The child came screaming into the world, a daughter, fragile and perfect. But when the first shift rippled through her tiny body, the chamber froze. The wolf that emerged in spirit was not hers. It was male. Broad-shouldered, silver eyed, a beast that should never have belonged to her blood. The Seer’s voice cracked like thunder: "A wolf born wrong. A spirit that will devour the bloodline. She is curse, not crown." The midwives recoiled. One whispered, “Kill it before it grows.” But Lysandra’s gaze was steel. She gathered the child against her breast, shielding her from the world’s verdict. “She is mine,” the Queen said, her voice trembling with fury. “And she will live.” From the shadows, another figure stepped forward — Sorceress Varyn, the Keeper of Bones. Her presence chilled the chamber, her eyes gleaming with secrets older than the palace walls. She spoke not to the Queen, but to the child, as though the infant already understood. "Two halves cannot walk the same path. But I can bind them. Hide the truth in blood and silence. She will be both, and neither." The ritual was swift and terrible. Varyn carved sigils into the air with a blade of bone, each stroke dripping crimson from her own palm. She pressed the mark upon the newborn’s chest, whispering words that tasted of ash. The wolf’s male essence folded inward, sealed behind a veil of magic.