Chapter 4: The Midnight Run

The damp smell of wet pine needles and ozone hung heavy in the midnight air as I crept past the perimeter guard posts of the Bloodmoon Pack. In my small canvas pack, I carried only the essentials: a rusted hunting dagger, a stolen flask of water, a piece of dried meat, and the ragged linen tunic I had worn in the scullery.

Lucas had given me until dawn, but waiting meant risking Chloe’s father catching wind of my presence. Every shadow that stretched across the gravel path felt like a tracker waiting to drag me to the execution block.

As my bare boots hit the tree line of the Blackwood Forest, the northern border mark snapped—the physical sensation of leaving pack territory. A sharp, stinging cold washed over my skin, followed immediately by an unbelievable wave of heat from within.

My chest burned. The crimson mark on my collarbone pulsed violently, radiating heat down my limbs.

Release us, the voice echoed in my mind.

I fell to my knees in the damp dirt, gripping a moss-covered root as my ribs expanded. My spine cracked—not with the agonizing agony omegas usually endured, but with fluid, powerful grace. Dark grey and silver fur broke through my skin. My senses exploded into hyper-drive: I could hear the rustle of a field mouse three miles away; I could smell the sap bleeding from ancient cedar trunks.

Standing on four powerful paws, I looked down at my reflection in a pool of rainwater. Where a scrawny, underfed omega should have stood, a towering Crescent wolf stared back, her eyes glowing a fierce violet and a mark of bright crimson burning into the fur over her shoulder.

My wolf let out a silent, triumphant breath, then lunged forward into the deep gloom of the Blackwood Forest. We ran faster than any northern wolf I had ever seen, a blur of grey and violent magic tearing through the forbidden wilderness.

Two hours into the run, the heavy stench of iron and wet hound fur hit my nostrils.

I skidded to a stop atop a rocky ridge, peering through the dense thorn bushes. In the clearing below, three massive hunter hounds—savage, silver-armored beasts bred by the High Council to purge rogues—were circling a fallen figure.

The male was on one knee, his dark leather cloak torn to shreds and soaked in blood. He held a single broken blade, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps as the hounds closed in for the kill.

I didn't think. The instinct of the Crescent Clan—to protect the hunted—overtook my caution.

With a deafening roar, my wolf leapt from the ridge, landing heavily between the lead hound and the fallen stranger. I bared my fangs, letting my royal aura erupt. A shockwave of crackling violet energy tore through the clearing, snapping the thick oak branches overhead and slamming the hounds backward into the stone cliff face.

The beasts whined in terror, scrambling to their feet with their tails tucked between their legs before fleeing blindly into the darkness.

Breathing heavily, I let the shift recede, my human form collapsing onto the damp leaves as exhaustion hit me. I forced myself to crawl over to the injured warrior.

"Hey," I rasped, my throat raw. "Are you alright?"

The man grunted, clutching a deep gash along his ribs. Slowly, he pulled back his heavy hood, revealing a sharp, brutal jawline, dark unruly hair, and a jagged white scar running from his ear down to his neck.

When he raised his head, piercing gold eyes met mine.

His gaze dropped to the glowing crimson crescent mark on my bare collarbone. His pupils dilated, his breath hitching as his gold eyes flickered with intense recognition.

"Well, well," the stranger grunted, a dark, dangerously smooth smirk tugging at his scarred jaw despite the blood dripping down his chest. "A dead princess wandering the Blackwood."

I reached for my dagger, my body tensing. "Who are you?"

He leaned back against the stone wall, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling baritone that vibrated with immense, unyielding Alpha authority:

"Prince Nikolai. And you just saved the Rogue King of the Southern Wastes, little Crescent."