The carriage was a cage of black lacquer and velvet. It smelled of old leather and the metallic, cloying scent of Julian's blood. Outside, the wheels groaned against the frozen ruts of the North Road, a rhythmic, bone-jarring thud that filled the silence between them. Oakhaven was behind them now. The lights of the capital had faded into the swirling white abyss of the storm, leaving only the dark and the man sitting across from her.
Julian looked like he was dying. He sat in the shadows of the corner, his head tilted back against the padding. His eyes were closed, but his breathing was a shallow, dry rattle that made Elara's skin crawl. The silver lines on his neck were no longer just lines. They were pulsing. A faint, sickly violet light throbbed beneath his skin, tracing the path of his veins up toward his jaw.
Elara gripped the edge of her seat. Her fingers were stained with the blood from his wrist, the dark red crusting under her fingernails. She should have felt relief. She was alive. The ritual fire was miles away, and the High Shaman's branding iron hadn't touched her. But as she watched the Prince of the North struggle for every breath, she realized she had simply traded a quick death for a slow one.
"Why?" she whispered.
The sound was small, but in the cramped space of the carriage, it felt like a shout.
Julian didn't open his eyes. His jaw tightened, the muscles bulging. "Why what, Elara?"
"Why spare me? You're an Alpha. You need the Tithe. You're rotting in front of me because you won't take what the law says is yours." She leaned forward, her voice sharpening with a mixture of fear and confusion. "The Shaman was right. If you don't feed, the Wasting will kill you. Why choose this?"
Julian's eyes snapped open. They weren't silver anymore. They were a dull, glazed blue, rimmed with red. The pupils were pinpricks. "You think I want to be a battery for the Shaman's throne? You think I want to be a vessel for a power that isn't mine?"
He let out a sharp, jagged breath and coughed. A spray of blood hit the front of his coat. He didn't wipe it away. He didn't have the strength.
"The Tithe isn't about strength, Elara," he rasped. "It's about control. Every Mirror consumed is another anchor the Shaman puts in our souls. My father is a husk. He hasn't had a thought of his own in forty years. He's a puppet made of silver and stolen life."
He looked at her then, really looked at her. "I will not be a puppet. I would rather rot as a man than rule as a hollowed-out god."
Elara sat back. She had been raised to believe the Alphas were monsters. She had been taught that they craved the ritual, that they hungered for the soul-drain. To hear a Prince speak of his own divinity as a curse was a heresy she wasn't prepared for.
"But you branded me," she said, her hand going to the dark stain on her neck. "You claimed me as a wife. You told the Shaman I was yours."
"It was the only lie he would believe," Julian said. He closed his eyes again, his head lolling to the side. "In the North, a wife is sacred. Even the Shaman cannot touch a mated female without the Alpha's consent. By making you my mate, I put you behind a wall he cannot climb. For now."
"For seven days," Elara corrected, remembering his words from earlier.
"Seven days," he muttered. "After that, the Wasting will reach my heart. The wolf will stop listening to me. It will see you and it won't see a woman. It will see a meal."
The carriage suddenly lurched to a halt. The horses let out a shrill, panicked whinny. Outside, the sound of shouting rose over the wind.
Julian's eyes flew open. He tried to sit up, but his body betrayed him. He let out a choked groan and slumped back, his hand clawing at the velvet upholstery. The violet light in his neck flared bright, a silent scream of agony.
"Stay here," he ordered.
"Julian, you can't even stand."
"Stay. Here."
He shoved the door open. The freezing wind screamed into the carriage, bringing a swirl of snow that coated the floor in seconds. Julian tumbled out into the slush, his boots slipping. Elara heard him hit the ground with a heavy thud.
She didn't listen. She couldn't. Survival instinct told her to run, but curiosity, or maybe a strange, budding loyalty to the man who was dying for her, made her move. She wrapped her thin silk shawl around her shoulders and stepped out into the night.
They were at a mountain pass. A heavy iron gate blocked the road, guarded by a dozen men in the black and silver livery of the Royal Guard. They weren't Julian's men. They were the King's.
A tall man with a scarred face and a heavy broadsword stood in the center of the road. He was an Alpha, though a lesser one. His eyes were fixed on Julian, who was struggling to his feet.
"Prince Julian," the guard said. His voice was cold, devoid of the respect a royal should command. "The High Shaman sent word. He says the Selection was... irregular. He has ordered a secondary inspection of the Mirror."
Julian stood tall. It was a feat of pure, suicidal will. He straightened his coat, his face a mask of icy command even as his hands shook. "The Selection is over, Captain. I have claimed my mate. My business is my own."
The Captain stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "The law of the Tithe is absolute, Highness. A Mirror must be processed by the Shaman's hand. If you have bypassed the ritual, you are in violation of the Lunar Decree. I have orders to take the girl back to Oakhaven."
Elara felt the blood drain from her face. She looked at the soldiers. They were healthy. They were strong. Julian was a ghost in a wolf-skin coat.
"The girl is my wife," Julian said. The words were a low, tectonic vibration. The air around him began to hum. "She is no longer a Tithe. She is the Princess of the North. If you touch her, you are declaring war on my bloodline."
The Captain laughed. It was a sharp, mocking sound. "Your bloodline is dying, Julian. We can all see the silver in your neck. You're a Husker. You don't have the strength to hold a spoon, let alone a territory."
He signaled to his men. Two of them started toward the carriage.
"Take her," the Captain ordered.
Julian didn't draw a sword. He didn't move his arms. He simply opened his mouth and let out a sound that wasn't human.
It was a roar, but it wasn't just noise. It was a wave of physical pressure. The snow in the air was suddenly blown backward. The horses screamed and reared. The two soldiers heading for the carriage were thrown off their feet as if they had been hit by a battering ram.
Julian's eyes were fully silver now, glowing with a light so bright it was painful to look at. The Wasting was visible in his every movement: his skin was translucent, the violet veins throbbing like a lightning storm under his flesh.
"I am the Alpha of the North," Julian roared. The Voice was thick with the power of a thousand years of kings, a sound that made Elara's knees buckle and her ears bleed. "I am the Silver Moon's chosen. You will open that gate, or I will feed your souls to the frost."
The Captain staggered back, his face pale. He reached for his sword, but his hand was shaking too much to grip the leather. The raw power coming off Julian was suffocating. It was the "cold" power of a dying star: beautiful, lethal, and utterly terrifying.
The gate guards fumbled with the locks, their movements frantic. They threw the iron doors open, the hinges screaming in the wind.
"Move," Julian commanded.
He didn't wait for them to obey. He turned and walked back to the carriage. Each step looked like it cost him a year of his life. He reached the door and grabbed the frame, his knuckles white.
He didn't get in. He just stood there, his head hanging, his breath coming in ragged, wet sobs.
Elara hurried to his side. She put her shoulder under his arm, expecting him to push her away. Instead, he leaned. He was heavy. He was solid muscle and bone, but he felt like he was made of ash. The heat coming off him was intense, a dry, searing fever that made her eyes water.
"Get in," he muttered.
She helped him into the seat and climbed in after him, slamming the door. The carriage lurched forward, the horses spurred into a gallop.
Julian collapsed. He fell onto the floor of the carriage, his body jerking with a sudden, violent spasm. The silver light in his eyes flickered and went out, replaced by a terrifying, hollow blackness.
"Julian!"
Elara dropped to the floor beside him. She grabbed his shoulders, trying to steady him. He was burning up. The silk of her dress was soaked with his sweat and the blood that was still seeping from the bite on his wrist.
The Wasting was taking its toll. The burst of Alpha power at the gate had drained whatever reserves he had left.
"The wolf," he choked out. His jaw began to lengthen, his teeth sharpening into jagged points. His fingernails were turning into black, curved claws that tore through the velvet of the seat. "It's... coming."
"No," Elara said. She pulled his head into her lap, her hands shaking. "Fight it, Julian. You said you had seven days."
"The Voice... it cost too much," he whispered. A low, guttural growl started in his chest, a sound that made the carriage walls vibrate.
He looked up at her. For a split second, the blue returned to his eyes. It was filled with a desperate, agonizing plea.
"Elara... if I change... if I can't stop it... you have to use the glass."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, jagged shard of black glass. It was a Mirror-Shard, the only thing capable of piercing an Alpha's heart. He pressed it into her hand, his claws drawing blood from her palm.
"Kill me," he gasped. "Before I eat you."
The growl in his chest grew louder, turning into a roar of pure, animal hunger. His body arched, his spine protruding through his coat in a series of sharp, silver-furred ridges.
Elara looked at the shard in her hand. She looked at the man who had branded himself to save her.
Outside, the fortress of the North loomed out of the dark, a jagged crown of black stone against the gray sky. They had arrived.
But as Julian's body began to twist into something that wasn't human, Elara realized that the fortress wasn't a sanctuary.
It was a cage. And she was locked inside with a starving wolf.
