Alexandria

Alexandria POV:

The sharp, metallic scent of spilled blood hit my nose, mixing with the heavy smell of pine.

Around me lay the silence of absolute slaughter—fallen soldiers in torn Southern Fang colors, a trampled banner half-buried in the crimson-stained snow. My legion had won. The Northern Crest Dominion was safe.

And Daryle’s path to the throne was finally clear.

I wiped my dagger, my hands trembling slightly from exhaustion, but a soft smile touched my lips. I couldn't wait to see him.

Snow crunched behind me.

My heart leaped. I sheathed my blade and turned, warmth flooding my chest despite the freezing wind.

He stepped out from the shadowy trunks of the tall cedars. Daryle Estrada. My Alpha. The future king I had bled for, built for, killed for. His golden hair caught the moonlight like a crown.

"You came," I breathed, stepping toward him, longing to feel his arms around me.

He held up a hand, stopping me.

I froze. The gesture was a splash of icy water.

There was no joy in his eyes. Only a cold, dark shadow.

"Alex," he said, his voice flat. "We won. But the cost was too high."

"Their sacrifice was necessary," I said softly, trying to reach him. "For the Dominion. For your crown."

I had taken blades meant for him. I had commanded a desperate three-month siege while he recovered from fever. He didn't need to know the nightmares I carried; he only needed to sit on the throne I was building.

Daryle closed the distance between us, pulling me into an embrace. But it was too tight. Hard plates of his armor dug violently into my bruised skin. His pulse against my cheek wasn't the frantic beat of a relieved lover—it was a slow, cold drum.

He leaned down, whispering against my ear with a voice like winter ice:

"And that is why you have to die."

Before my brain could process the words, a searing, holy agony exploded in my back.

Not a claw. Not iron. Silver. A silver fire that burned straight through my muscle, bone, and soul.

A choked gasp tore from my throat. Strength drained from my body like water from a smashed vase. My knees buckled.

I forced my eyes down.

Protruding from the center of my chest was the wet, red tip of a silver arrow.

Slick with my own warm blood, my trembling fingers reached out to touch the shaft. Right beneath the fletching were three familiar grooves carved into the wood—a spiral, and a crescent moon.

My mark.

I had carved this very arrow with my own hands, pressing it into his palm months ago when he swore by the Moon Goddess that it represented our unbreakable bond.

Daryle opened his arms and let me fall.