Chapter 1
Daciana
The night air cuts like glass. Cold, thin, merciless.
They're hunting me. No—us.
My hand presses against my stomach, against the fragile curve beneath the fabric. The child moves—a faint flutter that shreds me open from the inside. I'm not dying here. You're not dying here. I whisper the words between ragged breaths, a prayer and a promise.
The moon is high and pitiless, its light spilling silver across the snow. Every tree seems to reach for me. Branches grab at my torn gown, ripping seams and lace. The veil that once crowned me like a blessing now trails behind me like a curse.
I stumble. Catch myself. Keep going.
Somewhere behind me, steel strikes stone. Laughter follows—low, cruel, confident. They think I'll fall soon. Maybe I will. The cold's already biting into my feet, numbing my toes to nothing. The air smells of pine, snow, and blood.
Mine. Always mine.
The forest blurs around me.
Branches whip my face, tearing at the veil tangled in my hair. The white silk clings heavy and wet to my legs—no, not silk anymore. It's red. Soaked through. I can taste iron in the air, in my mouth, on my tongue.
Run. Just keep running.
The command hammers in time with my pulse.
The ground shifts beneath me, loose rock tumbling down the slope.
I lunge forward, arms flailing to stay upright, but the fabric catches on a root.
I hit the ground hard—knees first, palms scraping across frozen earth.
Pain shoots up my legs. My shoulder slams into stone.
For a heartbeat, I can't move. My body screams at me to stop, but instinct won't let me. I push onto my hands, clutching my stomach protectively. "Shh, little one," I rasp, barely able to breathe. "Mama's got you. I've got you."
A hiss slices through the air. Then—impact.
An arrow buries itself in my shoulder. The force spins me sideways; the world tilts. I collapse onto my side, a cry tearing from my throat. The cold seeps in instantly, numbing the fire that spreads from the wound.
Footsteps crunch closer.
"No," I whisper. "Not yet. Not here."
I drag myself forward, fingers clawing at the ground. Snow mixes with my blood, a trail too easy to follow. My vision swims, but I keep crawling—over roots, over rock, through pain that makes my breath come in shallow gasps.
"Stay with me," I whisper to the child. "Please."
The trees thin. The moonlight grows brighter, silvering the clearing ahead. I pull myself into it, collapsing against the base of an ancient pine. My body shakes so violently my teeth chatter. The air feels charged, alive—like something ancient is watching.
I tilt my head back and scream. Not words—sound. Raw, wild, desperate.
A howl splits from my chest and climbs the night air, echoing through the mountains. It's not human anymore. It's older, deeper, filled with a command even I don't understand.
The forest answers.
Eyes ignite between the trees—amber, gold, silver. Shapes materialize from the shadows. Wolves. Huge, silent, their breath fogging the cold air.
I press my good hand over my belly. "Please," I whisper. "Protect us. Please."
One moves closer, fur black as the night itself. It sniffs my blood, my stomach, then looks straight into my eyes. There's something ancient in that gaze—recognition, pity, promise.
And then, without a sound, it turns. The others follow.
The forest explodes in chaos behind me—snarls, screams, the crack of bones. I don't look. I just keep crawling, every inch a battle against the dark closing in.
When the noise fades, only the wind remains.
I lie there shaking, the smell of blood thick around me, staring at the sky. The moon stares back—cold, distant, endless.
My hand rests on my stomach. "You're safe," I whisper again. "You're safe."
Then the world dissolves into black.
I wake with a violent jolt, my body lurching upward, a scream trapped in my throat. Sweat drenches my nightgown, my hair plastered to my forehead and neck. For several terrifying seconds, I don't know where I am—the mountain forest still too real, the cold still biting at my skin.
Then reality crashes back. My bedroom. The palace. Safety.
I press my trembling hand against my flat stomach. No child. No blood. No arrow.
"Just a dream," I whisper, my voice hoarse. "Just the same fucking dream."
My heart still hammers, refusing to believe we're safe. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and try to stand, but my knees buckle instantly. I crash to the floor, my legs as weak and useless as a newborn colt's. Frustration burns through me as I slam my fist against the wooden floorboards.
"Damn it!"
Six weeks have passed since everything changed.
Since Selena—my friend, possessed and not herself—slashed my throat open with a single violent stroke.
The memory still burns: the shocking cold of the blade, the warm rush of my lifeblood pouring between my fingers, the darkness closing in.
And then Kieran's ancient magic pulling me back from death's edge, his power forcing my severed flesh to knit together.
I trace the scar across my throat, the raised flesh still tender and angry beneath my fingertips.
I drag myself up using the bedpost, my body trembling with effort. Standing takes everything I have. Walking is still a victory worth celebrating. Running... running is a distant memory.
The palace is silent at this hour—3:17 AM according to my bedside clock. The witching hour, when nightmares are at their strongest.
I stagger to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. The shock helps ground me in reality, washing away the last clinging fragments of the dream. When I look up, a stranger stares back from the mirror.
My skin, once golden and vibrant, has the pallor of someone who's seen a ghost—or become one.
Dark circles shadow my eyes like bruises.
My black hair, usually my pride, hangs limp and dull around my hollow face.
And then there's the scar—a jagged line of red across my throat, telling the story of how close I came to death.
"You look like shit, Daciana," I tell my reflection.
Sleep is impossible now. It always is after the nightmare.
Ever since the Snow Mountain delegation arrived at court—eight weeks ago now—I've been plagued with these dreams. I've never told anyone about them.
The dream varies sometimes in small ways—the forest path changes, the words of my pursuers shift—but it always ends the same.
Me, bleeding out in the snow, desperately trying to protect a child that doesn't exist. A child I've never had. A future I've never imagined.
I strip off my sweat-soaked nightgown and pull on loose training pants and a simple shirt.
My movements are quick and efficient—the body of a warrior hasn't forgotten itself, even if my mind is haunted.
I shake off the lingering tremors from the nightmare.
Physically, I've healed completely. The scar across my throat is the only reminder of the events of that night,, but it hasn't affected my duties as one of the queen's personal guards.
If anything, surviving Selena's blade has made me more vigilant, more aware of hidden threats.
The need to shift, to escape the confines of my human skin, pulls at me like a physical ache. The nightmare has left me restless, my wolf sensing my disquiet and wanting to run it off.
I slip from my chambers, moving silently through the palace as only someone who guards it can. The servants' passageway leads me to a small side door—my regular exit when I need solitude after night watch.
Cool night air hits my face as I step outside, and I take a deep breath.. The forest edge beckons, dark and welcoming, far from the palace where everyone else sleeps soundly, undisturbed by dreams of blood and pursuit. I've always found more peace among trees than people.
My strides are long and confident as I cross the grounds toward the treeline. The physical strength that makes me an effective royal guard serves me well here, my body responding perfectly to my commands. Only the lingering unease from the nightmare follows me into the shadows of the forest.
The familiar scents of pine and earth welcome me. Here, alone with the night, I can shift and run until the memory of the dream fades. My wolf stirs eagerly beneath my skin, ready to stretch her legs, to feel the wind in her fur.
My mind gradually drifts to Kieran as it often does during these midnight escapes.
Alpha Kieran of the Snow Mountain pack. The first time I saw him striding into the throne room with his delegation—all broad shoulders, silver-threaded dark hair, and ancient power—I'd felt something primal stir inside me.
"Holy shit," I'd whispered to Selena, unable to tear my eyes away.
That raw attraction had been immediate and undeniable.
But alongside that pull, something else flickered in my chest. A wariness.
Not of him specifically, but of what he represented.
The old magic his pack carried. The wildness in his eyes that spoke of mountains and rituals lost to time.
Something in me recognized him in a way I couldn't explain—and that recognition terrified me.
Now I remember the way his eyes looked when he knelt beside me, my blood coating his hands as he worked magic I couldn't comprehend.
The gentle stroke of his fingers through my hair when he thought I was sleeping during my recovery.
The low rumble of his voice when he announced he would stay in the capital, fighting for the rights of shifters who practiced the old ways.
I'm drawn to him, even as every instinct screams at me to pull away. When he's near, my wolf paces restlessly, wanting both to submit and to run. What is it about him that calls to something buried deep inside me? Something I didn't know existed until he arrived?