LOGINWren Holloway was branded and rejected at her Claiming. The Moon Goddess chose her for Prince Caiden. He denied her in front of the court. The High Priestess cut her bond and scarred her shoulder. She watched her sister Lyra become the Luna she was promised to be. The Alpha King gave her one hour. Marry the Butcher or die on the altar. Exile at the border forced her into Alpha Draven Duskbane’s keep. He is Caiden’s uncle. The male who ended the last war by lining his walls with heads. Draven is lethal and precise. But around Wren, instinct overrides hatred. The longer she stays, the harder it gets to see her as anything other than his. Her gray eyes flash silver. The color that killed his parents. The color he vowed to destroy. Her brand hides witch runes. Lyra sold Wren’s firstborn to a marsh witch to steal the crown. The debt still stands. If Wren bears an heir, the witch takes it. If she doesn’t, the curse kills every Duskbane pup for twenty more years. Now she has to choose. Stay weak and let the witch win, or become strong enough to burn down the kingdom that branded her, in a court that was designed to make girls like her disappear.
View MoreThe new Tree in D.C. doesn’t grow up.It grows down.We stand in the cracked bowl of the National Mall and watch green light pour into the earth like water, not toward the sky. The shoot we woke — black turned green — dives straight for the deep.Sky drops to her knees, hands in the soil. “It’s not rooting,” she whispers. “It’s searching.”For what?The answer hits the crown like a hammer.The iron.Eli stumbles back. “The bands,” he says. “They weren’t to hold it in. They were to hold something else out.”The iron bands that wrapped the root ball — first pack’s mark stamped in rust — are gone, dusted by Hope’s song. Under where they lay, the earth is hollow.A tunnel.Draven shifts, wolf rising under skin. “Trap.”“Obviously,” I say. But the new Tree is pulling, and the crown is pulling, and Jonah is already walking toward the hole, hand in Silas’.“No,” Eli snaps, grabbing Jonah. “Not you.”Silas looks down. Not scared. Remembering. “I’ve been here before,” he says. “In the hollow.
The map is in my dreams again.Not paper. Roots.I see them under the dirt of America — thin green threads, sleeping. Not dead. Waiting. Twelve points of light, spread from Washington to Maine, from Texas to Montana.Twelve seeds. Like Hope.I wake with dirt under my nails even though I never left the bed. Draven is already dressed.“You saw them too,” he says. Not a question.The bond hums. He dreamed as the Alpha — running a forest that wasn’t there yet, wolves weaving between trees that sang.Eli is waiting in the kitchen with Jonah and Silas. Silas looks better. Human tired, not hollow tired. He’s eating actual food now. Bread. Stew. He flinches every time someone thanks him.“Twelve,” Eli says before I sit. “There were always twelve. The first pack didn’t just plant one Tree. They planted a circle. To hold the continent together.”Rowan pulls up a topographical map on his new laptop — Tree-grown casing, doesn’t fry anymore. “If you give me the points from the dream, I can overlay
I dream of roots.Not as Wren. As the Tree.I’m deep, deeper than stone, wrapped around something cold and black and small. The seed. Silas’ seed. The part of Null the Tree cut out a hundred years ago.It pulses.Not hungry. Lonely.I wake up gasping. Draven’s already awake, hand on his dagger, eyes on the door.“You were humming,” he says.“I wasn’t,” I say. But my throat vibrates. The crown is warm.It’s 3 a.m. The keep is quiet for the first time since the gate opened. Thirty thousand people breathing in unison sounds like wind.I get up. Draven follows without asking.We find Eli in Silas’ room. He’s not guarding. He’s sitting on the floor, back against the wall, watching Silas sleep. Jonah is curled in his lap.“He talks in his sleep,” Eli whispers. “Not words. Numbers. Coordinates.”Draven crouches. “Null coordinates?”“No,” Eli says. “Ours. Latitudes of the other Trees.”My blood goes cold. “There are no other Trees.”Eli looks at me. Young face, old eyes. “There were. Before t
Dawn in Duskbane smells like bread.Not blood. Not ash. Bread.Thirty thousand people slept on stone floors the Tree grew overnight, and Sky and Creek spent the whole night coaxing ovens out of the walls. Now the whole valley smells like a kitchen.I stand on the new wall with Draven and watch it. Families lining up for water that runs clear from rock. Kids chasing each other through wheat that wasn’t there yesterday. Guards — ours and the National Guard who walked in with the refugees — sharing coffee.Rowan comes up the stairs two at a time, laptop under his arm. He hasn’t slept.“D.C. is gone dark,” he says. “No press conferences. No statements. No flyovers. They pulled the cordon back fifty miles at 0300.”Draven frowns. “Retreat or regroup?”“Neither,” Rowan says. He turns the screen. It’s not a news feed. It’s social. Thousands of videos. #Duskbane. #WeBelieveYou. People packing cars. People walking. “They lost the narrative. The salute broke them.”The man in the suit saluting












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