KAELEN STORMHOLT

The screams echoed through the stone corridors of my castle, and I smiled. My wine tasted sweeter with every cry that reached my ears. I turned to the chained witch at my feet, her face a mess of bruises and dried blood. She hadn't broken yet, but she would.

"Do you hear that, witch?" I raised my goblet and took another long drink. The wine was rich, imported from the southern territories I'd conquered just last spring. "You told me I would never have children. Your vile species cursed me, and yet the goddess Selene has put your Hekate to shame."

Another scream pierced the air, longer this time, more desperate. My consort was fighting hard in that birthing chamber. Which was no problem. Strong mothers bore strong sons.

"My consort is about to give birth," I continued, watching the witch's reaction. Her dark eyes remained defiant despite the chains that bound her wrists raw. "The Supreme Witch herself told me my bloodline would end with me. But here we are."

The supreme witch's cracked lips curved into what might have been a smile. Blood stained her teeth. "I hear her struggling," she whispered, her voice like grinding stone. "I do not hear baby cries."

My hand tightened on the goblet as she continued. "It is not too late for her to die. It is not too late for the baby to die."

The words hung in the air between us like a threat, but I felt something cold settle in my chest. What if she was right? What if their curse was stronger than I thought?

For eight years, my seeds had been nothing but blanks. The fact that I knocked this consort up was a miracle on its own. But I had not won yet.

I stood abruptly, the chair scraping against stone. "Head sentinel!" I called to my most trusted servant. He appeared at my side instantly, his scarred face alert.

"Keep watch over the bitch for me," I ordered, gesturing toward the chained witch. I leaned down until my face was inches from hers. Her breath smelled of decay and old magic. "Supreme, when my woman does put to bed, I will let you see the baby with your own eyes before I behead you with my own sword."

She said nothing, but that damned smile never left her face.

I strode from the dungeon, taking the stone steps two at a time. The screaming grew louder with each step, echoing off the walls like the cries of the damned. My boots clicked against the marble floor of the upper corridors. Servants pressed themselves against the walls as I passed, their heads bowed in submission.

The birthing chamber door was thick oak, but it did nothing to muffle the sounds from within. I pushed it open without knocking. The midwife, an old healer werewolf named Constance who had delivered half the pack's children, looked up with wide eyes.

"My lord," she stammered, wiping bloody hands on her apron. "You should not—"

"How much longer?" I cut her off. Behind her, my consort lay on the birthing bed, her golden hair dark with sweat, her face twisted in agony. She was beautiful even now, even in pain. That's why I'd chosen her. Beauty and strength would make strong heirs.

"It is a difficult pregnancy, my lord," Constance said carefully. "The babe seems... reluctant to come."

Reluctant. I thought of the witch's words, her cursed smile. "If the child must be cut out of the woman, then do so."

Constance's face went white. "My lord, that would surely kill—"

"Do it." My voice carried the full weight of my authority. "Save the child."

She understood. In my world, heirs mattered more than anything else. Even beloved consorts could be replaced. A bloodline could not.

Constance returned to her work with grim determination. I waited outside the door, pacing the corridor like a caged wolf. The screaming continued, growing more desperate, more animal. Then, suddenly, there was a sound I'd never heard before—a roar that seemed to come from the very depths of my consort's soul.

Then silence.

I held my breath. The silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating. Had I lost them both? Had the witch's curse claimed victory after all?

Then I heard it. A thin, reedy cry. Weak, but alive.

The door opened and Constance emerged, holding a small bundle wrapped in white cloth. Blood stained the fabric, but she was smiling.

"A son, my lord," she said, placing the child in my arms.

I looked down at the tiny face, wrinkled and red, still covered in the wetness of birth. He was so small. Smaller than any child I'd ever seen. His little chest rose and fell with rapid, shallow breaths.

"My Draven," I whispered, the name I'd chosen long ago rolling off my tongue. After my grandfather, who had conquered three neighboring packs in a single season. "Is he not too small?"

"That happens sometimes, my lord," Constance said, but her voice held uncertainty. "First babes can be—"

The child's eyes opened. I expected to see the bright gold of my bloodline, the fierce gaze that marked all Stormholt descendants. Instead, I saw something that made my blood run cold.

His eyes were there, yes, but they were wrong. Clouded. Unfocused. They stared at nothing, seeing nothing.

"What is wrong with his eyes?" The words came out strangled.

Constance looked at the child and her face crumpled. "Goddess preserve us," she whispered. "The lad is blind."

"Fix it." The command was automatic, born of desperation.

"This cannot be fixed, my lord. He was born this way."

Rage exploded in my chest like wildfire. The witch. This was her doing. I thrust the baby back into Constance's arms and stormed back toward the dungeon, my vision red with fury.

The witch looked up when I entered, and her smile had grown wider. She knew. Somehow, she already knew.

"Break whatever you did to my bloodline," I snarled, grabbing her by the throat. "Now."

She laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Show me the child."

I gestured to the sentinel, who brought the baby down from Constance. The witch's beaded eyes focused on the small bundle with an intensity that made my skin crawl.

"His life thread is all jumbled up," she said finally, her voice filled with something that might have been pity. "He would be a lucky and powerful child if he had chosen another blood to descend from."

"Speak plainly, witch."

"He is blind. Frail. Useless." Each word was a knife between my ribs. "He is destined to suffer a horrible and short-lived life. Our curse will follow him to his grave."

"You lie." But even as I said it, I could see the truth in her ancient eyes.

"We won in the end," she whispered. "Your bloodline dies with him. Weak, pitied, forgotten."

Something snapped inside me. I drew my blade, the steel singing as it left its sheath. The witch didn't flinch. She kept smiling even as I raised the sword above her head.

The blade came down clean and swift. Her head rolled across the stone floor, but her expression never changed. Even in death, she looked victorious.

I stood there, breathing hard, my hands shaking with rage and something else. Something that felt dangerously close to fear.

The sentinel guard still held my son. The child had started crying, a thin, pitiful sound that seemed to echo the screams from the birthing chamber. I took him back, staring down at that tiny, imperfect face.

"You cannot be all the things she said you will be," I told him, my voice rough. "You are descended from Stormholt blood. You will… You must be great. Blind or not."

But even as I spoke the words, I wondered if I was trying to convince him or myself. My son. My heir. My hope for the future.

My burden.

I looked down at Draven one more time, memorizing every feature of his small face. He would grow up in a world that would see his blindness as weakness.

The Stormholt bloodline would not end with him. I would make certain of that.