"He'll sell us out. Right now, he's drawing a map in the snow for the first patrol he runs into."
Tom hurled a scrap of old harness into the corner. The leather struck the stone with a dry crack. Dust billowed toward the narrow window, where a gray patch of sky hung frozen.
"Damian isn't an idiot," Liam said, not even turning around. He stood with his forehead pressed against the cold wall, his fingers feverishly scratching the masonry. "He needs to bargain for his own skin. Information about the gaps in the north wall is prime merchandise."
"And our blood to go with it!" Tom lunged at him, grabbed his shoulder, and spun him around. "Did you see how he looked at Alina before he vaulted over the fence? Like a sack of gold!"
I stood in the shadow of a tapestry, pressing my palms to my throat. Cale's mark pulsed beneath my skin—a heavy, wet rhythm, a reminder that I was nothing more than a thing on a leash here. The fabric of my cheap dress felt like sandpaper.
"He was shouting about a 'key'," my voice came out raspy, a stranger in the silence. "In the forest. Before... Cale silenced him. What does it mean?"
Tom stopped dead. He looked at me, then quickly averted his eyes, staring at his worn-out boots.
"There are whispers in the pack," he began to crack his knuckles, the joints popping loudly. "The young ones... those a year or two older than us. They say you're cursed. That your blood smells of an ancient magic that has no place here. They're afraid of you, Alina. They think Cale is only keeping you around to open some sealed doors in the dungeons."
"Nonsense," Liam snapped.
"And what if it isn't?" Tom burst out, his voice rising to a shout before he instantly clapped a hand over his mouth, glancing warily at the door. "What if Damian sells that story to the Silverclaws? They'll come for the 'key'. They'll tear this castle down brick by brick!"
"Enough!"
Liam pushed off from the wall. His footsteps on the straw were silent, predatory. He stepped so close I could smell the scent of pine and the sharp tang of adolescent sweat. Tom froze by the entrance, listening to the emptiness of the corridor.
"Look at me," Liam commanded.
I tried to step back, but my spine hit the cold stone.
"Liam, now isn't the time—"
"Look. Into my eyes."
I raised my head. In the dim light of the storeroom, his face looked as if it were carved from gray granite. He gripped my chin—not painfully, but firmly, forcing me to meet his gaze.
"What do you see?" he whispered.
"Your eyes," I swallowed hard. "Liam, let go. If they find us..."
"No, look deeper. Do you see that golden spark right at the pupil? Like a drop of molten metal in the mud. Who else in this cursed pack has eyes like that? Cale? Tom? That traitor Damian?"
I stared into his iris. A strange, rare shade—a mix of burnt sugar and antique gold. Exactly the same shade I saw in the cracked mirror every morning.
"It's just a coincidence," my lips barely moved. "We were all brought from somewhere. We're just trash gathered from the roads."
"Trash doesn't remember lullabies in a language that isn't on any map." Liam released my chin but didn't pull his hand away, his fingertips brushing my cheek. "Do you remember the woman in white? The fire that didn't burn, but warmed?"
I closed my eyes. Blurred fragments flashed before me: the scent of dried lavender, laughter, tall grass blocking out the sun.
"Isabelle..." I exhaled. "You spoke to her. That time, in the forest."
"She called us the 'sundered seed', Alina. For a long time, I thought it was just the rambling of a mad herbalist. Until I found a mention in the old chronicles of a bloodline whose gaze could subdue flame. They had eyes like these."
Tom shifted nervously by the door.
"Liam, wrap it up. We're sitting ducks here."
"She has to know," Liam leaned forward, closing the final space between us. "You aren't a 'key' for Cale's locks. You're part of something greater. You aren't alone, do you hear me? You were never alone in this rat's nest."
Something shifted in my chest. It wasn't the sharp pain Cale sent through the mark, but a different feeling—a thick, enveloping warmth. It rose from my heart to my throat, displacing the eternal chill of the dungeons. The loneliness I had worn like a second skin suddenly cracked.
"We can be a family, Alina," his voice turned very quiet, strained. "A real one. Blood of my blood. Not by the Alpha's command, but by birthright."
I reached out to him, guided by that unfamiliar warmth. My fingers brushed the sleeve of his jacket. The whole world narrowed down to this dusty storeroom, to the sparks in his eyes. The fear of Cale, of punishment, of the future—it all receded. For a moment, I believed the castle walls were nothing more than a stage set that could be cast aside.
"Family..." I repeated, tasting the word.
"Shh!" Tom's hand shot up.
The warmth evaporated instantly. Liam recoiled, his hand falling to the hilt of the knife at his belt.
"What is it?" he whispered.
"Whistling," Tom said, pressing his ear to the oak door. "A strange kind... high-pitched. Like a bird, but not one of ours."
We froze. Silence fell over the castle. But it wasn't the usual night-time quiet, where you could hear the breathing of the sleepers or the crackle of torches. It was the silence of a vacuum. It was as if the very air had been sucked out of the corridors.
"Do you hear that?" Tom turned around, his face turning white. "The dogs. They've gone silent."
Liam rushed to the narrow arrow-slit window.
"Damn it..."
"What is it? Liam!" I ran to him, gripping the edge of the windowsill.
From outside, from the black mass of the forest, the first sound drifted in. It wasn't a human scream. It wasn't the growl of a wolf from Cale's pack.
A long, vibrating howl sliced through the night mist. It began on a low note that made the glass rattle in the frames and rose to an unbearable ultrasound. There was nothing animal about it—only pure, concentrated rage and a thirst for blood.
"They aren't ours," Tom croaked, backing away from the door. "Liam, they aren't ours!"
He was answered. First one voice, then five, ten, hundreds. It was as if the forest had come alive and screamed with a thousand throats. The howling rolled in like a wave, crashing against the stone walls of the castle.
Somewhere above, in the main tower, a bell tolled. The hollow, heavy knell choked off on the second strike.
"It's started," Liam grabbed my hand, his fingers digging into my skin. "Silverclaws. Damian brought them."
The walls shuddered. A dull, visceral roar came from below, from the direction of the main gates. It wasn't a ram. The sound was like ice cracking, but on the scale of an entire mountain. Magic. The foul, heavy magic of the attacking pack struck the castle's shields.
"We have to go," Tom drew his knife. "To the cellars, the back exit!"
"Too late!" Liam pointed out the window.
On the snow-covered slope, right beneath the walls of the south wing, shadows were emerging from the darkness. Huge, unnaturally long wolves with silver fur that shimmered in the moonlight. They weren't running—they were flying, barely touching the ground, their eyes burning with cold phosphorus.
"They're already in the inner courtyard," Liam's voice was as dry as parchment.
A deafening crack of wood and the clang of shattering metal erupted close by—one floor below. Screams of terror and the first death rattles of the guards mingled with the triumphant howling of the enemy.
I looked at Liam. My hand was still in his. The warmth I had felt a moment ago had turned into icy lead.
"You said we were family," I shouted over the rising chaos.
"Then we'll die as family," he jerked me toward the exit. "Run!"
Outside the door, acrid smoke was already filling the corridor. The castle that had been my prison for so many years was turning into a mass grave. The Silverclaws had come for their "key," and they had no intention of leaving witnesses.