The gate lay in ruins. Wolves clashed in the open, snarls and screams mixing into one endless howl of war. The air stank of burned fur, bone dust, and blood.

And at the center of it Veyra and I faced each other.

Her bone spear gleamed, etched with runes that pulsed like veins. Bone shards circled her in the air, a storm of blades. She stood tall, her bone crown shining pale in the firelight, her smile cold and sharp.

“You were never meant to wear the crown, Ardyn,” she said. “It was ...