The fused crown hovered above us, spinning slow, dripping red. Every drop sizzled when it touched the floor, each one a heartbeat.

Three hearts. One crown. Blood must break.

The prophecy ripped through me, through the pack, through the stone itself. Wolves writhed, clawing their ears, but they couldn’t block it out.

Veyra no, the huntress using her bones, staggered forward, spine bending at wrong angles. Her jaw snapped wider than it should, silver ichor spilling. “The crown drinks only ...