For twenty-five years, I had watched my father's portrait hang above the throne.
Twenty-five years of believing he was dead.
Twenty-five years of remembering the funeral.
The mourning.
The blood moon that had appeared the night his body was buried.
Twenty-five years of hating the world for taking him from me.
And now...
He was standing in front of me.
Alive.
Impossible.
My hands slowly curled into fists.
"You're dead."
The man smiled.
"I've heard that before."
Indra was silent.
For the first time in my life, my wolf had no words.
I stared at the face I had spent half my childhood trying to remember.
The sharp jaw.
The silver-black hair.
The scar above his eyebrow.
Those crimson eyes that had once looked at me with warmth.
But there was something different now.
Somethi
