The crowd thickened below. Nero shifted, silent and watchful on the stone ledge. His bow lay across his knees, and beside him sat an arrow fletched with black feathers and tipped with shifter-killing bodkin heads. He’d used this same style to bring down a general once who wore plated armor. Quiet. Precise.
The sun crested the rooftops, casting long, golden blades across the square. Trumpets blared. The crowd stilled as if pulled by a string.
First came the guards—polished and ceremonial.
Then the priests—white-robed and silver-wolf-adorned, faces aglow with fervor.
And finally, the boy.
He wasn’t what Nero expected.
Not the preening aristocrat or cocky royal bastard. He was dark-skinned, dark-haired, barely twenty. No crown. No silks. A plain tunic, loose trousers, and eyes that looked far too haunted for someone close to being deified.
He walked like he didn’t want to be there.
One of the priests raised his hands. “People of Abergenny, today marks the dawn of a new era. Before you sits Savior Casteel, rightful heir, bearer of the crown mark.”
Nero drew the bowstring back, not listening to the rest of the priest's nonsense. One shot. A clean one to the heart would do it.
The boy’s eyes lifted, scanning the crowd.
At the last second, as he prepared to loose the arrow, the boy’s eyes locked on Nero’s.
It was impossible. But something in that gaze halted him—like the boy saw through him, and the arrow veered.
A gasp rippled through the square as the shaft sliced the boy’s shoulder instead of his neck. Blood bloomed on white linen. Screams broke loose. Guards surged. Priests shouted.
“An assassin!”
Nero cursed. Henevermissed. Not at that range. But the boy had looked right at him, like he knew. Like he had seen, but instead of panic, his gaze had shone with welcome,acceptance.
Below, the high priest bellowed, “The savior lives! This is a sign from the gods—they protect their chosen one!”
The boy—Casteel—shakily rose, clutching his shoulder. He didn’t cry out. He didn’t fall. He just stood there, bleeding and silent.
“We will continue!” the priest cried with unholy joy. “The ceremony must proceed!”
Nero stared. No healer? No shift response? Shifters bled quickly—but they alsoshiftedquickly when wounded. At least all the army wolves did. The arrow had to hit the heart or brain to kill instantly. Unless the arrow had hit just wrong… or unless for some reason he was unable to shift a second time.
This wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go.
The square spun into chaos. Guards combed rooftops and shadows. Nero tucked into the stone and buried his bow and arrows beneath loose mortar. He couldn’t leave. Not now. Every exit gate would be sealed. He had no choice.
He slid into the crowd, slipping a small dagger into his sleeve as he stepped into the line of hopefuls.
It would buy him time. A few more minutes. Maybe an exit. He would touch the chosen one and then get the hell out. Head straight to grab his pack and then to the docks. He should be in Cadmeera in two moons.
The line moved slowly. Too slowly. Every shuffle forward was another stitch tightening in his gut. He had to be at The Thief’s Heart by the sixth bell or he’d miss his passage to Cadmeera. He watched the sun move.
Not fast enough.
Guards watched everyone now. One met Nero’s gaze but dropped it quickly. Another man, cloaked and sharp-eyed, adjusted his stance and blended with the crowd. Not a dockworker. Not a priest.
Was Eryken hedging his bets?
Ahead, a woman whispered, “They say the mate will feel it instantly—like fire in their blood.”
“Casteel shifted under the full moon,” her friend breathed. “Black wolf, white mark. Theysawit.”
