Emery.
She walked for ten minutes, maybe twenty. The path was uneven, covered in roots and loose stones. She didn’t stumble. Her focus was singular, a sharp point of purpose in the hollow emptiness of her chest. She needed to be far enough away that no one from Silver Creek would see. Far enough that the illusion could die completely.
She stopped in a small, sun-dappled clearing and shrugged the worn leather satchel from her shoulder. From an inner pocket, she retrieved a small, flat device made of polished obsidian. It was cold to the touch. She pressed her thumb to its surface. It lit up with a soft silver glow, recognizing her print.
She spoke a single word into the device. “Omega.”
A synthesized voice, devoid of emotion, replied. “Protocol Omega confirmed, Princess. Acknowledging extraction request. Your chariot awaits.”
Emery ended the transmission and sat on a fallen log. She waited. She did not look back in the direction of Silver Creek. She did not allow herself to think of Marcus’s horrified face or the dying forest. That part of her life was a chapter in a book she had just set on fire.
Less than fifteen minutes later, she heard it. Not the roar of an engine, but the whisper of tires on the forest floor. Three vehicles emerged from between the trees, moving with a predatory silence that was more intimidating than any noise. They were sleek, black, and armored, their windows tinted to an impenetrable darkness. On the door of the lead vehicle was a sigil painted in silver: a snarling wolf’s head against a black, crescent moon.
The Obsidian Moon Royal Guard.
The convoy stopped ten feet from her. The door of the lead vehicle opened, and a man stepped out. He was tall, broad, and wore the severe black and silver uniform of the guard. His face was a mask of discipline, his silver eyes sharp and assessing. Commander Valerius.
He strode toward her, his boots making no sound on the soft earth. He stopped and executed a perfect, formal bow, his right fist placed over his heart.
“Your Highness,” he said, his voice a low, respectful rumble. “It is a relief to see you.”
“Valerius,” she acknowledged, her voice even. She rose from the log, her posture shifting subtly. Her back straightened. Her chin lifted. The rejected mate was gone. The princess was returning.
“Are you harmed, Princess Emery?” he asked, his eyes scanning her for any sign of injury.
“Only my pride, Commander. It will recover,” she said, her tone clipped.
“We were told to expect… resistance,” he said carefully.
“The resistance was pathetic,” she replied. “It has been dealt with.”
His gaze flickered to the simple cotton dress she wore, the worn boots, the cheap satchel on the ground. A flicker of distaste crossed his features before it was suppressed.
“Your parents are waiting at the palace. The King and Queen are… displeased.”
“I imagine they are,” Emery said. “Let’s not keep them waiting any longer. I am tired of the wilderness.”
He nodded sharply. “Of course, Your Highness.”
He gestured to the open door of the vehicle. As she stepped inside, the stark difference between her two lives hit her. The interior was not a car, it was a command center. Black leather seats, polished chrome accents, and a cool, climate-controlled air that smelled faintly of ozone and power.
On the seat opposite her lay a folded black silk robe and a pair of soft leather slippers. Valerius closed the door, sealing her inside in absolute silence. Without a moment’s hesitation, she stripped off the simple dress Gavin had once called pretty. She let it fall to the floor like a snakeskin she had outgrown. She put on the robe, the silk cool and heavy against her skin. It felt like armor.
The journey was silent and smooth. She watched the unfamiliar woods fly by until they gave way to the manicured roads of the Obsidian Moon territory. The lands here were different. The trees were darker, the shadows longer. Everything felt older, more powerful.
The convoy swept through massive, wrought iron gates and into the courtyard of a palace that looked like it had been carved from the heart of a mountain. It was all black granite and sharp angles, with silver banners fluttering from its many turrets. It was not a home. It was a fortress.
Valerius opened her door. “They are waiting for you in the throne room, Princess.”
She swept past him, her bare feet silent in the slippers on the cold marble floor. Guards in black and silver armor stood at attention as she passed, their faces impassive but their eyes following her. She did not look at them. She walked toward the towering doors of the throne room, her heart a steady, cold drum in her chest.
The doors swung open before she reached them. The room was vast, its ceiling lost in shadows. At the far end, on two thrones of carved obsidian, sat her parents.
King Theron Vance was a mountain of a man, his black hair streaked with silver, his face a roadmap of old battles and hard decisions. Queen Lyra was elegant and severe, her beauty as sharp as a shard of ice. They both rose as she approached.
“So,” her father’s voice boomed, echoing in the cavernous space. “The prodigal daughter returns.”
Emery stopped before the dais and offered a shallow, formal curtsy. “Father. Mother.”
“Do not ‘Father, Mother’ us, Emery,” her mother said, her voice cutting through the air. “Three years. Three years you spent playing commoner in the dirt with that… whelp.”
“I made a mistake,” Emery said, her gaze steady.
“A mistake?” King Theron roared, descending the steps of the dais. He was immense, radiating a raw alpha power that made the very air tremble. “You allowed a lesser Alpha of a backwater pack to claim you. You let him put his scent on you. And now we hear he has cast you aside for another. He has humiliated the House of Vance!”
“He has,” Emery agreed, her voice calm. “And he will pay for it.”
“He will be erased,” her father snarled. “His pack will be dust. I will burn his forests and salt his earth for the insult.”
“There is no need,” Emery said. “I have already started the process.”
Her mother, Queen Lyra, glided down the steps, her movements fluid and predatory. She stopped in front of Emery, her silver eyes, so like Valerius’s, boring into her.
“We felt it,” the Queen said. “A tremor in the earth. The moment your magic was ripped from that land. You bled your vitality into his worthless soil for three years.”
“It was my choice,” Emery said.
“It was a foolish choice,” her mother snapped. “You were born to be a queen. To rule. Not to be a magical fertilizer for a weak man’s crops. I told you that love was a fantasy for lesser wolves.”
“You did,” Emery conceded. “And you were right.”
That admission seemed to soften them, just slightly. The rage in her father’s eyes cooled to a hard, calculating glint.
“You performed the rite of severance?” he asked.
“I did.”
“Alone?” he pressed, a hint of concern in his voice.
“It is done,” she said, offering no more details. “The bond is broken. He holds no claim on me. Silver Creek is already beginning to rot.”
King Theron nodded, a grim satisfaction on his face. “Good. Let him starve. Let him watch everything he built on your back crumble to ash. It is a more fitting punishment than a quick death.”
“Welcome home, Emery,” her mother said, placing a cool hand on her cheek. It was not a gesture of warmth, but of ownership. “You have learned a valuable lesson.”
“Yes,” Emery said. “Never again will I mistake a mongrel for a wolf.”
“Go,” her father commanded, gesturing towards a side door. “Wash the stench of that place off you. Put on clothes befitting your station. We have a guest for dinner. And you will be presentable.”
“A guest?” she asked.
“An important one,” her mother said with a thin, knowing smile. “An alliance we should have secured for you three years ago. Before your little romantic detour.”
Emery nodded, her mind already moving on. Gavin was the past. A mistake. This was her present. A cold, hard reality of power and duty.
She turned and walked from the throne room, leaving her furious parents to plot their revenge. She did not feel like a lost girl returning home. She felt like a weapon being taken out of storage, sharpened, and prepared for a new war.
