"Some are not who they say they are, and some are not who they seem to be."
Malakor's POV
The first light of dawn was not a comfort; it was a revelation. It crept over the jagged peaks of the Blackwood like a slow-moving infection, turning the bruised violet of the sky into a pale, sickly grey. I stepped out from the mouth of the cave, my body aching with a cold that went deeper than skin. The shredded remains of my royal cloak were pinned around my shoulders, a pathetic attempt to reclaim the majesty I had abandoned in the glade.
I felt hollow, and every step I took away from the cave was a struggle against the invisible tether anchored in my chest. The bond was a live wire, humming with a distant, jagged frequency that told me exactly where Athel Thorne was. He was moving, far to the west, his presence a cold, radiating spike of pure, unadulterated fury.
I reached up and touched the skin of my neck. It was sensitive, the phantom heat of his breath still lingering there like a brand. I had scrubbed the skin raw, but the scent of iron and storm was woven into my very pores. To a normal human, I would smell of nothing but pine and mountain air, but to a wolf, to a Thorne, I would smell like treason.
I forced my face into a mask of bored, royal indifference as I descended the foothills toward the main trail. I could hear the sounds of the camp before I saw it: the neighing of horses, the clatter of armor, and the sharp, military commands of the Royal Guard.
"Prince Malakor!"
Kaelan's voice cut through the morning mist. He was mounted on his charger, his face a map of frustration and barely contained panic. When he saw me emerging from the tree line, he spurred his horse forward, the animal's hooves churning the frosted earth.
"Your Highness!" He dismounted before the horse had even fully stopped, his eyes scanning me with a frantic intensity. "Where in the name of the High Heavens have you been? We lost your trail at the mouth of the Pass. I had half the vanguard ready to storm the vampire hives, thinking you'd been taken."
I offered him a thin, languid smirk, the kind that usually made him want to grit his teeth. "Patience, Kaelan. I found a trail that required... a more delicate touch than the heavy boots of the Guard could provide. I spent the night tracking a high-born scout. I apologize if my lack of a chaperon caused you a sleepless night."
Kaelan's eyes narrowed. He was a veteran tracker; he knew when a story had holes. He looked at my torn cloak, the dirt beneath my fingernails, and the strange, haunted light in my eyes that no amount of royal posturing could quite dim.
"You're lucky you're the Prince," he muttered, though he kept his voice low enough to avoid a charge of sedition. "The woods are crawling with more than just scavengers this morning. The resonance is peaking, and we have had reports of High-Vampire movement near the southern rim."
"Then we should be moving, shouldn't we?" I asked, reaching for the reins of the spare horse he had brought.
"There's more," Kaelan said, his expression darkening. He looked toward the west, toward the direction of the Thorne encampment. "The Thorne pack isn't waiting for the Royal decree to conclude the hunt. Reports from our scouts indicate that Lord Garrick has ordered a full-scale push deeper into the Ravine. They're hunting for blood now, not just territory."
My heart skipped a beat. "And Athel?" The name felt like a hot coal on my tongue.
"The Iron Wolf has already retreated to the Citadel," Kaelan said, and for a moment, I felt a wave of relief so strong I almost slumped in the saddle. But then he continued. "He returned a few hours ago, alone and covered in more blood than a butcher. The scouts say he looked... different. Possessed. He didn't wait for his father or the rest of the Sentinels. He took a fresh mount and rode straight for the Silver Citadel without a word to anyone."
I gripped the saddle pommel so hard the leather groaned. He had run. Just like I had. But while I was hiding in a cave trying to piece my soul back together, Athel was heading back to the heart of the kingdom, back to the place where we would be forced to face each other in front of the world.
"He's gone back?" I repeated, my voice sounding hollow even to my own ears.
"Aye. Rumour has it that he is headed to report something to his father," Kaelan added, watching me closely. "Whatever he found out there in the dark, it's shaken him, Malakor, and if Athel Thorne is shaken, the rest of us should be terrified."
"He always was a man of theatrics," I said, my voice cold, though my pulse was a frantic mess. "Let him run to my father. He'll find that the Vane lineage doesn't break as easily as the scavengers in the woods."
"Shall we proceed with the hunt, then?" Kaelan asked, though he sounded sceptical. "The King expects us to bring back a trophy to mark the end of the solstice."
"No," I said, turning my horse toward the Citadel. "The hunt is over. The real games are beginning at the palace."
I spurred the horse into a gallop, not waiting for Kaelan or the rest of the guard to follow. The wind whipped against my face, freezing the tears I refused to shed. The bond thrummed in my chest, a constant, agonizing reminder of the man who was currently riding toward my home with a heart full of iron and a mouth that had tasted my ruin. Every mile we covered brought me closer to the confrontation I dreaded and craved in equal measure.
He whimpered, the Succubus whispered, a cruel, mocking reminder. He wanted you, and now he's going to destroy you for making him want it.
"Let him try," I whispered into the wind.
As the spires of the Silver Citadel appeared on the horizon, gleaming like teeth against the grey sky, I felt the bond tighten. I pulled the remnants of my cloak tight, sat up straight in the saddle, and prepared to walk into the lion's den.
I would apply the washes.
I would put on the white silk.
I would wear the crown.
We were returning to civilization, but the wild was already inside us, and as I rode through the gates of the Citadel, I knew that the hunt hadn't ended in the Blackwood. The air in the courtyard was thick with tension. Soldiers were moving with a frantic energy, and the Thorne colours were flying high and proud near the King's solar. I dismounted, my boots hitting the stone with a finality that made my stomach turn. I looked up at the high balcony, the same one where I had stood just two nights ago, sensing the presence of a man who was now my fate.
"Athel Thorne," I murmured, the name a curse and a promise.
I walked straight toward the Great Hall, my shredded cloak trailing behind me like a battle-worn flag. If we were going to burn, we would burn together, in the heart of the palace, under the eyes of the gods we had both betrayed. The doors to the hall swung open, and the scent hit me instantly, and the raw, jagged edge of a wolf who had been backed into a corner.
He was standing at the far end of the hall, his back to me, speaking to the King. He hadn't changed his clothes as he was still covered in the filth and blood of the woods, a dark, menacing silhouette against the gold leaf of the throne. I took a step forward, the sound of my boots echoing through the cavernous space.
Athel froze, and I saw his shoulders bunch, the leather of his gear creaking with the tension. He didn't turn around, but I felt the moment the bond locked us together again, a psychic snap that made the air in the room feel like it was vibrating.
He knew I was there. He knew I had survived.
The King looked up, his eyes widening at the sight of his dishevelled, ruined son. I saw Athel's hand move to the hilt of his sword.
"Your Majesty," I said, my voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. "I believe Lord Thorne has a report for us. I'd hate to miss the details of his... discovery."
Athel turned then, and the look in his slate-grey eyes was enough to stop my heart. It was pure, unadulterated hatred, layered over a hunger so deep it was almost physical, and I smirked as I, Malakor, Prince of Athelgard, was ready to play.