“And Kael?” he added softly.
I closed my eyes.
“I will sever the mate-mark.”
When I opened them again, the Moon above the balcony had begun to dim, its silver light thinning like a dying echo.
“Then come to Blackfang in seven nights,” Nicero said. “Once the bond is cut, there is no returning to your pack. No forgiveness. No mercy.”
My hands trembled—but I did not hesitate.
“I have nothing left to lose.”
And for the first time since the Moon turned its back on me, I meant it.
I learned two truths that night.
The first was that severing a mate-mark did not kill you.
The second was that sometimes, it left you wishing it had.
The ritual chamber beneath the High Spire was not meant for mercy. It had been carved into the mountain long before the Silvermoon Pack had a name, when wolves believed pain was the only honest language between blood and Moon.
I stood barefoot on the stone slab, my wrists bound loosely with lunar cord—not to restrain me, but to prevent my wolf from tearing free when the blade touched the mark.