The palace had two faces.
The one I’d seen at the ball—gold and crystal and polished ritual—and this one: iron gates yawning for emergency vehicles, side doors thrown open, guards moving at a near run.
I was through the checkpoint before anyone thought to stop me.
Maybe it was Grace at my shoulder, barking codes into her comm. Maybe it was the way my scent screamed panic, the half‑awake bond in my chest sparking like faulty wiring.
Either way, the guard at the inner gate took one sniff, went pale, and thumbed the override.
“Luna,” he said under his breath.
I didn’t correct him.
Inside, the air tasted like alert mode: adrenaline, metal, the faint sting of fresh wards slamming into place. Wolves in uniform parted around us, some dipping their heads out of instinct, some openly staring
