— Pre-shift, Safira. Lend me your scent and two claws!
She demanded it as she leapt backward, evading the enemy's strike. Her mount surged forward, spinning in a deliberately precise arc, hind legs slamming into the chest of a black wolf who howled in pain as he fell in a brutal drop.
— Use your instincts!
The princess's body was no longer delicate, no longer feather-light. It was something new. Something feral. And dangerous.
The landing was not softened. It struck the ground hard. Her feet barely brushed the road before she propelled herself forward again, elbows driving back, arms shooting ahead, delivering sharp, exacting blows.
She spun on her own axis, her stature granting her the advantage of using her own weight to deliver heavy, bone-dulling strikes.
She leapt and punched upward, claws tearing through dirty fur streaked with ash and sweat.
Safira answered without asking permission.
The world stretched.
Scents split into layers. Fresh blood separated from old. Fear became a luminous trail. Lies began to reek like meat forgotten under the sun. Elizabeth's hands burned and, with a wet snap, the claws emerged. Not fully. Not yet. Enough to kill without losing speed.
— Like that — Safira growled, satisfied. — Now we're speaking the same language.
The first renegade who tried to flank her did not have time to understand his mistake. Elizabeth advanced in a straight line, shattered his guard with her forearm, and buried her claws beneath his clavicle. She did not rip outward. She tore inward, feeling bone give like rotted wood.
He fell without a howl. Cowards die quietly.
Another came from behind, heavier, attempting to restrain her. Elizabeth lowered her center of gravity, turned her hips, and used the enemy's own momentum against him. Shoulder to sternum. A dry crack. Ribs collapsing. The black wolf was hurled against a rock, leaving a red smear across the snow.
— Two to the left, one feigning retreat — Safira warned. — He's afraid. I like that.
Elizabeth did not slow.
She vaulted over the third, used his body as leverage, drove her foot into his twisted face, and hurled him backward, straight into Arcádia's blade. Leónia did not need to look. The sword was already moving.
Light. Judgment. Silence.
— Don't scatter! — someone shouted among the renegades. — It's the King's daughter!
Final mistake. Speaking her name aloud.
Elizabeth turned her face slowly toward the origin of the cry. Her eyes were no longer gentle. The whites were overtaken by dull silver, the iris ignited by something too ancient to be named.
— Run — Safira murmured. — I want to see how far he makes it.
The man tried.
He stumbled over his own haste, slipped in the stained snow, felt her shadow before the impact. Elizabeth crashed down on him with her full weight, knee crushing his abdomen, hand closing around his throat.
— Who paid you? — she asked, her voice low, too steady for someone drenched in blood.
He spat, laughed, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth.
— It wasn't payment… it was a promise…
The answer came as movement.
She twisted his neck into an angle that does not exist in living bodies.
Safira inhaled deeply within her, satisfied, almost purring.
— Leader eliminated. The rest are breaking formation.
Around them, the renegades began to retreat. Not strategically. Like animals who had sensed the right predator. Too precise. Too fast. Too real.
Elizabeth straightened. Her chest rose and fell under control. No hesitation. No tremor.
— Leónia — she called, without looking. — Do not pursue those fleeing south. They're trying to pull us off the main trail.
The rider answered with a single nod, wiping the blade through the air as though blood had no right to exist upon it.
Safira scented the wind again, focused.
— It's not over. — Her voice dropped lower. — That was only the first layer. The real trap lies ahead… and Arabella passed through there.
The wind shifted again.
This time carrying something worse than snow.
Fresh betrayal.
And the fear of someone who knew they had provoked the wrong heir.
In the hall, the banquet continued.
Technically.
The tables remained set. Wine was still poured. The lyres resumed by direct order of the Alpha. Yet no one was truly eating. They chewed by reflex. Drank to occupy their mouths and avoid saying something fatal. It was the kind of feast where everyone understood something had already gone wrong. They simply did not know who would pay.
Theodor remained standing at the head of the table, posture almost excessively perfect. The political smile was in place, firm as poorly fitted armor. Those who truly knew him noticed the tension in his fingers, the excessive pressure on the goblet he had yet to lift.
— Louder music — he ordered a nearby Beta. — We do not require reflective silence tonight.
Reflective silence breeds rumors.
Rumors become mutinies.
The Council dispersed into small clusters. No large circles. Large circles draw attention. They draw questions. They draw versions of truth.
— Did you feel it? — one elder murmured to another. — The Moon answered her howl.
— I did — came the dry reply. — And I did not like it. That is not an escort's reaction. That is war.
The temple priest kept his hands folded on the table, eyes fixed on an invisible point. He did not eat. Did not drink. He counted.
Across the hall, Dandará laughed too loudly.
It was a trained laugh. Perfect. Calculated to seem natural. She had once again gathered the heirs Kalatia and Kara around her, tilting her head, touching her own necklace as if discussing trivialities.
— The princess has always been… intense — she said, as if requesting understanding. — But she'll return soon. She always does.
The words were light. The scent was not.
Insecurity has an odor. And the more attentive Betas began to notice.
One of the heirs leaned closer, voice lowered.
— Patson does not escort simple journeys.
Dandará's smile tightened.
— Nothing is simple when one is born believing the world revolves around one's own blood.
The sentence died in the air.
Two Alphas looked at her at the same time. One turned away too quickly. The other did not. He assessed. Measured.
From the upper gallery, the Queen Mother observed everything in absolute silence. She did not intervene. Did not correct. Did not protect.
She already understood.
When an heir leaves a banquet dressed for war, it is not because she intends to return quickly.
It is because she does not know who will still be alive when she does.
— The Alpha is maintaining control — the King murmured quietly. — At least that.
The Queen did not respond at once.
— He is learning — she said at last. — What remains to be seen is whether he will learn fast enough to survive what she is bringing back.
At the far end of the hall, a goblet cracked on its own.
No one commented.
Because they all knew.
It was not an accident.