Elara woke in cold sweat.
The dream still clung to her like a second skin—Lycaena's voice echoing in her ears, soaked in rage and blood. The moonstone ring on her finger pulsed softly, as though remembering too.
She touched her chest. The ache was still there, deep and hollow, like something had burrowed inside.
She should have been afraid.
But fear had a limit.
And she had already passed it.
"When the drumbeat changes, the dancer must change her steps."
Elara wasn't the girl who came to the capital in chains anymore.
She was something older. Stranger. Dangerous.
The next morning, the royal court buzzed like a nest of hornets.
The High Priestess was waiting in Elara's room before dawn. Her golden headdress coiled like a serpent. Her eyes were all judgment.
"Lady Elara," she said, using the title with acid on her tongue. "The crown has summoned you for formal presentation."
Elara stiffened. "Presentation to what?"
"The people. The nobles. The gods." The priestess's eyes narrowed. "You are to be acknowledged."
Elara looked down at her worn hands, the scars on her palms, the ring glowing faintly.
"If a goat spends too long in the palace, it forgets the smell of grass."
Let them dress her up like royalty. It didn't make her one of them.
But she would wear the mask—and wait for the day she could bite.
The presentation ceremony was held in the Sanctum of the Seven Moons, the heart of Moonspire's ancient law.
The circular hall was open to the sky, where the eternal moon hung high and watchful. Seven obsidian statues ringed the dais—representing the lost Alpha kings of the First Bloodline.
Elara stood beside Caelum, draped in silver ceremonial cloth, her arms bare to show the fresh lunar mark branded onto her shoulder—a spiral crescent, proof of bond and power.
Nobles filled the seats, murmuring like restless spirits. At the front sat the Queen Dowager, Caelum's grandmother, eyes sharp as cut obsidian.
The High Seer stepped forward with a moonblade in hand.
"Elara Vire," he intoned. "Daughter of dust, bearer of forgotten sins. Do you accept the name placed upon you by the Mirror?"
Elara's voice was dry. "I accept."
"And do you swear fealty to the crown you once defied, by soul and blood and flame?"
She met Caelum's gaze—ice meeting fire.
"I swear."
The blade cut her palm again. Blood hissed as it touched the silver basin. The Seer nodded.
"Then let it be known: the Heretic is wed to the Throne."
Gasps. Scandalized mutters. A ripple of fury behind veils.
Elara lifted her chin.
"Even the chicken will laugh at the hawk—if it knows it stands under the king's roof."
Let them talk.
They would learn soon enough—she wasn't the prey in this palace.
That evening, after the rites, Elara was escorted not to her chambers—but to the Wolf Garden.
A private space.
Caelum waited by the edge of a moonlit pool, his cloak discarded, shirt unfastened at the throat. He looked less prince and more wolf now—barefoot, hair loose, sword slung casually across his back.
"You did well," he said without turning.
Elara stayed at the threshold. "You used me like a shield."
He smiled faintly. "You used yourself. That was the real test."
She frowned. "What test?"
"To see if you would stand, even when the world named you devil. The court was watching."
"So this was theater."
"All of it is," he said. "This palace runs on masks, not blood."
He turned now, eyes glittering like starlight on water.
"But you have blood that sings to the old gods, Elara. Blood that scares them."
She felt the ring throb on her hand again.
"And you?" she asked. "Do I scare you?"
Caelum took a step closer. "You interest me. That's worse."
He stopped just before her, close enough to see the war behind his calm.
"I will teach you how to survive here," he said. "You'll need it."
"Why help me?"
He studied her.
"Even the lion knows better than to starve the viper it needs to cross the river."
"You may hate your past, Elara. You may even try to outrun it. But you carry more than Lycaena's soul. You carry her legacy. And that… is something I can't afford to waste."
That night, Elara stood on her balcony, watching the moon shift through silver clouds. The wind whispered across the spires like an omen.
The court had made her a bride. The prince had made her a pawn. The Mirror had made her a myth.
But she would make herself a weapon.
"If the wind blows, the grass must learn to dance—or it will break."
Let the court dance.
She would be the storm.