Asra shoved Ciaran aside. He shouted, “No!” but Asra had already launched into the air. She waited for the change to take her, waited for the familiar ripple of muscle and bone as she changed into her fur.

  But it never came.

  She slammed hard into the grass on her chest, her teeth knocking together and her chin splitting open on the unforgiving ground. She forced her eyes open and was horrified to see hands and fingers and bare skin.

  Why did she have fingernails? She should have claws. She should have fangs. She should have fur.

  Asra scrambled to her hands and knees. She didn’t need her fur to kill him. She threw her hand out in front of her, expecting to throw a torrent of flames at him.

  But the flames never came, either.

  What was wrong with her?

  Nolan picked the revolver up off the ground, stepped casually toward Asra, aimed the weapon at her head.

  Asra’s eyes burned, and tears threatened to overflow. She was just as she had been as a little girl, on her hands and knees begging him to leave her home alone.

  She blinked the tears away. She would never beg him for anything again.

  “Nolan, wait,” Ciaran said. “Please don’t hurt her. I’ll do anything.”

  “You’ve nothing left to bargain with, little brother,” Nolan snapped. “You’re a traitor. As much of a threat to this kingdom as she is.”

  There was a gush of wind so sudden that it nearly knocked Asra over. She gripped the grass, bracing against the force, and the fog was swept away to a central source.

  A figure stood at the center of this force, his hand raised high, a canteen embedded with a plum-sized lodestone in his grip. The man stepped forward, and as the last remnants of fog vanished into the vessel, his visage was unmistakable:

  Vincent.

  “You son of a bitch!” came Ciaran’s voice from behind Asra. “You ratted us out!”

  “I reported a threat to His Majesty’s safety.” Vincent’s tone was as cool and even as ever.

  Asra’s lungs itched and burned, and her body was racked by another coughing fit. It was the same dry cough she’d had in the fox city, only much worse.

  Ice-cold dread ran through her veins. There had been fog in the fox city, too, though much less dense. She’d started having trouble with her magic not long after they’d arrived. She’d blamed it on stress and exhaustion, but now she understood:

  It was a silver-based spell, a weapon capable of incapacitating an entire city of shapechangers at once.

  A guard wrenched her hands behind her back to place her in handcuffs, then another hauled her to her feet. One of them pressed a gun barrel to her spine, urging her forward, and she complied. There was no point in resisting now; she would need to bide her time and hope for an opening.

  “Are you stupid?” Ciaran said to his brother as they all headed into the manor. “Vincent is after your throne, too. He’s the one who kidnapped us.”

  “I have done nothing except what His Majesty has asked of me,” Vincent said.

  “Then … ” Ciaran looked to his older brother again. “You had us kidnapped?”

  “As I said, I had hoped it might scare some sense into you,” Nolan said. “And if not … It’s my responsibility to keep the kingdom safe and intact, regardless of my personal emotions.”

  “So I would learn to tow the line or I would die in the process?” Ciaran said, his contempt warbling his voice.

  They marched up an intricate staircase to the west side of the manor, then through hallway after hallway. Asra tried to keep track of which directions they turned in, in case she did manage to find an opening to escape, but she feared it would be impossible without her nose.

  They finally arrived in a high-ceilinged room, far more plain than the hallways they’d been dragged through. The wooden floors were finely polished, the lime-washed walls barren aside from rows of shelves holding vials of black liquid, encased by panes of glass. A magnificent lodestone, the size of a cantaloupe at least, was embedded in the wall in the center of the shelves, a maze of copper pipes extending from it throughout the fixture. Condensation pooled on the inside of the glass.

  But what drew Asra’s attention was the lone chair at the center of the room—utilitarian and rough, comprised of sharp-edged wood with leather restraints on the arms and legs. Asra recognized this chair. It was the same one she’d been forced into as a little girl, before her blood was taken from her.

  Animal instinct kicked in. If she was put in that chair, there would be no way for her to escape it. She wasn’t stupid enough to give Nolan her blood emblem this time, but she couldn’t allow herself to die before Nolan did. She dug her heels in, tried to throw her weight back, but in her weakened state she was no match for the multiple armed guards that held her.

  They removed her handcuffs and forced her into the chair, a guard holding each arm down while a third tightened the leather straps. Ciaran came into view, held by a guard on either side, hands cuffed behind his back. Nolan and Vincent appeared behind him, and when Asra was fully secured in the chair, the king ordered the guards to leave.

  Asra swallowed, tried to rein in her racing heart. Her eyes flicked around the room. There were two doors on opposite ends, no windows. She tested the strength of her restraints. Without the effects of the spell, she may have been able to break them, but there was no chance in her current state.

  She glanced at the vials of strange liquid on the walls, desperate for any key to her escape. With her full focus on them, she noticed there were two different substances in the glass tubes: at the bottom, a liquid so dark red it was nearly black, and at the top, a translucent yellow fluid.

  Her stomach lurched. Blood.

  Asra’s gaze finally landed on Ciaran. He stared at her with wide, terrified eyes, a sheen of sweat already beginning to drip from his brow. He had no idea why they were here.

  The door behind her clicked open, and the sharp tapping of high-heeled boots followed. Asra tried to crane her neck to see who was approaching behind her, but the restraints held her tight. She looked back to Ciaran, whose eyes had widened.

  “Oh, shit.”

  The newcomer finally appeared in front of Asra—a woman with stark white hair, mottled with streaks of caramel brown and dark gray, though she looked to be in only her late forties. She wore a blue silk robe hemmed with white rabbit fur, tied tight at the waist. The neckline plunged beneath her ample breasts, and the exposed pale skin bore lavender sigils that appeared to span her entire body. Her eyes were a yellow so pale they were nearly white. The wolf bird perched on her shoulder ruffled its feathers and let out an ominous croak.

  It was the wolf they’d rescued from the bear trap.

  “This is the one who’s been causing you so much trouble?” the woman with wolf fur said. Her voice was strong and clear. She traced her long fingers along the contours of the sigils on Asra’s arm, and Asra had to force down her growl. “She’s not so tough.”

  “I knew we should have left you for dead,” Asra snarled.

  The woman smiled sweetly. “You should have told your human that. But you dogs are always so obedient.”

  The wolf fished a pocket knife from the folds of her robe and sliced a shallow cut into Asra’s upper arm, drawing out a stream of warm blood. Asra clenched her jaw to stifle a pained gasp and forced herself to maintain eye contact with the woman. She would not show weakness in front of anyone in this room.

  The shapechanger grabbed Asra’s arm, just below the gash, and squeezed. Fresh blood oozed out. The woman’s hand grew hotter and hotter, until Asra couldn’t choke back a yelp any longer.

  “Knock it off!” Ciaran’s voice was hoarse. He took a step forward, but Vincent put a firm hand on his chest.

  Asra shot Ciaran a stern look, hoping he understood it to mean she was fine. She didn’t need him doing anything stupid.

  The woman looked at him, then back to Asra, a bemused smile on her face. “So you are his pet.” She removed her hand from Asra’s arm, leaving behind a nasty burn. “We’ve always referred to you dogs as pets. I always thought it was just a cruel name, but you seem to wear that badge so proudly.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  “You’re one to talk,” Asra said, forcing her voice to remain even. “What are you, Nolan’s lapdog? His servant?”

  “I serve no one but my pack.”

  She placed her hand over the gash on Asra’s arm once again, smearing the blood into a fine sheen across her skin. The woman’s hand heated again, though not as hot as before. When she pulled her hand away, most of the blood had been burned away, leaving only a sickeningly familiar shape on Asra’s skin.

  Her blood emblem. The key to the magical front gate of her home.

  “How did you do that?” she rasped.

  Panic set in. Her head swam. She hadn’t expected to survive the encounter today, but she hadn’t expected her death to put her home in danger, yet again. With her blood emblem, all they needed to gain access to her town’s concealment spell was her blood, and when they drained her body, there would be enough to supply an army.

  They could then make good on Nolan’s promise to destroy everything she held dear.

  The wolf pulled a pad of paper and a pencil from her robes and copied the emblem down. She was so engrossed in her task that as she turned from Asra, she bumped into Vincent. She looked up at him as if she’d forgotten he was still there.

  “You can leave now, human.”

  Vincent’s eyes shot to Nolan, as if expecting him to intervene. The king remained stone-faced. Vincent bowed stiffly to him and left, sending a final sneer to the woman as he closed the door on the opposite side of the room.

  “You call me a pet, but you side with him?” Asra spat, jerking her head in Nolan’s direction. “What do you get out of this?”

  The wolf smiled sweetly at her. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She turned to Nolan. “I’m finished. Do what you need to.”

  Nolan turned to face Ciaran, his hands in his pockets and a hardened expression on his face. He nodded to the woman, who released Ciaran’s cuffs with a wave of her hand. The metal clattered to the floor, and Ciaran rubbed at his wrists, staring wide-eyed at Nolan.

  “I shouldn’t have to explain to you that what you’ve done today is treason,” Nolan said. “You know what the penalty is.”

  The two brothers stared at each other for a long moment, then Nolan pulled Ciaran into a tight embrace. Ciaran’s eyes found Asra’s over his brother’s shoulder, apparently as bewildered as she was, and he wrapped his arms around Nolan, cautiously patting him on the back.

  Nolan broke away and guided Ciaran to stand directly in front of Asra. He opened the chamber of his revolver to show the single bullet inside, then handed it to his younger brother and stepped back.

  “What am I meant to do with this?” Ciaran’s voice was husky, though Asra was sure he knew the answer just as much as she did.

  “I want you to prove that you’re not a traitor,” Nolan said. “You want to be king? Prove that you can put the kingdom above your own wants. I don’t want to have to kill you. Give me a reason not to.”

  Asra stiffened. Ciaran turned to her, his brow tightly knotted, his eyes darting back and forth between Asra’s.

  “I could pretend that you brought her here to help me, not to kill me,” Nolan said. “That you delivered an enemy of the kingdom to me. We could forget this ever happened. Everything could go back to the way it was.”

  “We need her blood,” the wolf said.

  Without turning to look at her, Nolan replied, “We’ll have enough.”

  Ciaran glanced down to the gun, holding it at arm’s length as if it were a snake poised to strike at any moment.

  “Think of Mother,” Nolan said. “Think of what she would want. I promised her that I would take care of you. Don’t make me break that promise.”

  Asra’s pulse pounded in her head so ferociously she thought her skull would explode from the pressure. She couldn’t die yet. Nolan was still here, and this wolf posed an even greater threat. She swallowed.

  She swore she wouldn’t beg. That she wouldn’t show weakness.

  But Ciaran was different.

  “Ciaran,” she whispered. “Please.”

  Ciaran’s face screwed up, and he turned from her. He cast his gaze on Nolan and said, “I can’t.”

  Asra released her breath, then gasped, a weight lifting from her shoulders.

  Until Ciaran continued, “Not with this.” He threw the revolver to the floor. The gun slid across the polished wood and landed against the wall. “Anything but this. Please, you must understand.”

  Nolan’s expression softened, and he nodded his head to the wolf. She huffed and stomped toward Ciaran, her heels clicking against the floor. The bird flapped its wings to maintain its hold on her shoulder. She pulled the knife from her robe as she approached.

  Ciaran’s hand slipped in and out of his pocket so quickly that Asra only caught a glint of glass and a flash of light blue in his fingers. When the woman was close enough, Ciaran slammed his open palm directly into her face.

  The glass vial shattered and the hound’s woe exploded in a blue cloud all over the woman’s face. She screamed, clawing at herself, her bird squawking and flapping away in a flurry of feathers. Ciaran wrenched the knife from her slack fingers and swung it toward her. She snatched his wrist before the blade reached her chest, and even through her violent wheezing and coughing, Ciaran was no match for the shapechanger’s strength. They tumbled to the floor.

  The force of their landing caused Ciaran’s grip to falter, and the knife dropped and skittered across the floor out of his reach. He scrambled to grab it, but the woman threw out her hand, and an unseen force sent Ciaran flying into the wall with a sickening crack. He barely had time to push himself to his hands and knees before the shapechanger hauled him up by the collar of his shirt, slamming him into the wall over and over until blood spurted from his mouth.

  Asra opened her mouth to scream, to plead, but Nolan shouted first.

  “Enough!”

  Nolan’s jaw was taut, his arms stiff at his side. The shapechanger dropped Ciaran, and he collapsed into a heap on the ground. Asra watched him, silently begging him to move.

  She told herself she wouldn’t beg.

  But Ciaran was different.

  “Do you not kill traitors in your kingdom?” the woman said, her voice dangerously low. Snot and tears streamed down her puffy face, and blood dripped from shards of glass embedded in her skin.

  “His punishment is mine to carry out,” Nolan growled. “Not yours. Get out.”

  The silence was broken only by the fluttering of the wolf bird’s wings as it landed on its owner’s shoulder. For a moment, Asra thought the woman would refuse, or she would turn her attack to Nolan. But she snorted, bloody snot spraying from her nose, and stalked out of the room.

  The door clicked shut, and then there was no sound aside from the ringing in Asra’s ears. Nolan bent down to grab the knife from the floor. Ciaran still hadn’t moved. Why hadn’t he moved? He wasn’t … He couldn’t …

  Nolan stared at his younger brother for a moment. He sighed, then he turned to Asra. Her breath was ragged and her pulse pounded in her throat, but she did not wither under his glare. His eyes held nothing but contempt for her, and she hoped she returned it tenfold.

  “I have many regrets,” Nolan said, inspecting the blade. “As king. As a son. As the eldest brother.”

  He turned to her, his stride as casual and effortlessly powerful as a puma on the prowl, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous room. He put the blade beneath her chin, tilting it upward so that her gaze was ripped from Ciaran and she was forced to look at Nolan.

  “Out of everything,” Nolan continued, “my biggest regret is allowing you to leave the palace alive eighteen years ago.”

  He knelt down so that they were eye-to-eye, then he slid the knife back to just beneath the point of her jawbone. The edge rested against her artery, the blade bouncing to the cadence of her pounding pulse.

  “I won’t make the same mistake again,” Nolan said.

  He wanted her to plead for her life, for her home, just as she’d done as a little girl. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. If she was going to die here today, she would do so with her head held high, like her father would have.

  Like her father did.

  Asra leaned forward, the blade just piercing her skin with a sharp pinch, warm blood beading at the puncture then trickling down her neck. Judging by the twitch in Nolan’s jaw, he understood the challenge:

  Do it.

  Nolan shifted his grip on the blade. His jaw clenched again, and his breathing was labored.

  He was afraid.

  He stood on the precipice of only ever having killed in self-defense, about to plunge down into calculated murder. Asra knew the feeling. She remembered the first time she’d consciously killed, when she’d stumbled upon a small group of soldiers, laughing around a campfire. They reeked of her own blood, and she knew they’d taken part in the invasion on her town.

  She could have turned away then, let them finish out their lives. But why should they live when so many of her comrades had not?

  Nolan had the blood of hundreds, maybe thousands, on his hands. But when confronted with an actual living, breathing face, he balked. Asra almost laughed at the irony.

  She bared her teeth at him.

  Do it.

  Something rattled, scraped against the floor. Perhaps some of Asra’s sharp hearing had returned, or perhaps she was simply more used to listening than humans, but Nolan didn’t seem to notice until Asra glanced down to see what had caused the noise. Her eyes flew wide, and Nolan’s gaze followed hers.

  Ciaran had dragged himself to the revolver on the floor, a streak of red in his wake. He propped himself up on his elbows and aimed the gun toward the lodestone preserving the vials of blood, his hand shaking.

  “Ciaran, no!” Nolan roared, but it was too late.

  The gun cracked. The glass shattered. The lodestone splintered. There was a flash of blinding light.

  And then Asra remembered no more.