The meeting hall feels like a tomb dressed up as a throne room.

I move along the edges like a ghost. My feet silent on the polished stone, the wine jug heavy in my trembling hands.

The Lycan King Maelric sits across from Theron, and even from here, even keeping my eyes carefully lowered, I can feel the weight of him. Ancient power that makes the air taste like metal and smoke.

Crown Prince Damon sits at his right hand—younger, but no less dangerous. Dark hair, sharp features, eyes like chips of black ice. Every wolf in the room is tense around them. Including Theron.

Even the council members keep their voices carefully neutral as they discuss border disputes and trade agreements. Like they’re negotiating with barely leashed predators.

Which, I suppose, they are.

I refill goblets when they’re empty. Replace platters when they’re cleared. Keep my head down, my movements small and unobtrusive, exactly as I’ve been taught.

Don’t exist unless you’re needed. Don’t draw attention. Be furniture.

I’m reaching past one of the council members to pour more wine when it happens. A hand shoots out, fingers clamping around my wrist like a steel trap.

The shock of it makes me gasp. The grip is crushing—I feel my bones creak, grinding against each other in a way that makes my vision white out for a second and a short gasp escapes my mouth.

The wine jug tilts dangerously, and I barely catch it with my other hand before it spills.

“Interesting scar.” Prince Damon’s voice is conversational, almost pleasant.

But his grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, it tightens.

He yanks me forward so hard I stumble, nearly crashing into his chest. My free hand comes up instinctively to brace myself, and he catches that wrist too. Holding me in place with terrifying ease.

“Your Highness, I…” My voice comes out shaky, confused. “I don’t—”

His other hand moves to my face, fingers gripping my chin and forcing it up. I try to pull away, but his hold is absolute. He studies my face like I’m a puzzle, his thumb tracing along my jawline, my cheek, and then—

He touches the scar on my neck.

The raised mark I’ve had for as long as I can remember. Just below my left ear, trailing down toward my collarbone.

I used to ask my mother about it when I was small, and she’d just kiss my forehead and tell me I was marked by the Moon Goddess.

Special. Chosen.

Prince Damon’s thumb traces the scar’s shape with deliberate precision, and something cold slides down my spine. His expression shifts—surprise, then recognition, then something that looks almost like triumph.

“Father.” His voice cuts through the room like a blade, silk over steel. “You might want to see this.”

The Lycan King turns, his ancient eyes finding me. His goblet freezes halfway to his lips.

The color drains from his face like someone pulled a plug.

“No…” he whispers. The word is barely audible, but in the sudden silence of the hall, it echoes. “It can’t be… Lyralei?”

Lyralei? The name means nothing to me. I’ve never heard it before in my life.

“I’m not…” I start, but Prince Damon’s grip on my chin tightens, cutting off my words.

“There she is.” His smile is all teeth, predatory and cold.

He shifts his hold, releasing my chin only to grab my other wrist, pulling it up alongside the first. Then he holds up his own wrist, turning it so the entire room can see.

A scar. Identical to mine. Same shape, same placement, running from his wrist up his forearm.

“My beloved twin sister.” His voice drips with venom disguised as affection. “Twenty-three years of searching, and I found you here. Serving wine. Like a common whore.”

The words don’t make sense. None of this makes sense.

Twin sister? Royal bloodline? I’m nobody. I’m Kira Moonscar, daughter of traitors, bound servant of the Shadowpine Pack.

I’m not… I can’t be…

‘Mira?’ I reach for my wolf, desperate for her steadying presence. ‘What’s happening?’

But she’s snarling, thrashing against the inside of my mind like she’s trying to tear free.

Not at me. At him. At the prince holding me like a caught animal.

“Rejected?” Damon’s voice is loud enough for everyone to hear, his breath hot against my ear. “You rejected a Bloodmoon? A royal daughter of the oldest lycan bloodline?”

His free hand moves to my dress, and before I can process what he’s doing, he yanks the fabric down, exposing my shoulder, my collarbone, and the scar.

It’s not just a scar. It’s a seal.

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