Chapter 4 “Aven”

I glare at my reflection and try — again — to wrestle my hair into something that looks remotely like a ponytail.

"I know ten languages," I mutter, yanking the elastic with far more violence than necessary. "I can gut a man in under three seconds. But gods forbid anyone ever taught me how to tame this disaster."

The curls fight me every step of the way, slipping free like living creatures determined to ruin my life.

Eventually, I manage something that could generously be called a battle-knot and shove the last stubborn strands back from my face.

Good enough.

I move quickly, checking the gear laid out across the bed — daggers, throwing knives, a collapsible sword, a set of lockpicks hidden inside a necklace.

I don't know what kind of trial Aven has planned for me.

Which is exactly why I intend to be ready for anything.

My fingers linger for a second on the silver ring tucked into the gear — a gift from my guardian, enchanted to shield my mind from outside attack.

I slide it onto my hand without a second thought.

Aven.

I exhale slowly, my chest tightening against the memories clawing their way up from the dark corners of my mind.

The first time I met him; I was five years old — too small to lift the sword he handed me.

"You'll thank me for this one day," he'd said, voice as cold and unbending as the steel.

I hated him instantly.

I admired him desperately.

Aven has been my judge, my executioner, my savior, my ghost.

He's the closest thing to a father I ever had.

And I despise how much I still want his approval.

"Oi, homicidal princess," Sylas calls from outside the room, knocking once against the doorframe. "Time to go impress the terrifying wizard daddy or whatever."

I roll my eyes and open my mouth to snap something back —

But the world blurs before I can get a word out.

Cold slams into my skin like a slap.

I stumble forward — and catch myself in a new place.

The room is massive, high-arched and carved from what looks like frozen obsidian.

Pale blue light leaks from veins running through the stone like the skeleton of some long-dead beast.

The air smells sharp and clean, threaded with old magic that buzzes against my teeth.

And standing at the far end, in front of a throne made entirely of black thorns, is Aven.

He looks the same as always — young, painfully handsome, terrifying.

Dark hair falls across his forehead in careless waves.

Sharp cheekbones cut shadows into his face.

His mouth is a flat line, all edges and no warmth.

He's dressed in simple black — no crown, no sigils — just the heavy weight of power hanging around him like a second skin.

He doesn't smile.

He never does.

His eyes — winter gray, endless — pin me where I stand.

Sylas, never one to read a room, claps his hands once.

"So," he says cheerfully, "is this where you announce the secret surprise party, or—"

Aven cuts him off without looking away from me.

"Aurora Lioren," he says, voice slicing through the heavy silence.

"Today, you will prove whether you are worthy of the future carved for you."

His words drop into the space between us like stones into deep water.

I square my shoulders, ignoring the chill creeping into my bones.

"You will enter the Trial Grounds alone," Aven continues, his tone as merciless as the ice under our feet. "No weapons. No magic enhancements. No aid."

I stiffen, my hand instinctively twitching toward the dagger at my hip.

"You will face everything that has been placed inside to break you.

If you survive, you are ready.

If you fail..."

He tilts his head slightly, studying me the way a wolf studies a wounded deer.

"You won't fail."

It's not encouragement.

It's an expectation.

And in some small, twisted place inside my chest, I am desperate not to disappoint him.

For a moment, none of us move.

Aven stands still as stone, the weight of his magic filling every crack in the air.

Then, without another word, he lifts one hand — and the ground splits open behind him.

A gateway rises, black as starless night, rimmed in burning gold.

The Trial Grounds.

I suck in a breath, steadying my racing heart.

Aven steps aside, allowing me a clear path forward.

Just before I move, Sylas leans in — quick, casual — and presses something into my hand.

I glance down.

It's a bracelet — thin, almost invisible, braided from dark leather.

But woven inside the leather is a single thread of shimmering silver.

Protection magic.

Ancient and raw.

My throat tightens.

Sylas winks without saying a word, like he's daring me to cry.

I won't.

"Remember," Aven says, his voice cutting clean across the space, "you are not just wolf, and you are not just vampire.

You are a fusion of power the world has never seen before.

Use all of it.

If you deny any part of yourself, you will not survive."

His words fall into me like knives.

I know he's right.

I hate that he's right.

I don't like what I become when I lean into my vampire side.

It's colder.

Sharper.

Emptier.

A blade without a hand to wield it.

But I will become whatever monster I have to.

I will tear down the world with bloody teeth if that's what it takes to reclaim my throne.

I press the bracelet against my wrist, feeling the faint thrum of Sylas's magic beating alongside my own.

In my head — not aloud — I make my vow.

I will survive this.

I will rise.

And when I do, they will learn to fear what they tried to kill.

I step forward.

The gateway swallows me whole.

Cold hits me first.

A deep, biting cold that has nothing to do with weather.

Then the world solidifies around me.

I recognize it instantly.

Home.

Or what home used to be.

The great silver towers of the palace pierce the blood-red sky.

The walls are intact, the gardens lush — the way they were before betrayal and fire ripped them apart.

My heart slams against my ribs.

The air here tastes like memory.

The stones hum under my boots, whispering my name.

I am still bound to this land.

Even now.

Even broken.

Even forgotten.

My kingdom remembers me.

And now, so will everyone else.