On the night of the Blood Rite, the whole town watched Dain Greyfen reject me. "I refuse Sera Aldern." Not because I wronged him. Because I was born wrong — a Blank, a moonless girl in a country that drowns moonless girls in the river. He didn't even hate me. He just handed me to the snow. The old women say the moon keeps a register of everything: every debt, every keeping, every stolen thing. I used to think that was a story for children. Then I died in the snow. And the register opened. Something woke in me that hasn't walked the world in three hundred years — a white wolf with the first eyes in the world, and a heartbeat the size of the sky. The founding calls it heresy. The Grey Accord calls it a war. The Lycan King, who crossed three kingdoms to kneel in front of a nothing-girl, calls it the debt his blood has owed since the night his ancestor stole a god's skin. They all want something. The king wants to give. The Chancellor wants to cage. The man who rejected me just wants to survive what he started. And the moon? The moon has been waiting three hundred years for someone to ask it for nothing. They built their law on the wolves who take. They never planned for the girl who gives back.