Chapter 1
The Skaldur were coming.
At the mere mention of their name, fear rippled through Duskari—the mighty werewolf tribe of Lykaeria. Villagers fled for their lives, leaving their belongings behind in their desperate escape. Traders slammed their shop doors shut. The once-thriving streets emptied, swallowed by an eerie silence.
From her vantage point atop the hills, Aeris observed the panic with contempt flickering in her gaze. She had been too young to recall the havoc the Skaldur had unleashed upon Duskari. The night their alpha prince led an army of ruthless warriors, their bodies half-shifted into monstrous forms—claws extended, eyes burning with bloodlust—as they carved their way to the throne.
That night, they slew her brother, Veal. And then they left—with a truce.
Selene had recounted that tale to Aeris again and again, embedding it into her bones, hoping it would instill fear. But Aeris loathed it. What were the Skaldur but another wolf tribe? No greater, no stronger than Duskari. So why should they tremble? Why sign treaties with those who had no intention of honoring them?
For six years, the Skaldur had toyed with the fragile truce, seizing lands near Duskari's borders, killing any soul they deemed a trespasser. Their encroachment threatened to stain Lykaeria itself—until the two chiefs sought yet another treaty. One that would hold. One that would ensure peace... forever.
Aeris watched as the horses strode through the deserted streets, their riders thick with dust and sweat. They wore no shirts, no armor—just bare chests, hard as stone, strapped with leather and steel. They rode exposed, godless, their hair wild, their presence looming like giants. Not one among them was small. Not one was bald. They towered, broad-shouldered and unrelenting, and Aeris knew that if she stood among them, she would be dwarfed by their sheer size.
Her gaze sharpened. They were still just men. Men with blood in their veins.
She reached down, fingers grazing the hilt of the dagger tucked into her boot—the blade Thorne had given her. One clean slice across the throat, and they would drop like felled beasts. If war was necessary, she would bring it. She would show them something to fear. If only her father had the spine for it. If only Thorne, Eiran, and Lazeran weren't so complacent.
It was unbearable—watching these men march through Duskari's streets as if they owned them. Their arrogance stretched wide, unfurling like wings. And Aeris burned with fury.
At the back of the procession, a figure larger than the rest appeared, his form shifting as he moved into her view. His head lifted, and his eyes—sharp and knowing—sought the horizon, falling toward the hill where Aeris stood. She ducked behind the bushes, dagger pressed tight to her chest, her heart hammering in her ears.
The man's presence was overwhelming—he was like a mountain, muscles like pillars, his beard long and tied at the tip, flowing with the same wildness as the rest of him. For a moment, everything seemed to freeze. Aeris didn't know why she hid. There was no reason, no real threat—yet her instincts screamed at her to stay out of sight.
After a moment—just when she believed he had turned away, surely headed toward the throne room of Duskari—Aeris lifted her head again, a flicker of defiance burning in her chest. But the breath caught in her throat.
The man and his horse were coming toward her.
He had not turned away. He had seen her.
As her tangled red head poked out from behind the brush, his eyes locked onto hers. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Aeris became acutely aware of how she must have looked—crouched like a startled fox behind the undergrowth, dirt smudged across her face, leaves knotted into her hair. A daughter of King Torren, Alpha of Duskari, hiding like prey.
Pathetic.
No. She would not allow it.
Aeris rose to her full height, chin high, boots planted firm in the muddy ground. Her trousers were torn at the knee, and she wore no gown, no jewelry—nothing to mark her as royal but the fire in her stare. Selene would have fainted dead away to see her like this, greeting emissaries like a stable hand. But Aeris didn't care. This man was no guest. He was a trespasser—and he needed to know he was not welcome.
The barbarian reined in his horse a short distance away, his sharp eyes never leaving her. He said something, voice low, in the thick dialect of the northern mountains. Aeris barely caught the words, but the meaning was clear:
"There is someone here."
A laugh came from below, rough and dismissive.
"You are right, but it's only a flimsy little girl."
Aeris stepped forward, fury rising with each breath. "I am not a little girl, you heathens. I am a warrior."
Her voice rang across the hillside, high and unafraid.
Selene and Veyla always scolded her for that—her tongue too quick, too sharp, always lashing before her mind caught up. But Aeris would not let the insult pass. She was sixteen, yes—but she could ride harder, fight longer, and speak louder than half the men in Duskari. If she wore her full armor, they wouldn't dare call her flimsy.
She could take them on. All of them.
And deep in her chest, her heart pounded not with fear—but with the thrill of challenge.
"A warrior," the barbarian said, the words curling from his lips like smoke from a cold fire. His eyes—black as tar, without shine or depth—rested on Aeris with the indifference one might give a broken tool. Not hate. Not mockery. Just dismissal. The other rider burst into laughter, deep and hoarse like the bark of a raven in winter.
Aeris's ears burned. Her mouth twitched into a snarl.
"How dare you," she spat, pulling her dagger from behind her back with a quick flick of her wrist. "I challenge you to a duel!"
There was a shift of weight in the air, a sudden quiet. Even the wind paused.
"She does no such thing!"
The voice came sharply from the hill's edge, unmistakable—Thorne. He climbed the slope in haste, boots slipping in the mossy grass, his red hair half-tucked beneath a blue scholar's cap. He looked more ready to quote poetry than lead a warband.
Aeris's stomach dropped.
He reached her in seconds and snatched the dagger from her hand with a swift, practiced motion, fingers digging into her wrist. "What are you doing?" he hissed, voice low and tight with panic. Then, almost immediately, he turned toward the barbarian with a smile that was all teeth and no warmth.
"Forgive my sister, Prince Zerek. She's… very young."
Aeris felt that familiar sting rise in her throat. Very young. Always young. Always small. Always something to be excused, not acknowledged. When she had told her brothers she wanted to fight, they had shown her how to hold a sword and swing it once or twice—then laughed and sent her to the kitchens for bread.
Her fists clenched. She glared at the prince from behind Thorne's back.
Zerek tilted his head, slow and deliberate, studying her like one might inspect a strange animal on the roadside.
"This," he said, voice quiet as falling snow, "is one of your princesses?"
"Yes," Thorne answered quickly, the corners of his mouth twitching as if suppressing a grimace. "She's the youngest of five. Very unimportant."
That stung sharper than steel.
Aeris kicked him, hard, and opened her mouth to reply—but a hand clamped down over it. She spun around and saw Eiran there—tall, poised, brown-eyed and smooth-tongued. His smile was the same one he used when lying to diplomats.
"She usually plays in the back gardens," he said lightly. "Don't know what she's doing this far north."
He gripped her arm firmly and led her away. She could have fought him, but she knew better. The scolding would come when no one else was watching.
Still, as they passed between two stone buildings, Aeris twisted her head over her shoulder and shouted, "I don't fear you, you shameless bully!"
Prince Zerek's smiled—slow, crooked. It wasn't kind. It was the kind of smile wolves wear when they already smell blood.
And his eyes never left her—not even as she vanished from sight.