MasukSovereign’s POVThe morning opened on a knife-edge. A cold unease slid beneath my ribs before the sun had fully climbed the sky.I yanked open the shutters and let the pale light spill across shelves bowed with books, jars of crushed herbs, and relics filched from older ages. Dust motes swarmed in the beam like mocking spirits. My fingertips brushed familiar spines; leather warm with years, until they hit empty air.The leather-bound volume with its cracked spine should have been there. Instead the space gaped at me like a missing tooth.“No.” The word left me in pieces as I flipped volumes aside, pages whispering under my hands. My skin prickled; the air tasted faintly of iron and old paper. Panic was a bitter thing on my tongue, but I swallowed it. That book was not mere parchment and ink, it was the tether between mortality and the endlessness I craved. My late wife had given it to me before she died; without it, longevity was smoke, and the revenge I’d sworn for her would be stole
Diana’s POVEva flopped belly-first onto my bed; her hair fanned around her like a messy halo. I sat cross-legged at the mattress edge, fingertips warm from the blanket. For the first time in what felt like ages, laughter rolled through my room, shaking the air, shoving away the heaviness that had clung to us for weeks.“Oh, Goddess,” I wheezed between giggles, pressing my palm to my stomach until the laughter settled into a shaky smile. “You should’ve seen your face when you shoved Lucien, I thought he’d swallow his own tongue.”Eva slapped the blanket, nearly cackling. “You’re one to talk! Diana, you deserve an award for acting. Your eyes, your voice… you had Lucien so convinced he didn’t even glance at me twice. He was too busy drinking you in.”I bit my lip, grinning despite myself. The image of Lucien’s bewildered stare in the school garden flashed through my mind. “You think so? I felt like my hands were shaking the whole time.”“No, babe. You were flawless… the way you held you
Lucien’s POVThe corridors of Ashmoor Academy tasted of chalk dust and quickened breaths. The sharp tang of pencil shavings undercut by a steady hum of nerves. Sneakers squeaked against waxed linoleum, and the murmur of frantic memorization slithered through the air. Exams. Students scurried like ants toward the examination halls, clutching their notes as though their lives depended on them.Mine? My life depended on none of this.I wasn’t here to pass biology or calculus. I was here for one reason only: Diana.The so-called fragile girl with secrets stitched beneath her skin. The girl the Sovereign whispered about. The girl I had orders to shadow.Yet fate, ever the mocking jester, had pulled its cruelest trick. Because instead of a ruthless assassin for a mate, the kind of woman who would slit throats at my side and laugh with blood on her hands, the Moon Goddess had tied me to Eva.Eva.She painted her lips crimson every morning, giggled too loudly, and burned with obsession for Di
Kael’s POVA razor of antiseptic hit me the moment I pushed through the hospital’s glass doors, it was a clean, clinical air that tasted like bleach and fear. It clung to my jacket, bitter and metallic, nicking at every breath until my throat felt raw.I hated hospitals. Always had. They reeked of endings, of weakness, of time’s theft from even the strongest men.But I forced myself forward, boots striking the polished tile with sharp, deliberate echoes. Nurses glanced up, then leaned toward each other in hushed murmurs; their gossip prickled against my back, but I kept my face carved from stone. They knew who I was. Of course they did… the rich heir of the Draven family.At the corridor’s end, my father’s door stood half-open, a pale rectangle of light pouring from inside like a stage lamp. I froze, palm inches from the handle, chest tightening with grief braided with anger. Then I shoved it open.The sight hollowed me out.Draven, the mountain of a man whose voice once made enemies
Diana’s POV The earth swallowed my father in silence. The last shovel of dirt fell heavy over his coffin, muffling the sound of my heart cracking open all over again. The cold morning air pressed against my skin like shards of glass, sharp enough to remind me I was still alive when all I wanted was to sink down into that grave with him.“Stay,” my mother said, but she was already moving through the crowd, hands trembling as she smoothed her black skirt, as if anything could smooth what had been torn out of us. People murmured in low, useless tones; everything smelled faintly of lilies and damp coats, and the soldiers stood in formation to pay their last respects, their salutes cold as iron.The funeral had ended days ago, but grief clung to me like smoke after a fire. I could still hear my mother’s quiet sobs, muffled into her scarf. I could still see the pitying glances from guests who whispered about Ashmoor Academy even as they dropped flowers on my father’s coffin.I slipped away
Sergeant Johnson's POVThe call came as I finished the day’s paperwork; the thin scrape of a pen, the paper's faint starch smell still in the air.The barracks smelled of oil and gunmetal, a comfort I had known for decades: leather boots sweating, canvas and machine-oil under the fluorescents. My men’s laughter drifted from the training yard like a half-remembered radio tune, but my heart stilled when I saw the name flashing across my old phone.Sovereign.When I picked up, he asked to see me immediately, not at his house, not in his office. He wanted me on the Ashmoor rooftop.My throat went dry. That rooftop carried ghosts, whispers of blood oaths, secrets, and executions that soaked into the gravel. I wondered why Ashmoor was still called the best school in all of San Francisco, given how much blood its history held.That wasn’t my problem. My problem was this: if he’d summoned me there, he already knew.Knew I’d told Diana the truth.I rose. My knees creaked but my shoulders staye







