GIVEN TO THE WRONG ALPHA
“The witch is dead, her blood is gone, my father’s lab is next, we burn it, we break the rest of his work, you get your minds back.”
Murmurs. Hope.
Draven steps to me, careful. “The crown,” he says. “Can you take it off.”
I touch it. It burns. “I don’t know.”
“Try,” he says. “For me.”
I pull. Pain rips through my skull, and the crown comes away, blood on the tines. It crumbles to ash in my hand.
The ferals gasp, some falling, some crying, as if a string got cut.
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