"Begin the procession," High Priest Doran commanded.
Casteel knew there was supposed to be one person in this crowd that could bring forward his wolf with a simple touch. The initial change was merely to prove his valid claim, even though the priests had done their best to make him perform at their will so as not to involve another, despite what the prophecies said about a divine pair.
He supposed on his own he was easier to control. Shame settled on Casteel's shoulders. After weeks of constant pain he would have done anything to escape it.
Palace guards herded the first group of citizens forward—young men and women of varying ages, all bearing marks on their foreheads. Some were clearly painted, others looked like burns or cuts deliberately inflicted. All of them stared at Casteel with a mixture of hope and fear as they filed past, presenting themselves one by one.
Casteel sat motionless, his body refusing to transform despite his terror, despite his silent pleas. He couldn't stop picturing the preparation chamber—the strange symbols painted on the floor, the acrid smoke that made his lungs burn, the priests' chanting growing louder as they forced him to drink concoctions that left him retching and delirious.
Doran stepped forward, his benevolent mask slipping to reveal the cold fury beneath. His fingers curled around Casteel's forearm with punishing force, nails digging half-moons into the flesh.
"I don't care who you choose for a mate. We both know it's simply for show. Perhaps you need a reminder of what's at staketo force the shift," he murmured, voice pitched low enough that only Casteel could hear the venom in it. "Tonight, we'll try the northern herbs. The ones that made you scream for three days straight."
The threat froze Casteel's blood. He remembered those herbs—the way they'd made his bones feel like they were splintering from within, how his skin had seemed to crawl with invisible insects. He'd begged for death then, thrashing against his restraints until his wrists bled.
But as Doran's grip tightened further, Casteel saw it—a flash of light from the far tower, like sunlight glinting off metal. His eyes focused on the source, and for a heartbeat, time seemed to slow.
An arrow. The unmistakable silhouette of a bow drawn taut.
Someone was aiming at him.
The realization should have terrified him. Instead, a profound calm washed over Casteel, soothing his frayed nerves like cool water on burned skin. His shoulders relaxed, the tension draining from his body for the first time in weeks.
Death.Freedom.An end to the preparation chambers, the chanting, the herbs, the pain. An end to being paraded before desperate masses who needed him to be something he wasn't, that he couldn't be.
Casteel lifted his chin and straightened his spine. If death was coming for him, he would meet it with dignity—the one thing the priests hadn't managed to strip from him entirely.
A smile, small but genuine, curved his lips. Father Doran's eyes widened at the unexpected expression, his grip faltering in confusion.
Casteel kept his gaze fixed on that distant glint of metal, willing the archer to release, to end this charade once and for all. He took a deep breath, savoring what he believed would be his last moments of consciousness. Maybe if he was really lucky and there was an afterlife he would find horses there.
The crowd's murmurs faded to a distant hum. The sun felt warmer on his face. Even the pain of his raw skin seemed to recede as he waited for the arrow to find its mark.
"Thank you," he whispered to whoever was watching from that tower, gratitude flooding his heart even as his pulse quickened with anticipation.
Father Enoch frowned, following Casteel's line of sight. His eyes narrowed, scanning the towers with sudden alertness.
"Guards!" he shouted, but his voice seemed to come from very far away.
Casteel nearly cried in relief. Any moment now. Any moment, and he would be free.
Chapter Three
It had taken Neromost of the night to reach the perfect alcove. Nero remained still, hidden in shadow high above the square as the city slowly stirred awake beneath him. The crowd began to gather—clutching their talismans, murmuring prayers, dressed in patched finery worn only on days when something mattered.
In his mind, Nero scoffed. Superstitious nonsense. The emperor was gone. The rebellion had burned through cities and hearts alike. They’d won. They’d bled. And for what? For the people to replace one crown with another?
He understood it, though.
A year after the emperor had fled with the treasury, the rains stopped. Crops failed. Then blight came. Then famine. Three seasons of dust and funerals. The priests, ever opportunists, had pivoted from piety to prophecy—preaching the return of the Silver Wolf. A savior, they claimed. One who would lead the people to healing and prosperity. It kept the priests’ coffers full.
So now, another poor bastard was going to die in a war that should have ended.
Nero’s fingers curled around the shaft of his first arrow.
No more. Eryken had promised him no more. But the rebellion had left behind a vacuum, and with their rebellion leader Aidan dead, there’d been no one strong enough to hold the pieces together. Whispers spoke of elections. They spoke of justice like a prayer. But none of it had come.
And the boy—this supposed “savior”—hadn't left the palace once since his miraculous discovery. If he was crowned today, it wouldn’t matter what they called him. King. Emperor. Divine vessel. It all ended the same: in control, in blood, in ruin.
