Daciana
The night air cuts like glass. Cold, thin, merciless.
My breath forms bursts of steam as I tear through the mountain pass. The terrain tilts steeply downward—rocks slick with ice, roots jutting like claws from the earth. Behind me, shouts bounce off the cliffs, echoing from peak to peak.
They’re hunting me. No, us.
My hand presses against my stomach, against the fragile curve beneath my torn gown. The child moves—a faint flutter that shreds me open from the inside.
“I’m not dying here. You’re not dying here.” I whisper the words between ragged breaths, a prayer and a promise.
The moon is high and pitiless, its light spilling silver across the snow. Every tree seems to reach for me. Branches grab fabric, ripping seams and lace. The veil that once crowned me like a blessing now chases me like a curse.
I stumble. Catch myself. Keep going.
Somewhere behind me, steel strikes stone. Laughter follows—low, cruel, confident. They think I’ll fall soon. Maybe I will. The cold is already biting into my feet, numbing my toes to nothing. The air smells of pine, snow, and blood.
My blood. Always mine.
The forest blurs around me. Branches whip my face and tear at the veil tangled in my hair. The white silk clings heavy and wet to my legs—no, not white anymore. It’s red. Soaked through. I can taste iron in the air, in my mouth, on my tongue.
“Run. Just keep running.”
The command hammers in time with my pulse. The earth shifts beneath me, loose rock tumbling down the slope. I lunge forward, arms flailing, trying to stay upright, but my dress catches on a root. I hit the ground hard—knees first, palms scraping across frozen dirt. Pain shoots up my legs. My shoulder slams into stone.
For a heartbeat, I can’t move. My body screams at me to stop, but instinct won’t let me. I push up onto my hands before clutching my stomach protectively. “Shh, little one,” I rasp, barely able to breathe. “Mama’s got you. I’ve got you.”
A hiss slices through the air. Then—impact.
An arrow buries itself in my shoulder. The force spins me around, and I collapse onto my side, a cry ripping from my throat. The cold seeps in instantly, numbing the fire that spreads from the wound.
Footsteps crunch closer.
“No,” I whisper. “Not yet. Not here.”
I drag myself forward, fingers clawing the ground. Snow mixes with my blood, a trail too easy to follow. My vision swims, but I keep crawling—over roots, over rock, through pain that makes my breath come in shallow gasps.
“Stay with me,” I whisper to the child. “Please.”
The trees thin. The moonlight grows brighter, silvering the clearing ahead. I pull myself into it, collapsing against the base of a giant pine. My body shakes so violently that my teeth chatter. The air feels charged, alive—like something ancient is watching.
I tilt my head back and scream. No words, just sound. Raw, wild, desperate.
Then, a howl erupts from my chest and climbs into the night air, echoing through the mountains. It’s not remotely human. It’s older, deeper, filled with a plea even I don’t understand.
The forest answers.
Eyes ignite between the trees—amber, gold, silver. Shapes materialize from the shadows. Wolves. Huge, silent, their breath fogging in the frigid air.
I press my good hand over my belly. “Please,” I whisper. “Protect us. Please.”
One wolf moves closer, fur black as the night itself. It sniffs my blood, my stomach, then looks straight into my eyes. There’s something eternal in that gaze—recognition, pity, promise.
And then, without a sound, it turns and heads into the trees. The others follow.
The forest explodes in chaos behind me—snarls, screams, the crack of bones. I don’t look. I start to crawl again, every inch a battle against the dark closing in.
When the noise fades, only the wind remains. I stop, unable to go any farther. I lie on my back, shaking, the smell of blood thick around me, and stare at the sky. The moon stares back—cold, distant, endless.
My hand rests on my stomach. “You’re safe,” I whisper again. “We’re safe.”
Slowly, the world dissolves into blackness.
I wake with a violent jolt, my body lurching upward, a scream trapped in my throat. Sweat drenches my nightgown, and my hair is plastered to my forehead and neck. For several terrifying seconds, I don’t know where I am. The mountain forest is still too real, the cold still biting at my skin.
Then, reality crashes back. My bedroom. The palace. Safety.
I press my trembling hand against my flat stomach. No child. No blood. No arrow.
“Just a dream,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “Just the same fucking dream.”
My heart still hammers, refusing to believe I’m safe. I swing my feet over the side of the bed and stand up. I take a deep breath, remembering how, until recently, my knees used to buckle instantly. I would crash to the floor, my legs as weak and useless as a newborn colt’s.
Six weeks have passed since everything changed. Since Selene—my friend, possessed by the undead and not in her right mind—slashed my throat open with a single violent stroke. The memory still burns: the shocking cold of the blade, the warm rush of my lifeblood pouring between my fingers, the darkness closing in. And then, Kieran’s ancient magic pulling me back from death’s edge, his power forcing my severed flesh to knit together. I trace the scar across my throat, the raised flesh still tender and angry beneath my fingertips.
The palace is silent at this hour—3:17 a.m., according to my bedside clock. The witching hour, when nightmares are at their strongest.
I head to the soldiers’ shared bathroom and splash cold water on my face. The shock helps ground me in reality, washing away the last clinging fragments of the dream. When I look up, a stranger stares back from the mirror.
My skin, once golden and vibrant, has the pallor of someone who has seen a ghost—or has become one. Dark circles shadow my eyes like bruises. My black hair, usually my pride, hangs limp and dull around my hollow face. And of course, there’s the scar: a jagged line of red across my throat telling the story of how close I came to dying.
“You look like shit, Daciana,” I tell my reflection before heading back to my room.
Sleep is impossible now. It always is after the nightmare. Ever since the Snow Mountain delegation arrived at court eight weeks ago now, I’ve been plagued with these dreams. I’ve never told anyone about them. They vary sometimes in small ways—the forest path is different, or the words of my pursuers change—but it always ends the same way. Me, bleeding out in the snow, desperately trying to protect a child that doesn’t exist. A child I’ve never had. A future I’ve never imagined.
I strip off my sweat-soaked nightgown and pull on a pair of loose training pants and a simple shirt. My movements are quick and efficient; the body of a warrior hasn’t forgotten itself, even if my mind is haunted. I shake off the final tremors from the nightmare. Physically, I’ve healed completely. The scar across my throat is the only reminder of the events of that night, and it hasn’t affected my duties as one of the queen’s personal guards. If anything, surviving Selene’s blade has made me more vigilant, more aware of hidden threats.
The need to shift, to escape the confines of my human skin, pulls at me like a physical ache. The nightmare has left me restless, my wolf sensing my disquiet and wanting to run it off.
I slip from my chambers, moving silently through the palace as only someone who guards it can. The servants’ passageway leads me to a small side door—my regular exit when I need solitude after a night watch.
Cool air hits my face as I step outside, and I take a deep breath. The forest edge beckons, dark and welcoming, far from the palace where everyone else sleeps soundly, undisturbed by dreams of blood and pursuit. I’ve always found more peace among trees than people.
My strides are long and confident as I cross the grounds toward the tree line. The physical strength that makes me an effective royal guard serves me well here, my body responding perfectly to my commands. Only a lingering unease from the nightmare follows me into the shadows of the forest.
The familiar scents of pine and earth welcome me. Here, alone with the night, I can shift and run until the memory of the dream fades. My wolf stirs eagerly beneath my skin, ready to stretch her legs, to feel the wind in her fur.
My mind gradually drifts to Kieran, as it often does during these midnight escapes.
Alpha Kieran of the Snow Mountain Pack. The first time I saw him stride into the throne room with his delegation—all broad shoulders, silver-threaded dark hair, and ancient power—I felt something primal stir inside me. “Holy shit,” I whispered to Selene, unable to tear my eyes away. The raw attraction was immediate and undeniable.
But alongside that pull, something else flickered in my chest. A wariness. Not of him specifically, but of what he represented. The old magic his pack carried. The wildness in his eyes that spoke of mountains and rituals lost to time. Something in me recognized him in a way I couldn’t explain, and that recognition terrified me.
Now, I remember the way his eyes looked when he knelt beside me, my blood coating his hands as he worked magic I couldn’t comprehend. The gentle stroke of his fingers through my hair during my recovery when he thought I was sleeping. The low rumble of his voice when he announced he would stay in the capital, fighting for the rights of shifters who practice the old ways.
I’m drawn to him, even though every instinct screams at me to stay back. When he’s near, my wolf paces restlessly, wanting to both submit and run away. What is it about him that calls to me, to something buried deep inside me? Something I didn’t know existed until he arrived?
I wonder if he has nightmares, too. If an Alpha of his power and age, carrying the weight of an ancient pack’s survival, still fears the dark. If he senses this strange connection between us, or if I’m imagining it entirely.
I begin to shift, feeling the familiar tingle of magic racing over my skin. Usually, the transformation is effortless, as natural as breathing. But tonight, there’s an unwillingness. A hesitation. The nightmare hasn’t fully released its grip on me.
For a brief moment, the image of the pregnant woman in the white dress—myself, yet not myself—flashes behind my eyes, and my concentration breaks. I stumble, catching myself against a tree trunk. The rough bark scrapes my palm, and for a heartbeat, I’m back in that forest from my dream—hunted, frightened, desperate to protect something I’ve never had.
“Enough,” I whisper, anger replacing fear. “It was just a dream.”
I shake off the momentary feeling of weakness. I am Daciana, personal guard to Queen Astra, survivor of a wound that should have killed me. I will not be undone by nightmares.
With renewed focus, I let the shift take me. Bones realign, muscles stretch, fur erupts across my skin. In seconds, I’m on four paws, powerful and free. I lift my muzzle to the night sky and let out a triumphant howl before plunging deeper into the forest, running until the dreams can’t follow.
The world whizzes past as I push myself faster, harder. My paws barely touch the ground between strides, my body remembering the pure joy of speed. This is freedom. This is what the nightmare tried to take from me: the wild certainty of my own strength.
Wind rushes through my fur as I leap over fallen logs and weave between ancient trunks. The forest is alive around me, breathing with secrets and shadows. I run to outpace the images that still haunt me: the bloodied wedding dress, the arrow, the child I’ve never carried.
A ripple of movement catches the edge of my vision. I don’t slow, don’t turn, but I’m aware of them—wild wolves, emerging from the deeper woods to run alongside me. Three, then five, their silver and gray coats ghostly in the moonlight. They match my pace, their eyes occasionally flashing my way, acknowledging but not challenging.
This has happened since I was a child. Wild wolves find me, run with me, accepting me in a way that wouldn’t make any sense to my pack. I’ve never told anyone. Not my parents, not Astra, not even Selene. The wild wolves are my secret, my mystery.
One of them, a female with a scar across her muzzle, nudges closer, darting beneath me to weave between my much larger paws. Standing nearly twice their height, I dwarf these wild cousins, yet they show no fear. The female looks up at me, her eyes holding a wisdom that transcends the difference in our forms. I feel a surge of connection and belonging that outstrips pack boundaries. These wolves aren’t from my pack, yet something in my blood recognizes them.
We crest a small rise together, and I push even faster, my heart pounding with exhilaration rather than fear. The wild wolves fan out, five shadows dancing through the trees in perfect formation.
A flash of movement cuts across our path. Another wolf, much larger than the others, is now running parallel to our course through a dense stand of pines. It’s not one of the wild wolves. This one’s scent is different—powerful, ancient, carrying hints of snow and mountains and something else I can’t quite place.
The glimpse of the intruder disrupts my rhythm. My wolf’s attention divides, curious about this newcomer even as we maintain our headlong sprint. The distraction costs me. My front paw catches on an exposed root, and at the speed I’m running, there’s no recovery.
I tumble forward, momentum sending me into a chaotic roll. My wolf form twists, instinctively trying to right itself, but the slope is too steep, the speed too great. I crash through underbrush, the world spinning around me until something—or rather, someone—stops my fall.
Strong hands grip my shoulders, bringing my descent to a halt. The sudden transition jolts me back into human form, the shift happening without conscious thought. I gasp, disoriented, pine needles in my hair and scratches across my arms. My clothes reform with me, pants and shirt materializing as my fur recedes.
“Are you hurt?” The voice is deep, concerned.
When I look up, I’m staring directly into dark eyes I know too well. My heart stutters. I scramble backward, putting distance between us. “What are you doing out here?”
Kieran straightens to his full height, his black clothes having reformed perfectly with his shift, as well. The moonlight accentuates his imposing silhouette—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, powerful stance, and an aura of authority that commands attention. He’s at least ten or fifteen years my senior, but his body shows no sign of the softening of age. If anything, the years have honed him to be sharper, more dangerous.
The silver threading through his black hair catches moonlight as he studies me with an intensity that sends unwelcome heat through my veins. Something about him calls to me on a level I can’t understand—a pull that feels ancient and instinctive and terrifying.
“I run under the darkness of night,” he says simply, as though it’s the most natural thing for the alpha of the Snow Mountain Pack to be miles from the palace, alone in these woods. “The moon speaks more clearly when the world is quiet.” His eyes travel over me, assessing. “And you? Why is the Queen’s guard so far from her charge at this hour?”
“None of your business,” I snap, then immediately regret my tone. I’ve been raised to respect alphas, even those from other packs. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to be rude. I just…needed some air.”
He nods, accepting my explanation without question even though his eyes say he doesn’t believe it. “Would you like to run together? These woods have good hunting.”
“No.” The answer comes too quickly, too forcefully. “I should head back.”
I don’t want to spend time with Kieran. Every moment in his presence makes me feel like I’m standing at the edge of a precipice, my body urging me to leap while my mind screams in warning.
I take a few steps away, turning my back to him deliberately—a show of trust I don’t entirely feel.
“You seem troubled, Daciana.”
I stop but don’t turn around. “I’m fine.”
His footsteps make no sound on the forest floor. The first I know of his approach is the heat of him behind me, then his hands—large and unexpectedly gentle—circling my neck from behind. His fingers press lightly on the spot where Selene’s blade nearly ended my life.
“Your scar is throbbing,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that I feel more than hear.
I should move. I should twist away. I should remind him that touching a royal guard without permission is overstepping. But my body betrays me, going limp and pliant under his touch. Acting submissive. Too submissive for a woman who has fought all her life to be seen as strong.
“My wound is fine,” I manage to say, but my voice emerges breathy and weak, my core tightening at the scrape of his voice against my skin. He’s too close. His warmth radiates against my back, and I can feel every point where his body might touch mine if either of us moved even an inch.
His grip on my neck tightens just slightly—not threateningly, but possessive in a way that makes my wolf want to bare her throat.
“The woods are filled with dangerous creatures at night,” he says, his breath stirring the hair by my ear. “Creatures who know how to claim what they desire.” His thumb traces a slow circle at the base of my skull. “Go back to the safety of the palace, little wolf.”
He releases me, and I stumble forward from the sudden absence of his touch.
I turn to look at him, but he’s already stepping back, allowing moonlight to fall between us like a silver curtain. His eyes, though…They burn with something that looks like hunger, like knowledge.
Without another word, I begin walking away. Pride keeps my spine straight, my pace measured, despite instinct telling me to run. I don’t look back, but I feel his eyes on me long after the trees should have hidden me from view.
I feel marked, though he never laid claim to me. Warned, though he spoke no threat.
Somewhere in the forest behind me, a wild wolf howls—a sound so mournful it could break the moon.
THE MORNING SUN streams through the palace windows, turning the marble floors into rivers of gold. I make my way to the royal herb garden, where I know I’ll find Astra. Even as queen, she has never abandoned her herbalist skills—knowledge that once helped us survive in the Silver Stone Pack.
I find her tending to her prized moonvine, delicate plants that few others in the Wolf Kingdom know how to grow properly. Though pregnant with the royal heir, she still insists on caring for her most valuable medicinal herbs herself. The herb garden is her sacred space; no servants are ever allowed inside, not even to water the plants in her absence. This is Astra’s domain alone.
My queen. Once believed to be a latent shifter, now revealed to possess powers beyond what anyone imagined. A healer whose extensive knowledge of medicinal plants has earned her respect throughout the Kingdom. My friend since childhood, though our experiences were vastly different.
“You look tired,” she says without actually looking at me, her hands gently adjusting the moonvine tendrils. “Trouble sleeping?”
I lean against a nearby column at the garden’s edge, respecting the boundary she has established. “I went for a run last night. Ran into Kieran in the woods.”
Her hands pause, and she glances up, interest immediately piqued. “And? What happened?”
“Nothing,” I say a little too quickly.
Astra sits back on her heels, giving me her full attention. Her hand rests protectively on her belly, a habit she has developed since the threat to her unborn child was discovered.
I sigh, looking toward the mountains barely visible in the distance. “When are they going back?”
“The Snow Mountain delegation?” Astra returns to her plants, but I can tell she’s watching me from the corner of her eye. “Why? Is Kieran bothering you?”
“No,” I admit reluctantly. “But something about him unsettles me.”
Her eyes widen, and I can practically see the romantic notions blooming in her mind.
“Stop,” I say firmly, rolling my eyes. “It’s not a fated mate bond, Astra. Relax.”
She looks disappointed as she carefully prunes a damaged leaf. Since finding her own happiness with Lucian, Astra has become determined to see everyone around her similarly paired off.
“You may as well get used to his presence,” she says, her hands never stopping their skilled work. “Kieran has formally requested to join the court. Lucian is stressed because the purist faction is strongly opposing his entry. They claim his pack’s ancient magic is dangerous.”
“I don’t understand,” I murmur, more to myself than to her. “Why would he leave the safety of the mountains to come here? His pack has avoided court politics for generations.”
Astra tilts her head at me, her expression thoughtful. “He must have a reason. A powerful alpha doesn’t abandon his territory without cause.”
I gaze at those distant peaks again, remembering the feel of Kieran’s hands on my neck, the warning in his voice.
What would cause the leader of a pack that has been hidden in the mountains for centuries to emerge now?