Marked by the rogue king

I remember the flames first.

Not the smell or the heat, but the silence that came before. That impossible stillness right before the world shattered.

My brother's voice echoed in the dark. "Stay here, Celina. Do not follow me."

Then he was gone.

I crouched behind the frost-laced boulders, my fists clenched, breath catching in my throat. The northern border was quiet, too quiet. My wolf paced just beneath my skin, agitated and alert, but I was too young, too slow to understand the truth in time.

It wasn't a border skirmish.

It was a trap.

The fire leapt from the treetops like it had been waiting for permission to devour everything we'd ever loved. Screams cut through the air, sharp and fast, followed by a howl, his howl, so full of pain I felt it slice through my ribs like claws.

I ran anyway. As fast as I could.

By the time I reached him, it was too late. My brother, Thorne Vale, crown prince of Emberlight, was already on his knees. His chest heaved, and blood gushed from his side. Standing above him was a beast of a man, his face shadowed, his eyes glowing a terrible gold. Smoke curled around his boots like a serpent, like it answered only to him.

He didn't speak. Not even a word.

He just stared at Thorne, then turned...

And vanished.

I lunged forward, screaming his name...

"Thorne!"

But my brother's head lolled to the side. His last breath curled into the smoke.

And I woke up, drowning in the memory.

My eyes snapped open to a grey morning mist, soaked in sweat and breathless. I bolted upright in the tent, reaching for the blade I kept under my pillow. My heart thudded against my ribs, a sound louder than the wind clawing at the canvas.

Not real. Not again.

But it always felt real.

I wiped my face with trembling fingers and pushed myself to my feet. The guilt never left. It never dulled. No matter how many years passed, I still saw his blood on my hands.

"Leaving without saying goodbye?"

The voice was casual, too casual.

I turned sharply. Lorin, our stealth scout, leaned against the flap of my tent, arms folded, hood half-down over his dirt-smudged face.

"You're late," I muttered, sheathing the dagger at my hip.

"I was giving you space. You scream when you dream."

I didn't respond.

Instead, I buckled the final strap on my chest plate and reached for the rolled parchment on the table. The mission map. Every line etched into it pointed toward the Shadowlands,the ungoverned wilderness that belonged to only one name now:

Maddox Grey.

The Rogue King.

He'd grown into a legend. A beast born of exile, betrayal, and war. The one wolf no kingdom could tame. And the one I would kill.

"Sure you want to go through with this?" Lorin asked, lowering his voice. "There's no returning from the Shadowlands, Celina."