Chapter Eight
The Night the Palace Burned
The nightmares found me before sleep ever could.
Flashes of crimson.
Screams tearing through the darkness.
The blood moon hanging low and heavy, dripping fire across the sky.
I jolted upright in bed, gasping.
The silver crystal at my throat pulsed wildly, glowing brighter than ever before.
A warning.
A heartbeat later, the palace shook with a deafening BOOM.
My door slammed open — not from hands, but from pure force.
Smoke poured in, thick and choking.
Chaos erupted outside: shouts, clashing steel, the unmistakable howls of wolves.
We're under attack.
The realization hit me like ice in my veins.
I stumbled from the bed, heart pounding in my ears.
Then — another explosion.
The floor buckled.
The windows shattered inward, showering the room with glass.
Through the smoke, I saw shadowy figures — not guards, not servants.
Strangers.
Eyes gleaming gold in the darkness.
Snarling.
Hunters.
Here for me.
I backed away, chest heaving, the silver crystal burning hot against my skin.
Then —
Liam.
He burst through the wreckage like a storm, his eyes blazing midnight blue, his golden hair wild.
One arm swept around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
The other hand unsheathed his sword — a black blade that seemed to drink the light around it.
He didn't speak.
Didn't hesitate.
He slaughtered the first two assassins with brutal efficiency, his movements a deadly dance of muscle and rage.
But more kept coming.
Dozens.
Too many.
I could feel the magic building inside me — hot, furious, desperate.
The crystal's pulsing grew faster, almost frantic, like a second heart.
"Use it," a voice whispered inside me.
"Unleash it."
The attackers surrounded us, moving in.
And in that moment — something inside me broke free.
⸻
I didn't think.
I became.
Light exploded from my body, blinding and pure, knocking the assassins backward like rag dolls.
They screamed as the magic seared them, burning away their shadows.
The palace trembled under the force of it.
And for the first time — I felt my wolf stir inside me.
Not fully.
Not yet.
But she was there.
Awake.
Alive.
I stumbled, dizzy from the surge.
Liam caught me before I hit the ground, his arms tightening around me like steel bands.
"You're mine," he growled against my hair, his voice ragged, raw.
"I will kill anyone who touches you."
For a moment, we just breathed.
Surrounded by ruin, smoke swirling around us like ghostly fingers.
His forehead pressed to mine.
"I almost lost you," he whispered. "Never again, Lola. Never again."
His lips found mine — fierce, desperate, claiming.
And for the first time, I kissed him back with everything I had.
All the fear.
All the longing.
All the helpless, inevitable love.
I belonged to him.
And he belonged to me.
⸻
But the moment shattered as a shout echoed from the corridor.
"My King! They're retreating — but it's a distraction!"
Liam stiffened, pulling away, his eyes flashing.
"A distraction for what?" I rasped.
Footsteps pounded closer.
Ren.
He burst into the wrecked room, blood on his hands, his tunic torn.
"My King," he gasped, "they've taken the artifacts!"
Time seemed to stop.
The artifacts — the only hope of completing the ritual to break the curse — gone.
Stolen under the cover of attack.
Betrayal burned in my veins.
I could see it in Ren's eyes — the too-perfect panic, the barely hidden gleam of triumph.
He had orchestrated this.
Not just the theft.
The whole attack.
And I realized then:
This wasn't just a war for Silverwood.
It was a war for me.
For what I was.
What I could become.
The savior.
Or the weapon.
⸻
The blood moon burned hotter above the palace, casting everything in an eerie, hellish glow.
And somewhere deep inside me, the wolf stirred again.
Not fully.
Not yet.
But soon.
Very soon.
And when she rose…
No force in Silverwood would be able to stop her.