“Levan,” I whispered, the weight of my ruin crashing over me. “I need you.”
A pause. Then a slow exhale.
"Where are you?"
“Doesn’t matter. I need a cart, a body, and a fire.” My voice hardened. “I need the entire realm to think I’m dead.”
Another pause. Then a dark chuckle.
"So you finally stopped bleeding for him."
My jaw tightened. “Just tell me you can help.”
"I can."
“Good. Make it convincing.”
"Done. You disappear now."
I cut the link and crushed the moonstone pendant used for communication, scattering its shards across the ground. Arwen of Silvermoon died tonight.
The plan was simple.
Levan—a gamma from an enemy’s pack, a wolf whose life I’d once dragged back from the brink—owed me more than a few blood debts. He secured everything I needed: a stolen travel wagon, forged runes of identity, and most importantly—a corpse.
The body belonged to a rogue female about my height and build. A nameless wolf who’d met a violent end in some border skirmish. Maybe I should’ve felt something.
But guilt is a luxury the hunted don’t get.