The encrypted map had led them to a lie. A dead end. A sheer wall of granite soared into the sky, offering no purchase, no path forward. The wind howled through the jagged peaks, a lonely, desolate sound that scraped at the nerves. For ten years, Connall had survived in places just like this, forgotten corners of the world where hope went to die.
"There's nothing here," Althea said, her voice nearly lost to the gale. She stood beside him, a cloak pulled tight around her, her shoulders slumped with exhaustion.
But Connall felt it. A low, persistent thrum in the air, a vibration that resonated deep in his bones. It was a song he hadn't heard since he was a boy, the ancient, protective magic of his bloodline. It was the scent of ozone and old power, faint but unmistakable.
*Home.*
Ignoring the impassable rock face, he moved along the base of the cliff, his gloved hand tracing the cold stone. He let the feeling guide him, a pull from his very soul. His fingers brushed against a recess, a handhold that was too perfect, too deliberate. Carved within it, faded and worn by centuries of wind and rain, was the faint outline of a snarling wolf's head. The Silvermoon crest.
He pulled off his glove and pressed his bare palm against the carving. It was cold, but a familiar warmth bloomed beneath his skin. Closing his eyes, he focused, drawing on the Alpha power that was his birthright and his curse. He pushed a sliver of that energy into the stone.
The air before them shimmered. The illusion of solid granite began to waver, to distort like a reflection in troubled water. With a soft hum that vibrated through Connall's teeth, the magic parted like a heavy curtain, revealing a narrow, dark passage leading into the heart of the mountain.
The magic washed over him, a welcoming caress. It recognized him. He stepped through without hesitation, the darkness swallowing him whole. Behind him, Althea paused at the threshold. As she drew near the shimmering veil, she flinched, a sharp hiss escaping her lips.
"What is it?" Connall asked, his voice echoing from the passage.
"The ward," she said, her jaw tight. "It… stings."
It was a hostile warning, a magical barrier designed to repel their enemies. To repel *her*. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Althea squared her shoulders and forced herself through the veil. The hostile energy pricked at her senses, a thousand tiny needles against her skin, but she didn't cry out again. She simply walked forward into the dark to follow her prince.
***
The passage opened into a place that shouldn't exist. A valley, cradled in the stony arms of the mountain, was spread out before them. Lush grass and hardy mountain flowers carpeted the ground, and a stream cut a silver path through its center. But for all its life, the valley was steeped in a profound melancholy. Homes were carved directly into the rock walls, their windows like hollow eyes. From wooden posts, tattered Silvermoon banners, their silver threadbare but the fabric clean, fluttered like ghosts in the breeze. A training ground sat empty in the center, its packed earth bearing the silent scars of countless drills. This was a place of grim survival, not of joy.
They had taken no more than two steps into the open when movement flickered at the edge of their vision. Figures melted from the shadows of the rocks, from unseen alcoves and camouflaged ledges. Within seconds, at least a dozen armed sentinels surrounded them. They moved with a silent, disciplined grace that spoke of the old Royal Guard. They were gaunt, their faces etched with lines of sorrow and hardship, but their eyes were sharp, their grips on their weapons unwavering.
A man stepped forward to lead them. He was older, perhaps in his late forties, with a jagged scar that cut from his temple to his jaw. His worn leather armor bore the tarnished silver crest of the Silvermoon pack. His gaze was as cold and hard as the mountain stone.
"You have trespassed on sacred ground," he said, his voice a low, absolute growl. "State your purpose."
Connall met his gaze and slowly pushed back the hood of his cloak. He let the man see his face—the jawline, the eyes, the features of the family he'd thought long dead. Then, he spoke, his voice clear and formal, reciting a code phrase only a member of the Alpha's personal guard would know. "The moon rises even in the deepest shadow."
A collective gasp rippled through the sentinels. The leader's eyes widened, the hard mask of duty shattering. Disbelief, then shock, then a wave of overwhelming, raw emotion washed over his face. He dropped to one knee, his sword clattering against the stone as he bowed his head.
"It cannot be," he whispered, his voice choked. "Prince Connall. You live."
One by one, the other sentinels knelt, a wave of reverence and impossible hope sweeping through the silent valley. For the first time in a decade, the crushing weight of his exile lifted from Connall's shoulders. He was no longer a rogue, an outcast, a ghost. He was home.
***
"Rise, Daire," Connall said, his voice thick with an emotion he couldn't name.
The scarred wolf pushed himself to his feet, his eyes still shining with unshed tears. He looked at Connall as if seeing a miracle. But then his gaze shifted, moving past his prince to the woman standing silently behind him. Daire's nostrils flared as he drew in the air. The reverence on his face vanished, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated hatred.
"My prince," Daire said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "What is *this* doing here?"
He didn't wait for an answer. His hand closed around the hilt of his sword, the rasp of steel leaving its sheath a venomous sound in the quiet valley. He didn't raise it to threaten Connall. He moved with cold purpose, placing the blade's tip directly in Althea's path, a gleaming barrier of sharpened steel barring her from advancing another inch. Around them, the other sentinels surged to their feet, their renewed hope curdling into suspicion. Weapons rose, their points aimed not at their prince, but at the woman he brought with him.
Althea didn't flinch. She stood her ground, her chin held high, her gaze locked on Daire, refusing to show a flicker of fear in the face of their collective loathing.
Connall moved in a heartbeat, placing his body between Daire's sword and Althea. "Stand down, Daire," he commanded, his Alpha tone ringing with an authority he hadn't used in years. "She is under my protection."
Daire stared at him, his face a mask of agony and betrayal. "Protection?" he asked, his voice resonating with the grief of a broken people. "She is Bloodfang. She wears the face and carries the scent of those who slaughtered our families, who butchered our Alpha and Luna on a moonlit field." His gaze swept over Connall, pleading, furious. "You are our prince, our last hope returned to us. How can you ask us to welcome the wolf to our very door? To accept her is to betray every soul we lost."