Chapter 3: Aurora’s arrival.

Aurora had imagined the palace since she was a child.

Girls in her village whispered about it in the dark—of the glittering towers, the ruthless king, the silks and jewels that awaited the “chosen.” Even as they spoke with awe, there had always been fear behind their eyes. As though speaking of it too boldly might summon the wolves.

Now, with the palace rising before her, she understood.

It was beautiful.

And it was terrifying.

The black SUV halted to a stop at the edge of a stone bridge, the last threshold before the great iron gates. Mist swirled at the base of the valley like a sea of ghosts, and the towering cliffs behind the palace made it look as if the mountain itself had birthed it.

Aurora stepped out, her shoes planting softly against the bridge’s glistening stones. The air was cool, the scent of pine and snow laced with something older—ancient incense or wild magic, maybe both.

The palace shimmered like a dream spun from frost and shadow. Its spires pierced the sky, carved from black obsidian and veined with silver. Stained glass windows caught the moonlight, painting strange shapes across the courtyard. Ivy crept along its walls, blooming with ghostly white flowers that pulsed faintly like living things.

It was breathtaking.

And utterly wrong.

With every step closer, the awe twisting in Aurora’s chest was choked by a crawling sense of dread.

Not fear of the unknown—no, that she had already swallowed. This was something deeper. Primal. As if her blood remembered something she did not.

The gates loomed ahead, taller than any tree, wrought in black iron shaped into wolves mid-howl. At their center, the sigil of the Alpha King glared back at her: a crowned wolf with eyes like open wounds. The gate did not swing open with welcome. It creaked as if forced.

Two guards stood at either side, silent, silver-eyed. Neither spoke. One gestured. She obeyed.

Inside the walls, the courtyard stretched like an open cathedral. Silver lanterns floated mid-air, casting soft halos of light over gardens that defied reason—roses the color of bruises, trees that whispered as the wind passed through them. A marble fountain stood in the center, but the water within shimmered with something darker than water.

The beauty of it all was undeniable.

So was the weight.

As if something beneath the stones watched her.

Judged her.

She was not alone.

More girls stood near the steps, all dressed in pale gowns, clutching their cloaks like armor. None spoke. Some looked at the palace with awe, others with glassy, hollow eyes. One wept silently, staring at the gates behind them as if she could still run.

Aurora didn’t speak to them. She didn’t want to.

She didn’t want to admit the dread curling in her own stomach like a living thing.

A woman emerged from the palace doors. Tall, severe, robed in black silk and shadows. Her eyes were pale and expressionless, her skin flawless and cold. A palace keeper. An elder servant of the king, though no one ever used that word here—servant. This place didn’t keep people. It consumed them.

The woman’s voice cut through the hush. “Follow me.”

No welcome. No introduction.

Just that.

They obeyed.

Aurora’s large combat boots made no sound as she stepped into the grand corridor, but her heartbeat filled her ears.

It was more beautiful inside.

Too beautiful.

Moonstone chandeliers spun slowly overhead, casting soft, rotating glows that made the shadows feel alive. The walls were carved with ancient tales—wolves locked in battle, women crowned in fire, a king standing alone on a throne of thorns. Every detail was perfect. Every line of stonework was as sharp and flawless as a blade.

But the deeper they walked, the colder it became.

Magic clung to the walls. Not gentle magic. Not the kind of spells sung over cribs or woven into fields. This was high magic—rituals soaked in blood and vow. The air buzzed with it.

The other girls trembled. One clutched her pendant until her knuckles went white. Another began whispering to herself.

Aurora walked silently.

Inside, her dread swelled.

They were led into a chamber that split like a forked river. A hall to the right, one to the left. The elder woman turned.

“You will each be taken to your quarters. There will be no mingling. No wandering. And no foolishness. If you are called, you will answer. If you are not, you will wait. This is not a game. This is not a fairy tale. The king does not abide weakness.”

Her eyes swept over them like frostbite.

Aurora felt her jaw tense, but said nothing.

She was led alone, deeper than the others, down a passage of silence. Here the tapestries were darker—depictions of the Lycan King in monstrous form, fangs bared, eyes like violet flame. Blood spattered through embroidered scenes. Crowns melted. Thrones shattered.

Her room was behind a door carved with a crescent moon and wolves howling at nothing.

It opened soundlessly.

She stepped inside.

The room was beautiful.

Of course it was.

A bed fit for a queen, draped in violet silks and black lace. A window cut high into the wall, showing only sky. Shelves lined with books in languages she didn’t know. A vanity without a mirror. Candles that lit themselves with blue flame.

It should have made her feel safe.

It didn’t.

As the door shut behind her, the silence closed in like a fist.

She turned slowly in place, taking it all in.

Everything was perfect. Too perfect.

Like a snare lined with velvet.

She crossed to the bed and sat. Her fingers clenched the edge of the mattress.

This place is wrong, she thought.

Beautiful. Grand.

But wrong.

She could feel it. In her bones. In the way the floor pulsed faintly beneath her. In the way the moonlight through the window felt cold, not comforting.

The king was here.

Somewhere in this palace.

Watching.

Waiting.

Her hands shook.

But her spine stayed straight.

If this was where fate had led her, she would not cower.

But goddess, she’d never wanted to run more than she did right now.