Chapter 2
MERYN
It’s almost impossible to reach out to all the Bonded at once.
Only two people have the power, as far as I know: the Sovereign Alpha, Siegrid Therion… and, apparently, me. But as Killian speaks, certainty forms in my bones: He’s reaching every Bonded throughout the entirety of Nocturna.
My eyes dart down to the engagement bracelet he clamped onto my wrist; the ruby still swirls with dark shadows. It’s been like that ever since he drew on my magic in his chambers. And there’s that lingering wrongness.
Part of my power is cut off from me, ensnared in whatever twisted spell is woven into this bracelet.
Whatever he’s doing—he’s doing this by using my powers, stealing my magic.
“The Faceless Goddess has blessed me with the ability to communicate through the wolf bonds as a reward for my fealty to the Bonded and to the kingdom,” Killian says smoothly.
I can’t help it—I laugh.
What absolute bullshit. And so totally predictable. He’s going to lie to every one of the Bonded in the same way he lied to me.
My face flushes with angry heat, and I claw at the bracelet on my wrist. But it once again tightens against my skin, making me wince in pain. Just then, images pulse through my mind.
With a shocked jolt, I realize he’s sharing memories down the bond, just as Anassa taught me to do.
There I am, my silver hair shining, my face covered in blood from the battle at graduation.
Anassa looms behind me as I grab the Dire Blade, the king’s wolf-pommel sword that compels the direwolves.
My face twisting in a fearsome scowl, I bring the sword down in a merciless strike across the king’s throat.
My true self felt pumping adrenaline and pride in this moment, but right now those feelings are overshadowed by Killian’s—or, at least, what he wants us to believe he experienced.
Cold horror runs through him. Pain, heartbreak, and terror.
The vision twists into the next memory. We’re in Killian’s room. I have him pinned, straddling him as he squirms below me, uncomfortable and terrified. My hazel eyes are wide and wild-looking, and I once again raise the wolf-pommel sword. I press it to his neck.
Killian projects a memory of stinging pain as the blade cuts into the delicate skin at his throat. His heart pounds in fear as he stares up at the monstrous woman before him, a woman he made a mistake to trust.
A woman who was not at all who she seemed, who has finally revealed her true, ugly self. It’s like he’s taken my own perspective toward him and flipped it on me.
In both memories, I am an indisputable villain.
I’d hate me, too, if this was all the context I had.
The vision ends, and I blink back into the dungeons. Stark catches my eyes. His gaze is murderous, his tattooed hands clenched into tight fists that demand action.
“Meryn Cooper has driven me from Sturmfrost and seized the throne,” Killian goes on.
My blood boils. He knows the truth as well as I do: I’m no Cooper. I’m a Sturmfrost Queen. And I will reclaim the birthright that his family stole from mine.
“She is dangerous, unstable, and the enemy of Nocturna. This delusional commoner is not to be trusted.”
A strangled choke escapes me. I want to believe that no one could possibly listen to him, but I believed him, once. And I can’t hide from the element of truth of those memories.
I did those things, and I looked terrifying doing them.
But he’s a fucking Siphon.
“I am establishing a stronghold in the west and will be rallying forces to retake my throne. I encourage anyone who believes in truth and justice to come join me. Together, we will return Nocturna to its rightful glory.”
With that, the connection ends, with a mental twist that violently ends the channel he’s opened.
“Truth and justice?!” I shout, my words echoing in the nearly empty dungeons. Unfurling my fists, I realize my nails have carved crescents into my palms, practically drawing blood.
My mind is intimately connected to the stream of Bonded emotions. Their reactions pour in from across Nocturna in a torrent of shock, disbelief, and confusion.
Fuck.
I lock eyes with Stark again. “I need to address them. Now.”
“Yes,” he says simply.
“But I…” I look down at myself. I’m still in the stupid fucking gown that Killian put me in. The same one that was in the memory he just showed everyone.
It’s the uniform of an unstable, delusional woman. I don’t want to feed into that lie.
“You look—” Stark says, then stops short, pressing his full lips into a tight line. Emotions swirl behind his eyes, dark and unreadable, as he studies me.
I lift my head. “What?”
“You’re presentable enough,” he says stiffly. He must’ve understood the reason for my hesitation. “Waiting any longer will leave room for doubt.”
I swallow roughly and nod. Then I force a deep breath in and out of my lungs. I just have to remind myself that the truth is on my side, not Killian’s. And I have some damning memories to show off, too.
“Anassa,” I mind-speak to my direwolf. “Can you reach all the wolves who are here at the castle, and make sure their riders come to the arena? Let them know that I’ll have answers for them.”
This is something I could probably do. But I’m not sure how to just reach the people who are physically here in Sturmfrost—and if I reached out too far, would Killian hear me?
There’s a beat of silence, and then Anassa responds, “It’s done.”
My gaze lingers on Saela’s sleeping, bloodied form. She looks so small and helpless, even with the truth of her existence splattered around the cell. Leaving her for even a moment is a dagger into my gut. It’s wrong.
And for the second time, Stark seems to read my mind. “Helene and Grigore will watch over her while you’re gone. Nothing will happen to her. I promise you.”
His voice is curt and businesslike, but his words are so gentle. All I can do is give him a tense nod.
It hurts to leave Saela’s side, but if I don’t go, Killian is going to corrupt the rest of my world, too.
The arena is quiet, but my heart is pounding. I swear the reverberations are rattling the walls with each pump of my blood.
Stark is to my left, standing resolutely as though the hundreds of eyes looking up at us don’t bother him in the slightest. Anassa and Cratos flank us, surveying the people gathered below.
Bonded are filing in, and I have to blink away the image of the final culling that King Cyril ordered. Ordered from the very platform where I stand now. The blood running from bite wounds, as Rawbonds turned on one another. Angry and red and wrong.
My stomach flips. “I want to end any unnecessary killing,” I think half to myself, half to Anassa. Her acknowledgment is a steadying hum in the back of my head.
It’s mostly newly graduated Rawbonds here, though some Bonded who had come in for the graduation have joined the crowd. Those seasoned soldiers stand in formation, but the young warriors mill about in groups, packs largely standing together.
From the corner of my eye, I spot Jonah’s red-streaked dark hair from where he stands with some of his weasel-faced friends, clustered together and speaking to one another in low voices. Every one of them has a hand rested on a sword hilt or the handle of a dagger.
He looks up, and there’s a sharp-edged glint to his gaze that makes me uneasy. We’ve been at odds ever since the morning of the Ascent, when he attacked Izabel, and he’s never turned down a chance to try to hurt me.
Anassa’s noticed his group, too, and her sides start to buzz with a low growl, but none of them makes a move toward us.
Around the perimeter of the arena, castle servants stand nervously, fidgeting. Stark ordered every servant in the castle to gather—ensuring maximum witnesses for whatever is about to happen—but some are still wandering in through the arena doors.
It’s difficult to wait here on the dais. I feel like an impostor. How could I not?
I thought I was a commoner only months ago. I still am a commoner in so many ways. My dress is filthy from the dungeons, my hair is a tangle of silver-white, my eyes are probably red-rimmed from sleep deprivation and endless crying.
Part commoner, part Bonded, part queen, but a mess the whole way through.
But I’m here. I have to be here. I have to be more than I am.
“You must, so you will,” Anassa tells me, reminding me of what she said on the day I unexpectedly became Alpha of the Strategos pack.
“I must, so I will,” I agree.
Stark steps forward and hands me a cone-shaped amplifier, and I take it with an only slightly shaking hand.
In the half hour since I left the dungeons, Anassa has been coaching me on how to reach all the Bonded. I need to send a complex message—including memories—to thousands all across Nocturna. I’m prepared for it to be taxing, but I know I can do it.
Because if Killian could reach everyone with my magic, then so can I.
Bitterness is a potent fuel, it turns out.
After several slow breaths, I shut my eyes and push my consciousness outward. My mind flows along familiar streams first. Anassa. My pack. My people. Stark, confusingly.
The channels I’ve used before are open, clear. I can sense more minds beyond them, though, as if through a low fog that hangs over water. I squeeze my eyes tighter and push. Then, after a brief moment of resistance, I burst forward.
I flow into the minds of the other Bonded below me, then spill beyond the walls of the arena. If Killian is somewhere here in this connection… I can’t sense him.
It’s almost too easy. There’s a vast sea of magic inside me, and each Bonded mind is a river flowing from its source. I need only to focus on my magic and follow the natural current to them.
Easy to make the connection, that is—but incredibly overwhelming to hold on to it, especially when it all starts to flow back to me, drowning me in connection. It’s dizzying, and as when I sent my memories to Aldrich, sweat starts to bead on my forehead.