Damon — POV

  A loud scuffling broke my stride as I reached the practice ground for my next class.

  After Maren’s class that morning, bullying and callings had increased more than ever—towards witches and sirens especially. Of course, remembering the witch trials was always good fuel for the already simmering feud between the so-called systems dividing what people claimed as right versus wrong. Rumya versus Aranya.

  Nonsensical terms, created and fueled by none other than Prince Warrick—infamous for his hatred toward creatures alike, though witches most of all, for reasons no one ever bothered to explain. It was dissatisfying that the King didn’t keep him in check. Then again, what useful thing had the King done these past months anyway?

  Disgust twisted in my gut as I took in Warrick and his swarm of followers, hooting and calling out their next target.

  Ignoring their chatter, I scanned the crowd for my friends—

  and then a certain bane of my existence was graced upon my view.

  With a height barely taller than a midget, she stood there, bravely facing—or at least acting brave—against Warrick. Her long black hair, voidless and light-devouring, swayed with the tension of the commotion he was causing.

  Warrick’s voice cut through the noise, hauntingly pleased.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t the infamous Cramire. Remember the trials, bitch? Don’t want to be set on a pyre too. I hear your mother will be gone soon enough to a similar fate.”

  Natalie interjected weakly, forcing a brave face.

  “Prince Warrick, please don’t fuel rumors. The Court judgement is still left to decide—”

  Elara stepped forward calmly.

  “Warrick, don’t you have better things to do? Perhaps some princely duties that actually show your worth?”

  Warrick hissed and gripped her wrist roughly.

  I almost pushed forward—anger flaring hot and sharp at the sight of his hands on her—but forced myself to stop.

  No. This wasn’t wise.

  She was a witch. They were already being bullied. Helping one wouldn’t change anything.

  Cowardly thinking, wrapped in discipline, and I knew it.

  “I’d have your head,” Warrick snarled, “if it weren’t for the Council. Remember this, witch—if your unruly spells cross the line, the Cramire lineage will cease to exist.”

  “Love to see you try,” Elara replied.

  She just couldn’t shut up. She just had to keep pushing.

  Why couldn’t she keep her head down? As if her mother tearing the Sanctum apart six months ago wasn’t enough already.

  I thought bitterly.

  Between her and my wolf conscience hammering at my skull with conflicting urges, the headache was relentless. Percival was louder than ever this year. Time must be nearing.

  Not only that—Dev kept muttering cryptic warnings about fate, about her, about lines that shouldn’t cross. I hadn’t caught a break in weeks.

  Speaking of the devil.

  Dev caught up to me. “Why didn’t you intervene?” he asked quietly. “Why didn’t you save her?”

  Save her?

  “Did I have some kind of savior complex now? Why in the world would I save her? As if she needed anyone to fight her battles—she did just fine on her own.”

  “If you just knew—ugh,” Dev cut himself off, pain lancing through his arm. He hissed, clutching it. Probably said too much. Again.

  “You’ve started with the cryptic shit,” I snapped. “If you have something to say, say it.”

  “If you only ask the right question,” Dev muttered.

  I huffed. Of course. Always the right question. As if I had any idea what that was.

  Seeing the pain still etched into his face, I didn’t push. I already knew—thanks to his brother—that Dev was a seer,knew almost everything. Past. Present. Future. Cursed to silence unless prompted correctly.

  Wrong didn’t even begin to cover it.

  Nakshit interrupted us with his usual cheer. “What peril has my brother dragged you into now, huh, Damon?”

  Dev shot him a warning look.

  “Next class,” Nakshit added lightly, nudging us forward. “Try not to brood yourself into trouble.”

  I watched Warrick disappear with his followers, their laughter echoing.

  We reached the western exit and stepped into the gray afternoon light.

  The training yard stretched wide ahead of us, dirt packed hard from years of sparring. A few students were already there—elementals practicing forms, a dragon-kin stretching their wings, a pair of werewolves circling each other slowly in the main ring.

  Off to the side, near the weapon racks, stood Emanuel.

  His arms were crossed over his lace-up shirt, dark skin glowing warm even under the dull sky. He smiled when he saw us, patient and knowing.

  “Afternoon,” he called.

  Nakshit grinned. “Damon needs to hit something.”

  “I gathered.”

  Emanuel’s smile widened.

  “Training class starts in ten. Mandatory attendance. Bladed combat today.”

  My stomach tightened.

  Bladed meant precision. Control.

  And if it was mixed sparring—

  Students began filtering into the yard—Rumya in black, Aranya in grays and darker colors. I spotted her friends first Willow with pale braids catching the light, sea-foam eyes distant. Natalie, moving carefully, shoulders still tight from earlier.

  Then Elara.

  She walked onto the training ground with her head up. Her posture was calm, measured, but I could see the readiness in her—the way her shoulders stayed loose, her hands relaxed but aware.

  Percival stirred immediately.

  I clenched my jaw, forced him down.

  Not now.

  But he didn’t listen. He never did anymore. He pressed forward, curious and insistent, drawn to her like gravity. And the worst part?

  He wasn’t aggressive.

  He wasn’t predatory.

  He was… gentle. Protective, even.

  It made no sense.

  I hated her. So why didn’t he?

  Instructor Tovar—a grizzled werewolf with scars carved deep across his knuckles—stepped into the center ring.

  “Pair up. Opposite forces. Bladed combat. Training swords only. Control and form. Anyone who breaks protocol gets removed.”

  My pulse kicked up.

  “Wolfe,” Tovar called. “You’re with Cramire.”

  Of course I was.

  Elara’s gaze found mine across the yard. For a breath, neither of us moved.

  Then she walked forward, stopped at the weapon rack, and selected a training sword—straight blade, well-balanced. She tested the weight once, then stepped into the ring opposite me.

  Her expression stayed neutral, but I caught the calculation in her eyes.

  “Don’t look so miserable, Wolfe,” she said, her voice low enough that only I could hear.

  “I know sparring with me is beneath you, but try to keep up.”

  I grabbed my own blade and moved to face her.

  “If I wanted a challenge, I would’ve asked Tovar for a real opponent,” I shot back, testing my grip. “Since I’m stuck with you, try not to make it too easy.”

  “Begin when ready,” Tovar said, stepping back.

  I rolled my shoulders and settled into a stance.

  This was just sparring. Just an assessment. Nothing more.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Except Percival was louder now, filling my head with sensations I didn’t want—her scent, rain and night-blooming flowers; her breathing, slow and controlled; her presence, steady and unshakable.

  I moved first.

  She blocked—smooth, efficient, blade angled perfectly to deflect. I struck again, testing her defense.

  “Is that your best?” she murmured as our hilts locked for a split second.

  “You’re fighting like you’re afraid to touch me.”

  “I’m just pacing myself,” I gritted out, shoving her back. “I’d hate to end this in ten seconds.”

  She parried, sidestepped, riposted.

  Fast. Controlled. Good form. Better than good.

  And that just made it worse. Made Percival more insistent. Made the confusion sharper.

  I pressed harder, increased my speed. She met every strike, deflected, countered. Her footwork was precise, her grip steady.

  She wasn’t struggling.

  She was matching me.

  Then she pressed forward, forcing me back two steps with a series of quick strikes. My eyes widened.

  She was good.

  “You’re breathing heavy, Damon,” she taunted, a flicker of a smirk crossing her face.

  “Maybe you’re the one who needs the practice.”

  Percival surged—proud, delighted, certain.

  And I hated it.

  I came at her harder, faster, letting frustration bleed into my strikes. She blocked, adjusted, held her ground. Our blades met with sharp cracks, echoing across the yard.

  Other students stopped to watch.

  “Control, Wolfe,” Tovar warned.

  I ignored him.

  I struck again, testing her limits. She ducked under my swing, pivoted, came up behind me. I spun, barely blocking her counter.

  “Getting desperate?” she whispered, eyes flashing.

  “That’s how you make mistakes.”

  I hated that.

  I lunged, feinted left, struck right. She read it, blocked—

  —but I was faster this time. Angrier.

  I twisted my wrist, disarmed her blade, and in the same motion swung toward her shoulder to force her yield.

  I was moving too fast.

  Too sharp.

  Too uncontrolled.

  The training blade caught her across the collarbone instead, harder than intended.

  She gasped and staggered back, her hand flying to her shoulder. Blood seeped between her fingers—the blade had caught skin despite the blunted edge.

  Percival screamed inside me.

  No. Stop. Stop.

  My breath caught. My hands went slack.

  Elara looked up at me, eyes wide—she hadn’t expected that from me.

  “Infirmary,” Tovar snapped. “Now, Cramire.”

  Willow and Natalie rushed forward, supporting her. Elara pressed her hand tighter to her shoulder, blood staining her tunic, but she didn’t look away from me.

  She held my gaze for one long breath.

  Then she turned and let them guide her away.

  Dev stepped in front of me, blocking my view.

  His expression was flat.

  Like I had done this on purpose.

  The healer’s lantern bobbed ahead of me, its yellow glow slicing weakly through the stone-dark corridors. Every step echoed too loud. Every breath scraped my lungs raw. Percival prowled just beneath my skin—restless, hackles raised—pacing the length of my bones like a caged thing.

  I could still hear Percival’s scream.

  No—Percival hadn’t screamed.

  That sound had come from me.

  Blood still clung to the edge of my training blade, darkening the steel where I hadn’t wiped it clean fast enough. Elara’s blood. The realization struck again, sharp and nauseating, even though I’d been choking on it since the courtyard.

  My fault.

  The word followed me like a curse sigil burned into the air.

  The infirmary door rose before us, oak bound in iron, humming faintly with accord-thread. The healer reached for it—but I caught the scent first.

  Rain-soaked stone.

  Night-blooming jasmine.

  Her.

  The healer pushed the door open, and warm air thick with crushed herbs and copper washed over me. My stomach turned. Cot curtains hung in uneven rows, most drawn. Low murmurs drifted between them. Pain breathed softly in this place.

  Then I saw her.

  Elara sat propped against a mound of pillows, collarbone tightly bound in white linen already blooming red. Her skin was drained of its usual heat, pale as winter ash, but her posture was pure defiance—spine straight, chin lifted, as if pain were something she could insult into submission.

  Her eyes snapped to mine through the curtain gap.

  Storm-dark. Burning.

  “Here to finish the job, Wolfe?” Her voice was hoarse, but the edge hadn’t dulled.

  The healer opened his mouth to intervene. I never gave him the chance.

  I crossed the room in three strides and dropped to my knees beside her cot, stone biting through my trousers. “Let me see it.”

  Her laugh was short and sharp. “You don’t get to give orders in here.”

  “I’m not ordering.”

  I reached anyway, fingers brushing hers as I checked the bandage. Fever heat radiated from her skin. Her pulse jumped violently beneath the linen, erratic and fast.

  Percival hummed low in my chest, pleased in a way that made bile rise in my throat.

  Alive, he murmured. Warm.

  I clenched my jaw.

  She jerked back with a hiss, pain flashing across her face before she could mask it. “Touch me again and you lose the hand.”

  “Fair enough.” I didn’t move away.

  Too close. Gods, I knew I was too close.

  Our knuckles grazed as I adjusted the edge of the wrapping where blood had seeped through. Just a brush. Barely anything.

  Her breath hitched.

  Mine followed suit before I could stop it.

  Something sparked between us—heat, sharp and volatile, threaded with hate and something far worse. Something that had no name I was willing to speak.

  “I didn’t mean to draw blood,” I said quietly.

  The words tasted hollow the moment they left my mouth.

  Her smile was bitter as rot. “Rumya always say that.”

  She shoved my chest. Weak from pain, unsteady—but fire blazed in her eyes. She swung her legs off the cot and stood anyway, swaying. The healer cursed under his breath.

  “Go,” she said. Not loud. Not pleading. Absolute.

  The word cut deeper than any blade.

  Before I could answer—before I could decide whether to defy her or myself—the door slammed open hard enough to rattle the wards.

  “Wolfe!”

  Tovar’s voice filled the infirmary like a thunderclap.

  He stormed in, shoulders broad, presence crushing, an enforcer trailing him like a shadow. The smell of pipe-weed and iron rolled ahead of him. Authority clung to him like a second skin.

  “Outside. Now.”

  I rose slowly, my gaze lingering on Elara despite myself. She didn’t look away. Her stare burned into my spine as I followed Tovar into the hall.

  The door slammed shut behind us.

  Stone bit cold against my shoulders as Tovar shoved me back, his forearm pressing hard across my chest. His face was thunder—eyes flashing with something close to fury, and something closer to fear.

  “You cut her?” he demanded. “After the hex shitshow?”

  “It was a slip.”

  Percival snarled inside me, hackles up. Lie, he growled. We lost control.

  Tovar’s jaw tightened. “The elders were already raving. They’ve convinced themselves before Witches cursed us—turned us feral. And you walk into the infirmary with her blood on your hands like it proves them right.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Her mother arrives at dawn,” he cut in. “Amery Cramire.”

  The name landed heavy between us.

  “You remember what really happened,” Tovar went on, his voice lowering. “The Lilaithan Accord. The one meant to stabilize the border.”

  I did. Gods, I did.

  “A binding went wrong,” he said. “Not a hex. Not sabotage. Fear, bad timing, and too much power pulled tight. Our wolves thought the coven had struck first.”

  His mouth twisted. “They retaliated.”

  The image rose unbidden—blood in the dirt, screaming, magic tearing loose without a leash.

  “One of theirs was mauled,” Tovar continued. “And when the coven struck back… they didn’t hold back.

  Some of our kind went rabid. Humans caught in between were torn apart. By the time anyone realized the truth, the damage was already written in bodies.”

  He exhaled slowly. “Truces burned. Lies filled the gaps. And Amery Cramire—who tried to hold the accord together—became the face of the blame.”

  His gaze locked on mine. “Now there’s a trial. The coven’s voting for leniency because they know it wasn’t one-sided. But the elders want a sacrifice.”

  He jabbed a finger into my chest.

  “And tonight, Wolfe, you handed them one.”

  He straightened and stalked off without another word, boots echoing down the corridor.

  I slid down the wall, the stone leaching warmth from my back, from my bones. My hands trembled. I curled them into fists.

  Her scent still clung to me.

  Enemies bleeding on my blade.

  Percival whispering her name like a prayer he shouldn’t know.

  Hexes I never asked for. A war I was born into without consent. A warning ringing in my skull—stay away.

  I laughed softly, bitter and broken.

  Too late for that.

  Because even now, with her blood on my hands and the covens sharpening their knives, all I could think about was the way her breath had caught when our knuckles touched.

  And how some edges, once crossed, never let you step back.