Chapter One
The bird came justbefore first light.
Nero untied the scroll from its leg with fingers already calloused from dock work. Draul Eryken’s seal was unmistakable—smeared crimson ink, hastily pressed.
Storms have delayed me by a full moon. You’ll have to take care of it yourself.
Holy seven hells.
Nero stared at the message, chest burning with a familiar ache. He’d told Eryken he was done. That he’d buried that part of himself. But now, if the people crowned a new king, the last five years—their war, their dead,his dead—would mean nothing.
He rubbed his chest, absently chasing away the memory of Maya’s laughter. It slid in, unbidden and sharp, like broken glass under the skin. He couldn’t let that boy take the throne. He couldn't stay either.
Two years he’d scraped together for this—hoarding every coin, every favor, just to buy his way out. Passage to Cadmeera. Theonly ship was duetoday. Docked for three nights, then gone on the evening tide.
He crossed the barn’s dirt floor to the back corner, the straw crunching under his boots. From beneath the loose boards, he pulled out the waxed leather pouch. It hadn’t been touched in three years.
He should have burned it.
Instead, he unwrapped it slowly. Inside lay the bow—black, smooth, deadly—and ten arrows, perfectly fletched.
His fingers hovered over them.
He didn’t touch them.
Didn’twantto.
He wrapped them again and buried them deep behind the bricks.
By the time the sun was up, Nero was on the docks, shoulders straining under sacks of grain.
The messenger arrived at the docks mid-morning, wrapped in some half-rotted uniform from the old regime, his boots caked in dried mud. He looked out of place among the empty crates and quieter-than-usual port.
“By decree of the People’s Mayor,” the man announced, his voice loud and polished, “all men and women of eligible age are to present themselves at the palace gates three days hence, to be checked for the mark.”
Nero didn’t bother listening to the rest.
Malachai, the port’s merchant overlord and loudest complainer, stormed over and snatched the scroll. “Preposterous! We’ve another ship due in three days. I can’t spare hands for this madness!”
The messenger didn’t blink. “Failure to comply will result in the termination of your distribution contract. This matter is of utmost importance to the people.”
Malachai crumpled the parchment and threw it into the dirt. “Superstitious idiocy,” he spat. “Silver wolves. Painted marks. Probably just picked a pretty boy and dabbed some ink on his fur.”
After he stalked off, Nero bent and smoothed out the paper.
He read the decree easily—his late father—so particular with his ledgers—had made sure he could read even fancy palace script before he could tie a bootlace.
Everyone in Abergenny knew the legend of the Silver Wolf. The one who would rise to restore the land. A shifter with royal blood, black fur, and a white mark like a crown between the ears. A blessing. A prophecy.A lie.
Or maybe not.
Supposedly, two moons ago, a stable boy had shifted in front of a crowd. The mark had been there. The excitement had spread like fire.
But Nero had once walked the halls of the palace. He knew what Emperor Johannes had been—how many servant girls were treated like playthings. If the boy existed, he wasn’t royal. He was just collateral damage.
And the second part of the legend?
The silver shift wouldn’t manifest fully until the wolf met their mate—someone bearing the same crown-shaped mark onhumanskin.
