Chapter Three
It had taken Nero most of the night to reach the perfect alcove.
Nero remained still, hidden in shadow high above the square as the city slowly stirred awake beneath him.
The crowd began to gather—clutching their talismans, murmuring prayers, dressed in patched finery worn only on days when something mattered.
In his mind, Nero scoffed. Superstitious nonsense. The emperor was gone. The rebellion had burned through cities and hearts alike. They’d won. They’d bled. And for what? For the people to replace one crown with another?
He understood it, though.
A year after the emperor had fled with the treasury, the rains stopped.
Crops failed. Then blight came. Then famine.
Three seasons of dust and funerals. The priests, ever opportunists, had pivoted from piety to prophecy—preaching the return of the Silver Wolf.
A savior, they claimed. One who would lead the people to healing and prosperity. It kept the priests’ coffers full.
So now, another poor bastard was going to die in a war that should have ended.
Nero’s fingers curled around the shaft of his first arrow.
No more. Eryken had promised him no more. But the rebellion had left behind a vacuum, and with their rebellion leader Aidan dead, there’d been no one strong enough to hold the pieces together. Whispers spoke of elections. They spoke of justice like a prayer. But none of it had come.
And the boy—this supposed “savior”—hadn't left the palace once since his miraculous discovery. If he was crowned today, it wouldn’t matter what they called him. King. Emperor. Divine vessel. It all ended the same: in control, in blood, in ruin.
The crowd thickened below. Nero shifted, silent and watchful on the stone ledge.
His bow lay across his knees, and beside him sat an arrow fletched with black feathers and tipped with shifter-killing bodkin heads.
He’d used this same style to bring down a general once who wore plated armor. Quiet. Precise.
The sun crested the rooftops, casting long, golden blades across the square. Trumpets blared. The crowd stilled as if pulled by a string.
First came the guards—polished and ceremonial.
Then the priests—white-robed and silver-wolf-adorned, faces aglow with fervor.
And finally, the boy.
He wasn’t what Nero expected.
Not the preening aristocrat or cocky royal bastard. He was dark-skinned, dark-haired, barely twenty. No crown. No silks. A plain tunic, loose trousers, and eyes that looked far too haunted for someone close to being deified.
He walked like he didn’t want to be there.
One of the priests raised his hands. “People of Abergenny, today marks the dawn of a new era. Before you sits Savior Casteel, rightful heir, bearer of the crown mark.”
Nero drew the bowstring back, not listening to the rest of the priest's nonsense. One shot. A clean one to the heart would do it.
The boy’s eyes lifted, scanning the crowd.
At the last second, as he prepared to loose the arrow, the boy’s eyes locked on Nero’s.
It was impossible. But something in that gaze halted him—like the boy saw through him, and the arrow veered.
A gasp rippled through the square as the shaft sliced the boy’s shoulder instead of his neck. Blood bloomed on white linen. Screams broke loose. Guards surged. Priests shouted.
“An assassin!”
Nero cursed. He never missed. Not at that range. But the boy had looked right at him, like he knew. Like he had seen, but instead of panic, his gaze had shone with welcome, acceptance.
Below, the high priest bellowed, “The savior lives! This is a sign from the gods—they protect their chosen one!”
The boy—Casteel—shakily rose, clutching his shoulder. He didn’t cry out. He didn’t fall. He just stood there, bleeding and silent.
“We will continue!” the priest cried with unholy joy. “The ceremony must proceed!”
Nero stared. No healer? No shift response?
Shifters bled quickly—but they also shifted quickly when wounded.
At least all the army wolves did. The arrow had to hit the heart or brain to kill instantly.
Unless the arrow had hit just wrong… or unless for some reason he was unable to shift a second time.
This wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go.
The square spun into chaos. Guards combed rooftops and shadows. Nero tucked into the stone and buried his bow and arrows beneath loose mortar. He couldn’t leave. Not now. Every exit gate would be sealed. He had no choice.
He slid into the crowd, slipping a small dagger into his sleeve as he stepped into the line of hopefuls.
It would buy him time. A few more minutes. Maybe an exit. He would touch the chosen one and then get the hell out. Head straight to grab his pack and then to the docks. He should be in Cadmeera in two moons.
The line moved slowly. Too slowly. Every shuffle forward was another stitch tightening in his gut. He had to be at The Thief’s Heart by the sixth bell or he’d miss his passage to Cadmeera. He watched the sun move.
Not fast enough.
Guards watched everyone now. One met Nero’s gaze but dropped it quickly. Another man, cloaked and sharp-eyed, adjusted his stance and blended with the crowd. Not a dockworker. Not a priest.
Was Eryken hedging his bets?
Ahead, a woman whispered, “They say the mate will feel it instantly—like fire in their blood.”
“Casteel shifted under the full moon,” her friend breathed. “Black wolf, white mark. They saw it.”
Fairy tales. Nero bit back his reply. The rebellion had promised freedom. All it had delivered was famine and false gods.
Three people now.
He gripped his dagger. He wasn’t here to die. Not today. But if he had to—if it meant stopping this farce—he’d be ready.
Two.
Casteel sat finally bandaged and pale, receiving each hopeful like it hurt him. His posture was slumped. Not regal. Not divine. Tired and injured by Nero's hand.
One.
The woman before Nero took Casteel’s hand, held it like it would provide salvation. Nothing happened. Her sobs trailed behind her as the guards moved her along.
Then Nero stood before him.
Up close, he looked even younger.
And sadder.
Nero extended his hand—dagger hidden behind his wrist.
Casteel hesitated. Reached. Their palms met.
And the world exploded.
Heat, white and pure, blazed from the contact. Nero’s knees buckled. His breath caught. The dagger fell from his grip, lost in the dust. Something ancient roared through his blood. His vision dimmed and sharpened all at once.
Casteel’s pupils blew wide. He gripped Nero tighter.
“It’s happening!” one of the priests shrieked. “The signs! Look at the signs!”
Nero tried to pull back. He couldn’t. His limbs didn’t respond. His skin burned. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real.
Then Casteel dropped to his knees. His body shimmered. Shifted. Changed.
Fur rippled out—silver-white and radiant. The mark between his ears glowed gold.
The crowd dropped in worship. Even the guards stilled.
A silver wolf stood where the boy had been.
And he was staring right at Nero.
“The prophecy is fulfilled!” the head priest shouted in utter glee. “The Silver Wolf and his marked mate are before us!”
Nero’s hand flew to the back of his neck. It burned.
“I don’t have a birthmark!” he rasped.
The wolf stepped closer. Pressed his muzzle against Nero’s side. Another pulse of heat. Another shock through the marrow.
A priest reached forward, brushing Nero’s neck, and yanked his hand back with a cry. Smoke curled from his fingertips. “The fire!” he gasped. “He bears the sacred flame!”
“No,” Nero said again. “No, no—this isn’t—”
But the wolf nudged him forward. The guards circled.
“The bonding must be completed before nightfall!” the head priest declared.
Two guards flanked Nero like they were escorting royalty. "Come, my lord."
“I’m not your lord,” he hissed.
The man bowed his head. “Not yet.” The crowd parted for him like he was something holy. Nero’s eyes locked on the harbor, just visible over the rooftops. The Thief’s Heart was already unfurling its sails. He took one step forward. Then another. The wolf walked ahead.
“I was going to kill him,” Nero whispered to himself, too quiet to be heard.
But someone had heard him.
Because as the palace gates closed behind them, and the crowd chanted their names in blissful, ignorant unison, the Silver Wolf looked back—
And stared into Nero's eyes as if he carried the sadness of the world.