"The decree!" Doran shouted over the growing tumult, grabbing Casteel's arm. "You must read it now, before—"
Nero moved with lethal precision, his hand closing around Doran's wrist with crushing force. "Release him," he growled, his voice carrying deadly promise.
"Guards!" Doran called, but his voice was lost in the chaos as more explosions echoed across the city, the smell of gun powder obvious. The crowd below was beginning to panic, people pushing and shoving as they tried to flee the square.
That's when Nero saw them—figures moving through the crowd with purpose, not fleeing but advancing toward the palace. They wore the rough clothing of common citizens, but their movements spoke of military training. At their head, barely visible through the press of bodies, Nero glimpsed a familiar face.
Eryken had come.
Eryken's face was grim, determined—the expression of a man executing a carefully planned mission. But what froze Nero's blood wasn't his former commander's presence but the figures flanking him: two archers, bows already nocked, rising in perfect synchronization.
Time seemed to slow as horrifying understanding crashed through Nero. Eryken had been traveling for many lunar moons—he wouldn't know the bonding was real, wouldn't understand that the "savior" was now bound to Nero's very soul. He was here, as promised, to kill Casteel.
"No!" The word tore from Nero's throat as the archers drew back their bowstrings.
There was no time to explain, no time for signals or codes. Nero pivoted sharply, throwing himself in front of Casteel just as the arrows were released.
The first impact felt like a hammer strike to his shoulder, driving the breath from his lungs.
The second arrow found its mark lower, slipping between his ribs and sending a searing, white-hot agony lancing through his chest. The sheer force of the blows knocked him forwards into Casteel, both of them collapsing onto the hard stone floor of the balcony in a tangled heap.
Nero felt Casteel's shock change instantaneously into sheer horror as the warmth of blood seeped through the ceremonial robes they wore. Nero struggled to find his voice, to form a warning about Eryken's actions, but all that emerged was a wet, hacking cough, and a spray of copper-bright blood speckled his lips.
"Nero!" Casteel's scream sliced through the pandemonium like a sharp blade. His hands, trembling with desperation, pressed fervently against the gaping wounds, trying in vain to halt the relentless flow of crimson that spread like spilled wine over the pale stone surfaces.
The last image that imprinted itself in Nero's consciousness before the encroaching darkness swallowed him was Eryken's face amidst the crowd below, where confusion had replaced his previous determination as he realized the tragic truth—who had truly taken the arrows intended for the Silver Wolf.
And then, there was nothing.
Chapter Eleven
Casteel's world collapsed intoa single, terrible focus—the spreading crimson beneath his hands, the weight of Nero's body growing heavier with each labored breath. He felt his mate's life force flickering like a candle in a hurricane, growing weaker with each heartbeat.
"Help!" he screamed at the guards, at Doran, at anyone who might listen. "Get a healer!"
But chaos had erupted across the balcony. More explosions echoed from the city below as Doran's carefully orchestrated ceremony devolved into panic. Guards shouted conflicting orders while the High Priest raged about assassins and divine retribution.
Through the mayhem, figures in rough clothing scaled the palace walls with practiced efficiency—not citizens fleeing the explosions, but trained soldiers executing a coordinated assault. Casteel barely registered their approach, his entire being focused on the man dying in his arms.
"Stay with me," he whispered desperately, pressing his forehead against Nero's. "Don't you dare leave me."
Nero's eyes fluttered open, unfocused but alive. Blood frothed at the corners of his mouth as he tried to speak. "Eryken...didn't know..."
"Shh," Casteel soothed, though terror clawed at his throat. "Save your strength."
The first rebel reached the balcony, hauling himself over the stone railing with fluid grace. Casteel looked up to see Lucan Tarreth, the infiltrator guard, now dressed in the leather and steel of a fighting man. Behind him came others—hard-faced veterans with the efficient movements of Eryken's rebellion.
"Secure the area!" Lucan barked, his men spreading out to engage the confused palace guards. Steel rang against steel as the balcony became a battlefield.
"The healer!" Casteel shouted at Lucan as the rebel captain approached. "Get Makim!"
Lucan's weathered face was grim as he assessed Nero's wounds. "Too much blood. We need to move now, before Doran rallies his forces."
"He'll die if we move him!"
"He'll die if we don't," Lucan countered harshly. "Doran's men are already sealing the exits. This is our only chance."
As if summoned by their desperation, Makim appeared through the chaos, his healer's satchel clutched in white knuckles. The old man's face went ashen as he saw the spreading pool of blood, but his hands were steady as he knelt beside them.
