Chapter 2
One year later
The iron gates of the Astareth Summit loomed before Eris, ornate and ancient in their suffocating grandeur.
It was a place of diplomacy, and of quiet, calculated war.
Unlike the halls of Dragov Manor, Astareth was open to all: Firstbloods, Lycans, turned vampires, and humans, each summoned yearly from the age of twenty-one to partake in a week of mandated unity, political theatre, and tribute to the Crown.
All trapped together in a fragile peace that could shatter at any moment.
For years, Eris had been warned about the factions waging a silent war for Goznoth’s future.
About the Lycans, thick with old rage and rebellion.
About the Obsidian Order, made up mostly of Turned vampires, humans remade in blood, impure in the eyes of the Crown, and furious enough to want it toppled.
And about the Firstbloods, her own kind, born of the ancient line and bound in unwavering loyalty to the Dragov throne.
She knew what awaited her: the hatred, the whispers, the silent appraisals she could never escape.
But worse than the judgment was the unknown.
Stephan.
One year had passed since his departure. A year of aching. They had exchanged warm yet cautious letters. Their words circled truth like fire, careful, intimate only in the safest ways. A part of her longed to see him. A part of her was terrified.
What if she looked at him and saw a stranger? What if he looked at her and saw only a girl who had imagined too much? The storm in her chest raged, but she kept walking.
The gates of Astareth Summit opened before her, and she stepped inside. Into war. Into fate. Into the memory of him.
The halls of Astareth swallowed her.
Eris walked, chin high and steps steady, feeling every glance, every sneer, every flicker of barely concealed laughter. They whispered behind her: strange girl, unnatural girl, the one who hears the wind.
As she climbed the grand staircase, the air shifted: a cold wind threaded through her long auburn curls, wrong in the way a breath on the neck is wrong when no one stands behind you. Then came the whispers, low and hissing, curling through the empty hall like smoke only she could hear.
A warning. Of what?
Her chest tightened. She exhaled, shook her head, and stepped forward. Her foot missed, and the world tilted: stone slammed into flesh, pain burst immediate.
Loud laughter erupted behind her, merciless.
Her belongings scattered as she stayed where she had fallen. Burning.
Then boots planted firm before her, worn leather scuffed but meticulously polished. Someone stood over her, someone who had not laughed. Not yet.
Slowly, Eris lifted her head. Her breath caught as she met the sharp, disdainful eyes of Kareon Duskbane.
She knew who he was—everyone did—but there was something different about seeing him like this, up close.
No title, no herald. Just him. She had never trusted power taken by force, and he wore it like a second skin.
He was not just another attendee at the Astareth Summit; he was the Alpha of the Lycans, his name spoken with fear and reverence.
A boy without a past, a fighter without a choice, a ruler without a throne.
He had not inherited power. He had taken it through dominance and sheer will.
Among his own, he was called "K," a name weighted with respect and a sliver of fear. To the rest of the summit, Kareon Duskbane was a warning, a living reminder of the power struggles simmering beneath Astareth’s ceremonial pageantry.
He towered over Eris, commanding. He didn’t just walk through rooms. He changed the gravity inside them.
Messy brown hair framed angular features.
A scar slashed his cheek, not a flaw but a mark of survival.
His skin was sun-warmed and tanned, his beard sharp against a jaw carved from iron.
A silver piercing caught the candlelight as he tilted his head.
His faction uniform clung to his frame, immaculate but undone: sleeves rolled, collar loose.
A contradiction by design, discipline forged with defiance.
Then came his eyes, golden and unyielding. Scorn flickered beneath the surface, but so did something else: a predator’s intrigue. His smile bared sharp, white teeth, a glimpse of the wolf beneath the skin.
It wasn’t the smile that unsettled her. It was the fact that he was watching her so closely. For the first time since falling, Eris felt like prey.
"Well, well." Kareon crouched, golden eyes gleaming with mockery. The scar on his cheek deepened with his smirk, a predator savoring the pause before the pounce.
"Look at that. A Firstblood princess groveling at my feet. Finally learning her place. Never thought I’d see the day."
The courtyard buzzed with whispers and muffled, cruel laughter. Eris pushed herself onto her elbows, humiliation burning through her veins.
"It was an accident," she said coldly.
"An accident," he echoed, voice dripping sarcasm. "Well, sweetheart, accidents have consequences. Especially when they ruin my morning."
Before she could move, he grabbed her arm and yanked her upright, not to help, but to display her. She stumbled.
"Careful, K," one of his packmates called. "You don’t want to break her. Yet."
Laughter followed. Eris jerked against his hold, but his grip was iron.
"Let go," she said, steady despite the throb blooming in her arm.
Kareon leaned in, his breath brushing her cheek.
"What’s the rush?" he murmured. "You seem to like attention. Or is this not how Firstbloods get noticed?" His gaze dragged over her, slow and invasive.
"Maybe she’s practicing for something," another packmate jeered. "Gotta keep those knees in shape, huh, princess?"
More laughter. Heat surged in her face, pure rage. She had been mocked before, ridiculed for being different. But this was meant to strip her bare.
"You might like women groveling," she said, sharp, "but you won’t get that from me."
Something darker flickered behind his eyes.
"Feisty and delusional," he said, fingers tightening. "You’re braver than you look. But you’d do well to watch your mouth. Some of us don’t have patience for spoiled little princesses."
Pain bloomed in her arm, but Eris did not flinch. She would not give him the satisfaction.
"And some of us do not need a pack to feel important," she snapped.
Silence fell. Laughter died. For a heartbeat, Kareon’s smirk faltered. He pulled her closer.
"Careful, princess," he growled. "That mouth might invite something you won’t survive."
His gaze dragged across her lips, slower this time, hungrier. Laughter surged again. Eris winced as his fingers dug in, but she held his gaze. She had two choices: shrink or strike. Kareon wanted her small, powerless. But she was a Dragov, and Dragovs did not cower.
"If you think this proves you are a man," she said, her voice tempered, "then you have more to learn than I do."
The air shifted. His packmates exchanged uneasy glances, sensing the crackle of something sharp and unspoken.
Nobody laughed now. For a heartbeat, Kareon hesitated, not with kindness, but with curiosity.
She was not simpering, was not afraid. She was a challenge; one he was not sure he wanted to crush or conquer.
The moment cracked. His grip tightened. She winced.
“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” he muttered, voice rough, “because the rest of you…well, it’d be impossible to take seriously.”
She froze. Not because it hurt, though it did, but because no one had ever spoken to her like that before.
Not without caution calculation, or fear.
He’d been shaken. That much was clear. And what came out of his mouth wasn’t cruelty.
It was deflection dressed as disdain, a shield thrown up too fast to aim.
But gods, it still landed. Because somewhere deep inside, buried beneath armor and defiance, a voice whispered: What if he meant it?
And worse: What if everyone else had always thought so, too?
A shadow fell. At the top of the grand staircase stood Stephan Dragov, watching. Kareon’s fingers still clutched Eris’s arm, and Stephan saw.
That hand would break.
He moved, one step, then another. A descent not of pace, but of purpose. A sovereign coming down to remind the wolves whom they served, because a true predator never hurried the kill.
"Kareon."
The name was not a greeting. It was a warning.
Fury burned through Stephan, white-hot, barely leashed.
He wanted to rip Kareon apart for daring to touch her, but Stephan was a master of restraint.
He exhaled, burying violence beneath iron will.
If he acted now, he would lose respect, control, and maybe even her.
And losing her was not an option. Each step forward landed heavier than the last, each one a promise.
Kareon’s jaw tightened, but his grip remained, defiant. For a heartbeat, the world held its breath: the prince and the predator.
"Let. Her. Go."
The words were not loud; they did not need to be. Even the air dared not move.
Kareon smirked, his fingers tightening briefly in defiance before releasing her with a shove. Eris stumbled.
"Didn’t realize the golden boy had a claim on this one," Kareon drawled mockingly.
Stephan’s lips curved in something colder. Claim? If only Kareon knew how thin the leash on his patience truly was.
"She’s new," Stephan said, his voice a blade. "And not your problem."
Kareon’s smirk widened, testing, pushing.
"Relax, Dragov," he said. "Just giving her a proper welcome. Wouldn’t want her to feel…forgotten."
His pack chuckled, but under Stephan’s gaze, none of them laughed easily.
Stephan ignored them, ignored Kareon, and turned to Eris. His expression softened, barely.
"Let’s get you to the infirmary," he murmured.