*Aloria*
The throne room feels vast and cold, the stones beneath my feet echoing my racing heartbeat. My declaration hangs in the air like a fragile thread, and the king’s expression shifts, his brows knitting together. Confusion flares in his eyes where disbelief had been, and for a moment, I think I see a flicker of recognition, but it disappears as quickly as it came.
“You claim to be the princess,” he says slowly, as if testing each word on his tongue. “But the princess is dead. I saw her clothes, stained with blood, left behind when she was taken by the rogues.” His voice is hard, unyielding, and I feel the weight of his skepticism pressing down on me.
“No,” I insist, shaking my head fiercely. “I survived. I was taken and raised in a pack far from here.” I can feel the fire growing
