“I don’t belong here,” she said, the words scraping raw against her throat.

His head tilted. “Then why are you here?”

She froze. Because she wanted to see the ritual? Because she was cursed with the same hunger that had damned her bloodline? Because she couldn’t stay away from the fire even though she knew it would burn her alive? She said nothing.

Dorian leaned closer, his mouth brushing the edge of her hood. The heat of his breath ghosted across her skin. “Tell me, little wolf… did you come for me?”

Selene’s chest heaved, her pulse slamming in her ears loud enough she thought the entire courtyard might hear it. Dorian’s grip was unyielding, his golden eyes burning with the kind of focus that made her feel stripped bare, her hood nothing but a scrap of cloth between them.

“Answer me,” he murmured, the words threading through the crowd’s howls and chants as though they were meant for her alone. “Did you come for me?”

Her lips parted. Nothing came. She wanted to deny it, to spit in his face, to tell him she would never seek a monster like him. But her throat locked. The heat of him pressed down on her like a storm, his aura suffocating, dragging her wolf to its knees inside her chest.

Selene forced air into her lungs. “I came for the ritual.”

His head tilted, a predator considering a lie.

“The ritual,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. His hand tightened on her wrist, not painfully, but enough to make her body remember that he had just torn a wolf apart with less effort than it took her to breathe. “You risked your life to watch blood spill on stone?”

Her jaw clenched. “Better than bowing to you.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. The nearest wolves turned, wide-eyed, as if waiting for Dorian to strike her down where she stood.

He didn’t.

Instead, his mouth curved. Dangerous. Almost amused.

For a heartbeat, she thought he might kill her. His aura thickened, golden eyes glowing brighter until the torchlight seemed dim by comparison. Wolves around them bowed lower, spines bent, ears flat against their skulls.

But then slowly he leaned in, his lips brushing the edge of her hood.

Her breath hitched. Heat surged low in her belly, shameful and unwanted. She tried to jerk her wrist free, but he only shifted his grip, sliding his fingers to twine around hers. A mockery of intimacy. A claim. Selene’s heart pounded. “Let me go.”

“Sure”

Selene darted away from the courtyard, slipping past drunken wolves and torchlit arches, her cloak whipping at her heels. The fortress walls loomed taller here, cold and damp, their stones slick with centuries of rain.

Her lungs burned. Every step echoed louder than it should have, as if the castle itself wanted him to hear her coming.

She didn’t look back. She didn’t have to. She felt him.

Dorian Veyrath moved through the fortress like a shadow that refused to loosen its grip. His presence pressed against her spine, close enough that every hair on her neck stood on end. He didn’t hurry. He didn’t need to. Predators never rushed their prey.

Selene’s boots scraped stone as she twisted down a narrow passage, her chest heaving. The air here was cooler, thick with damp moss and rust. She pressed herself flat against the wall, yanking her hood lower, praying the crowd from the courtyard had swallowed him up.

For a moment she thought she was alone.

Then the shadows shifted.

He stepped into view at the far end of the passage, golden eyes burning in the dark.

Selene’s breath caught.

His cloak dragged across the stone as he prowled forward, slow and deliberate, his footsteps unhurried. His chest was still streaked with blood from the fight, his jaw shadowed, his aura rolling ahead of him like smoke.

“Run if you want,” he said, voice low enough to crawl over her skin. “I’ll always find you.”

Her nails dug into the stone at her back. “Why me?” she forced out.

His head tilted, wolfish. “Because you looked at me.”

Selene’s stomach twisted. She shook her head, anger flaring through her fear. “Others looked at you.”

“They bowed,” he said, his mouth curving, “but they didn’t dare stare.”

He stopped a few feet away, close enough that the heat of him seeped into her bones. Torchlight caught in his eyes, making them glow brighter, sharper, as though the beast beneath his skin pressed forward to see her better.

Selene’s chest heaved. “I’m not yours,” she whispered, the words trembling but firm.

Dorian leaned closer, bracing one hand against the wall above her head. His breath brushed her cheek, warm, tinged with iron.

“Not yet,” he said again, softer this time, like a vow.

Her pulse stumbled. The fortress seemed to shrink around them, silence pressing in until there was only the sound of her breathing, his breathing, and the ragged beat of her heart.

Selene swallowed hard, mustering the last shards of her courage. “You can chase me. You can corner me. But you’ll never own me.”

For a long moment, he only stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then suddenly he stepped back. The absence of his heat felt like a plunge into cold water.

Selene’s lungs seized as he looked at her one last time, his eyes glowing gold in the dark.

“I already do,” he murmured.

And then he turned, vanishing into shadow as though the fortress itself had swallowed him whole. Selene sagged against the wall, her chest heaving, her wrist still tingling where he’d held her.

She should have felt relief. Instead, all she felt was terror because a part of her, buried deep and unwanted, wasn’t sure if he was wrong.

The gates were closing.

Selene’s cloak whipped around her legs as she sprinted down the narrow causeway, the echo of drums and howls still rattling through the fortress behind her. Her lungs burned, her boots scraped against the uneven stone, but she didn’t dare slow down.

Not while his voice still curled through her chest.

Not yet.

The words wouldn’t leave her. They clung to her skin like smoke, like heat, like claws raking her from the inside out. She rubbed her wrist where he had held her, the skin there tingling, raw. It wasn’t bruised. It wasn’t broken. But she could still feel him.

Golden eyes burned in her mind’s eye. The memory of his body blood-streaked, firelit, towering, rose every time she blinked.

Selene hissed under her breath and forced herself forward, slipping into the stream of villagers and low-born wolves who hurried from the courtyard before the gates sealed for the night. They didn’t look at her. They were too drunk, too distracted, too eager to be gone.

Good. Let them ignore her.

Her hood was still low. Her cloak still shadowed her face. To anyone else, she was just another coward fleeing the ritual before the fighting spilled beyond the circle.

But inside, she shook.

Her stomach churned. Her pulse raced. Every step further from the fortress should have eased her, but instead the weight on her chest grew heavier.

Selene forced her gaze straight ahead, past the looming towers, past the torches that painted the fortress in blood and gold. She told herself she would never come back. Not for the rituals. Not for the goddess. And certainly not for him.

The road curved into darkness, the forest stretching wide and endless on either side. The night air here was cooler, damp with pine and moss. She drank it in, desperate to wash the fortress from her lungs, but the scent of smoke and iron lingered stubbornly.

Behind her, the gates groaned shut with a sound like the world slamming a door.

Selene staggered to a stop at the tree line, bracing herself against the rough bark of a pine. Her chest heaved. Her hands shook. She wanted to sink to her knees, to curl into herself, to claw away the memory of his voice whispering at her hood.

Instead, she pressed her forehead to the bark and whispered, “You don’t own me.”

The forest swallowed the words whole.

She didn’t believe them.

The village was still awake when Selene slipped back into its narrow lanes. Smoke curled from clay chimneys, the smell of broth and wet earth mingling with the sharper tang of mead. Wolves lingered in doorways, drunk from the ritual, their laughter cutting sharp in the dark.

She tugged her cloak tighter and hurried toward the small cottage at the edge of the settlement. The shutters were drawn, the roof patched with moss, but a single candle burned inside.

Nyra was waiting.

The door creaked open before Selene’s hand even touched it. Her cousin stood framed in the light, arms crossed, dark braids falling over her shoulders. Her eyes, sharp and unyielding, narrowed the moment she saw Selene’s face.

“You went,” Nyra hissed.

Selene slipped inside quickly, shutting the door against the night. “Keep your voice down.”

Nyra’s glare could have cut stone. “Do you have a death wish? The Moonfire is for the dynasties, not for us. If the guards had caught you—”

“They didn’t,” Selene snapped, more sharply than she intended. Her chest still heaved from the run, her skin still prickled where Dorian’s hand had caught her. She pulled her hood down, tossing it onto the table, and rubbed her wrist.

Nyra’s gaze flicked there instantly. “What happened?”

Selene froze.

Her cousin’s expression hardened. “Don’t lie. Something happened.”

For a heartbeat, Selene saw it all again—the firelit circle, the blood spray on stone, the crowd bowing as golden eyes cut across them, and then that impossible moment when those eyes found her. She swallowed her throat tight.

“It was nothing,” she whispered.

Nyra slammed her hand on the table. “Nothing? The whole village is already buzzing. Someone swore the heir looked at a cloaked girl. That he spoke to her. Do you understand what that means? If anyone realizes it was you—”

“Then I’ll deny it,” Selene cut in. Her voice was steady, but inside she trembled. “They’ll forget it by morning.”

Nyra stared at her, searching her face, then shook her head. “You’re cursed, Selene. Just like the rest of us. But don’t drag me down with you.”

Selene’s chest twisted. “I didn’t ask to be born into this bloodline.”

“No,” Nyra said softly, anger bleeding into fear. “But you’ll die for it if you’re not careful. And the Veyraths will be the ones holding the blade.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the hiss of the candle flame. Selene turned away, her hand still rubbing the ghost of his grip on her wrist. She didn’t want to admit it not to Nyra, not to herself, but the truth clawed inside her chest all the same.

She was already marked.

Nyra blew out the candle, plunging the cottage into shadow. Only the moonlight through the shutter cracks lit her face, hard and pale.

“You don’t understand,” she said quietly, as though speaking the words too loudly might wake the dead. “Our line was never meant to survive. We’re not wolves. We’re offerings. That’s what the goddess made us.”

Selene’s chest tightened. She had heard the whispers before, growing up on the edges of every gathering, the pitying looks, the cruel names. But hearing it from Nyra’s mouth made the old sting sharper.

“That’s an old story,” Selene muttered, tugging her cloak tighter. “A tale to keep us small.”

Nyra shook her head. “It’s truth. Our mothers carried it. Their mothers before them. Don’t you remember how they spoke in hushed voices about the blood moon? About how the goddess marked us as her sacrifice line?”

Selene’s throat ached. She remembered. She remembered her mother’s hollow eyes, her trembling hands every ritual night, the way she never spoke of the fortress but always wept after the howls faded.

Nyra’s voice sharpened. “And you go and put yourself in the heir’s path? You might as well have thrown yourself into the fire circle.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You never mean to,” Nyra cut her off. Her fists clenched at her sides. “But it always finds us. The goddess, the bloodline, the curse. We can’t hide from it, Selene. And now…”

She trailed off, eyes dropping to Selene’s wrist where the skin still flushed faintly.

“Now you’ve been seen.”

Selene wrapped her arms around herself, as though she could fold inward and disappear. But the truth pressed against her ribs like claws.

She had been seen. Not just by the crowd. By him.

Golden eyes that had stripped her bare. A voice that still echoed inside her, low and final.

Not yet.

Her stomach twisted. She didn’t want to believe Nyra’s words. Didn’t want to carry the curse like a brand. But deep inside, beneath all her denial, something whispered: the bloodline had finally caught her.

When Nyra finally drifted into uneasy sleep, Selene lay awake on her cot, staring at the ceiling beams of the cottage. The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, but heat still rolled under her skin.She threw her cloak aside, tugged at the ties of her tunic, but the air remained stifling. Sweat prickled at her neck, her chest, her stomach.

It wasn’t just heat. It was wrong.

Her body throbbed, restless, as though something inside her shifted, stretched, rewrote itself. She pressed a hand to her stomach, fingers trembling. No wound. No bruise. And yet… a heaviness lingered, alien and alive.

Selene’s throat tightened.

The smoke from the ritual, She told herself. The blood in the air. That’s all.

But her heart knew better.

She had felt strange since the moment Dorian’s gaze pinned her, since his voice brushed her skin. As if the goddess herself had marked her through him.

Selene sat up, curling forward, clutching her knees. Her stomach roiled, her temples pounded, and still the ghost of his hand lingered on her wrist.

“You don’t own me,” she whispered into the darkness. But her body shivered, as if it knew the truth her mind refused to name.