Prologue
X Y R A N I A V A L T A I R
two years ago
"Your father is going to be proud of you, kid."
Larcan's gruff and familiar voice broke through the haze clouding my mind. I looked up, my gaze locking onto his. His eyes softened, and there was something in his expression I wasn't used to — pride.
He was smiling at me, a sight so rare from my father's lead warrior that it almost threw me off balance.
"I am proud of you." His hand came down on my shoulder. I winced, a small grimace flickering across my face, but I didn't move away.
I tried to answer, to say something in response to his words, but no sound came out. My throat felt tight and constricted, as if the weight of everything that had just happened sat heavily on my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs.
If Larcan noticed my silence, he didn't show it.
He looked at me one last time, his eyes lingering just long enough for me to feel the pressure of his gaze before he turned around and started walking back toward the pack house.
I stood there, frozen, as his figure disappeared into the dense trees.
The second he was out of sight, my attention drew back to the forest floor below me.
Everything tilted sideways, my vision tunneling in on the lifeless form lying among the fallen leaves.
I felt myself choking up again.
Breathe.
The ground seemed to shift beneath my feet, and I stumbled, my legs buckling as I slumped to my knees. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to force the air into my lungs. Somehow the very act of breathing had become impossible.
My body wouldn't listen to me.
Breathe.
But the order fell flat, swallowed up by the quiet stillness of the forest. I felt my hands shake, the trembling spreading through my limbs as I leaned forward, my fingers reaching out hesitantly. They brushed against the boy's arm, his skin cold under my fingertips, the warmth of life already long gone.
A boy.
Just a boy.
I knew he was dead. I had known since I decided to dig the arrow deeper, twisting it with the force of my wielding. The sound of it—bone and flesh giving way—echoed in my mind like a cruel reminder.
Yet, despite knowing the truth, despite the finality of what I'd done, my fingers moved on their own. They found his pulse point and pressed hard against it.
Hoping.
Praying that maybe... somehow...
There was no pulse. No faint thrum of life beneath my fingertips. Nothing.
I had killed him.
But the thought that he might have been innocent gnawed at me, refusing to let go. What if he'd crossed into our territory by accident, fleeing from the other rogues—the ones our warriors had already cut down?
I could have stopped, held back just long enough to ask, to understand who he was and why he'd come. But I didn't.
I could have saved him.
Instead, I had chosen to kill, without question, exactly as I'd been trained to do.
"Please forgive me," I whispered, the words barely escaping my lips, vanishing into the cold air. They were feeble and meaningless. No amount of apology could undo what had been done.
My fingers, still pressed against his cold skin, trembled. I dropped his hand, recoiling as if it had burned. The imprints of my fingers were etched into his arm.
Nausea clawed at my stomach, rising in waves until I couldn't hold it back any longer. I doubled over, my body twisting as I retched violently, emptying the contents of my stomach onto the forest floor.
It came out in painful, heaving waves, like my body was trying to purge everything at once—every emotion, every thought, every bit of regret.
I couldn't stop. Even when there was nothing left in me, I kept gagging, my body convulsing with dry, heaving sobs. The taste of bile coated my tongue, and I wiped at my mouth with the back of my hand.
It didn't make me feel better.
I couldn't escape it.
With a deep breath, I lifted the boy's lifeless body into my arms. I forced myself to stand. And then I walked deeper into the woods.
The forest was thick with shadows, but I knew exactly where I was going.
"Miss Xyrania."
The sound of footsteps behind me made me freeze in place. I turned slowly to see two of my father's guards, their eyes lingering on the body in my arms.
"Yes," I said, my voice betraying nothing.
"We can take care of the body," one of them offered.
I gave a tight smile, though it felt more like a grimace. "I will handle it," I replied, my words sharp, leaving no room for argument. They exchanged glances before nodding and turning then retreating into the shadows of trees.
As they disappeared, I tightened my hold on the boy. I walked into a part of the forest where no one ventured. When I found a spot hidden from prying eyes, I stopped.
Dropping to my knees, I started to dig. My hands moved without thought, shoveling the earth away. It took longer than I thought—my muscles screamed in protest, but I didn't stop.
When the hole was deep enough, I laid him gently inside, covering him with the earth I had just moved. I gathered flowers—wild ones, in every color I could find—and laid them on the grave. It wasn't much, but it was all I could offer.
By the time I was done, the sky had turned a deep, ominous gray, signaling nightfall.
I was caked in dirt and mud as I made my way back to the house, my body moving on autopilot. I tore off my soiled clothes, not bothering to care where they landed and stepped into the shower.
The hot water pounded against my skin, but no matter how hard I scrubbed at my hands, they still felt tainted and dirty.
His death replayed in my mind, over and over again, like a nightmare I couldn't wake up from.
I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping it would drown out the memories. But they were too vivid, too real.
"Stop," I whispered, my voice hoarse as I shut off the water. I stepped out and quickly dressed, trying to compose myself.
I forced a smile—a practiced mask I'd perfected over the years—before opening the hidden door in my bedroom. The underground passage was well-worn, the one place I could slip through unseen. It led me to the bunker beneath my father's wing of the packhouse. As I emerged and headed upstairs to the kitchen, familiar voices drifted toward me.
"Who is he?" Quincy asked, her voice laced with curiosity just as I walked into the room.
"Xyra!" Her attention shifted instantly, her face lighting up when she saw me. I managed a small smile and made my way over to her, pressing a quick kiss on her cheek before moving to hug my mother.
"Long day, Rani?" my mother asked, pulling me into her familiar warmth. I nodded back, not trusting my voice to say much. I felt her hand rub gently along my back. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Gently, I pulled out of her embrace. "I'm good, Mother," I assured her, trying to keep my tone light. But I could feel Quincy's eyes on me, studying me from the corner of the room.
She sat cross-legged on the counter, her golden hair twisted into two buns, with a few loose strands framing her face. She looked so much like our father—hair as bright as sunlight, eyes as blue as a storm on the horizon.
I, on the other hand, had inherited our mother's darker blue eyes and chestnut hair, with stubborn waves I could barely keep in check.
Despite our differences, we'd always been close.
Only two years separated us, and even when I'd been sent to live at the cottage at the age of ten, nothing ever changed between us.
I'd come back every time I wasn't training, and we'd pick up like I'd never left.
"I killed my first rogue today." The words felt strange and heavy on my tongue, but I forced a smile, trying to brush off the tension.
Quincy's eyes went wide before she jumped off the counter and threw her arms around me.
"Does that mean you're a certified warrior now?" she asked, almost breathless with excitement. "That was your last test, wasn't it?"
I nodded.
"You know what that means?" She wiggled her brows, grinning up at me.
Realization dawned on me. "It means no one can question my ability to train or protect you. Ever again."
"Suck it, Felorian!" she shouted, grabbing a dish towel and waving it around triumphantly.
Her laughter was infectious, and before I knew it, laughter was bubbling up from me too.
"Quincy!" my mother scolded. But Quincy only kept twirling around us.
When my sister showed no sign of settling down she grabbed the towel from Quincy's hands and gave her a quick swat on her backside. She squealed, wiggling her hips at us.
"Alright, I won't finish the story today then," my mother said, shaking her head.
"Nooo!" Quincy protested, sliding onto the stool with exaggerated grace.
"What am I going to do with you?"
Quincy leaned forward, "You loooove me," she sing-songed.
"Mmh." My mother narrowed her eyes at Quincy, looking amused. I walked over to grab an apple from the bowl on the counter, taking a bite as I watched them.
"Tell me, please," Quincy whispered, barely containing her excitement. "Who is he?"
"He is the Alpha King." My mother lowered her voice as if she was afraid someone would hear us. She pushed her brown waves out of her face before she motioned for us to come closer. I didn't even realize that I had leaned towards her along with my sister.
"Rafael Arathien." She spoke his name like it held weight, and the sound of it sent a shiver down my spine. My pulse quickened, though I didn't quite understand why.
I looked over at Quincy, who had gone still, chewing her lip with wide eyes.
"They call him a beast," my mother continued, her voice dropping even lower. "He kills without mercy and doesn't spare a single soul."
I froze.
Just like I had killed today.
The memories flashed through my mind again. Just for a split moment I had forgotten only for it all to rush back.
Quincy twisted a golden strand that had escaped her bun around her index finger as she peered at our mother through her lashes, completely unaware of my reaction.
"The only person who might ever be able to tame him—"
"I'm going to see how Father is doing," I interrupted abruptly, setting the apple down.
I could feel her eyes on me as I turned toward the door.
"Don't you want to hear the story?" she asked, sounding surprised. I shook my head, trying to keep my expression neutral.
"I'll listen to it another day," I murmured, already backing away.
She opened her mouth, probably to ask more, but I didn't wait to hear it. I turned quickly, striding down the hall, trying to steady my breathing.
And then I headed to my father's study without finding out that my mother's story wasn't just a story.
It was my future.
