Chapter 4

I barely had time to process it before hoofbeats thundered from the distance.

Alaric arrived with his guards. He saw the wolves kneeling around me—and his face went white.

He dismounted in a single motion, grabbed my bleeding wrist.

"Wren. Who told you that you don't have a wolf?"

He bandaged my wound and took me back to the castle.

Agnes examined my blood. Her face turned serious.

"She doesn't lack a wolf. Her wolf-soul has been suppressed. By some kind of potion."

I remembered—the potions my family had forced me to drink my whole life.

Alaric didn't press further. He just told Agnes to keep the secret.

Then he took me to the study, locked the blueprints in a hidden compartment, and finally—he trusted me with the truth.

"These plans are a matter of life and death," he said.

"Wren, you deserve to know what I've been plotting all these years."

That night, he told me everything.

How his mother—the first queen—had been framed for treason by Prince Cassius's family. How her entire Frostfang clan had been slaughtered.

How Cassius's mother had risen to power and convinced the king to send Alaric to war against the vampires, hoping he'd die on the battlefield.

How he'd returned victorious—and the queen had found a witch to lay the curse on him.

Every full moon, his wolf would break free and tear apart whoever he loved most.

How the old king looked the other way. He'd exiled Alaric to this remote castle, ordering him to guard the northern cliffs and nothing more.

"They all think I'll die soon enough," he said flatly. "Perfect. No one watches a dead man."

So for years, he'd been secretly planning.

Revenge for his mother. For his clan.

I listened in silence. And I understood—this man was far stronger than he looked.

And far more alone.

I stared at his pale profile and felt an ache in my chest—a sudden urge to reach up and smooth the crease between his brows.

After that night, I became his true right hand.

One look. One gesture. We understood each other without words.

That winter, he told me the story of the wren.

The fire was blazing in the hearth.

"Do you know what your name means?" he asked.

I said yes—my father had picked it at random.

Seraphina, the firstborn, was named for the seraphim, the highest angels.

When I was born, a little gray bird happened to be perched outside the window. So they called me Wren.

"That's not right," he said.

He told me an old fable.

Long ago, the birds held a contest. Whoever flew the highest would be their king.

The eagle soared up to the clouds, certain he'd won. He spread his wings and cried in triumph.

In that very moment—a tiny wren, hidden in the eagle's feathers, sprang from his shoulder and flew even higher.

The smallest bird had won the whole sky.

All the birds bowed to him.

He looked at me.

"Wren was never a small name," he said. "It means freedom. Sky-king."

"Your father threw away something he never deserved to have."

After that night, my name felt heavier. Fuller.

For the first time, I thought it was worth saying out loud.

The full moons came and went.

Before, he'd writhe in agony. He'd chain himself in silver, even as the metal wore down to bone.

Now he was learning to control the beast.

The first time he kept me in the room with him—nails growing into claws, roars tearing from his throat—I just placed my hand on his burning one.

The roaring quieted.

The second month, he took off two silver links.

The third month, he made it through the entire full moon without shifting. He just sweated through his clothes, jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground.

Each step cost him. He never complained.

I stayed by his side. Water. Towels. Holding him up when he faltered.

Sometimes he'd lean his head on my shoulder, his hot breath against my ear.

"Little wren... having you here... it helps."

His voice was barely a whisper, light as a feather, but it stirred something deep in my chest.

My heart was a mess.

Word of Alaric's recovery soon reached the capital.

Three days later, the Blackwood carriage pulled up outside the castle gates.

My father stepped out, Seraphina at his side.

The first words out of his mouth were a command:

"Wren, pack your things. You're coming home."

I froze.

My father produced the royal marriage contract and handed it to Alaric.

"We sent her here only to get your most dangerous full moons out of the way," he said smoothly.

"Now that your curse is lifting, the real bride should return."

Seraphina walked up to me, smiling.

"Thank you for taking care of the prince for me, sister."

"Now, please—give me back my place."