The night air was thick with smoke and blood.

Damian carried Aria out of the circle, his arms iron around her slight frame. Her head rested against his chest, her body still trembling with the aftershocks of power. Every step he took, the crowd parted. Not for him—though he commanded that respect—but for her.

The mark still glowed faintly beneath her skin. Wolves who had once muttered curses about the cursed girl now looked at her with wide, fearful eyes. Some bowed their heads. Others pulled their children close.

Aria forced herself upright in his arms. “Put me down,” she whispered.

Damian’s jaw flexed. “You can barely stand.”

“I won’t be carried like I’m broken,” she insisted, her voice frayed but steady.

His golden eyes searched hers, raw with conflict. Then, reluctantly, he lowered her to her feet. She swayed, but her chin lifted. If they saw her as curse or savior, she would not cower.

Rylan approached first, his expression unreadable. “What… was that?”

“I don’t know,” Aria admitted. Her voice cracked, but she didn’t look away. “I only know it came from me.”

Marlowe sneered, stepping from the shadows. “Power like that isn’t a blessing. It’s corruption. A witch’s mark, not the moon’s.”

Growls rippled through the pack, some in agreement, others in protest.

Damian’s voice cut through like a blade. “Enough.”

The courtyard silenced. His gaze swept the wolves, sharp and commanding. “What you saw tonight was not corruption. It was the bond between Alpha and mate, between blood and blood. You will treat it with respect—or you will answer to me.”

A hush fell. Even Marlowe, though his eyes still burned with doubt, said nothing more.

Later, in the quiet of his chamber, Damian closed the door behind them and leaned against it as though holding back a tide. His chest rose and fell hard, his body still marked with wounds that hadn’t fully healed.

“Tell me,” he demanded softly.

Aria sat on the edge of his bed, her hands twisting in her lap. “I don’t have answers, Damian. I don’t even know what happened.”

“Kael knew,” Damian pressed, his golden eyes fierce. “He named your bloodline. Elara. Who was she?”

Aria’s throat tightened. Her mother’s name felt like a ghost in her mouth. “She never told me much. Only that our family was… different. That we carried something old in our blood. Something dangerous.”

“Dangerous how?”

Tears burned behind her eyes. “She didn’t live long enough to explain.”

Damian cursed under his breath, pacing the room. His anger wasn’t at her—it was at the silence, the secrets, the threat curling around them both.

He stopped suddenly, turning back to her. His expression cracked, showing the raw fear beneath. “When you glowed… Aria, I felt it. It was like your power poured into me. If you hadn’t—” His voice faltered. “Kael might have killed me.”

She rose, moving to him. Her fingers brushed his arm, tentative. “Then maybe it’s not a curse. Maybe it’s what we’re meant to be.”

His breath caught. For a moment, his walls slipped. His hand lifted, cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing her skin as if memorizing her. The bond burned between them, tempting, pulling.

But before the moment could deepen, the alarm horn split the night.

Damian’s head snapped toward the window, his golden eyes flaring.

Rylan burst in, blood on his hands. “Kael’s gone,” he growled. “Ironfang wolves cut him free. He’s wounded, but alive.”

Aria’s stomach dropped.

Damian’s face hardened into stone. “Then this isn’t over.”

Rylan’s gaze flicked to Aria, then back to Damian. “He’ll spread word of what she is.”

The truth weighed heavy in the room. Aria’s bloodline was no longer a secret. Her power was no longer hidden.

And Kael, broken but breathing, would make sure every rival pack heard of it.

Damian’s jaw tightened, his hand still warm against her cheek. “Then let them come.”

But in his eyes, Aria saw the storm gathering. The war wasn’t just coming. It had already begun.