Serena.
For one perfect, trembling second, the world holds its breath. Gasps, whispers and cries of disbelief rise from every corner as the circle shatters into noise.
My breath stops. My chest tightens. I don’t know if it’s fear or fury clawing up my throat.
“I carry the Alpha Prince’s heir,” the girl says again, bolder now, chin lifted like a dagger. Her voice rings out, steady, so confident that it is hard not to focus on her .
I don’t recognize her, but she’s as young as I am, perhaps the same age, maybe even younger as moonlight catching the defiance in her eyes.
As she repeats this, every eye turns to him. Tristan.
He doesn’t move or even blink. He just stands there, shrouded in ceremonial black, silver trim glinting like a crown of thorns. His jaw ticks once. That’s it. No outburst. No denial.
Nothing.
The silence is worse than a yes.
“Is this true?” the High Priestess finally asks, her voice heavy with ancient authority.
Still, he says nothing. Just a slow exhale through his
