Chapter 6: You Don’t Get To Die
1808 Words
Rhea kneels in the grass.
Silver light pours from her palm into Caelan’s chest.
He arches. A sound tears out of him that isn’t human. The silver bullet that was killing him pushes out of the wound and turns to black dust on the grass.
The blood stops.
He breathes.
“Saved,” Rhea says. She stands. Wipes her hand on her white dress like he’s dirt. “You owe me, sister. Original debts are paid in blood.”
I don’t hear her.
My hands are still on Caelan’s chest. My hands are covered in his blood.
He opens his eyes. Grey. Fading back from white. He looks at me.
“Ella,” he says. Voice rough. Barely there.
“You don’t get to die,” I tell him. My voice shakes so bad I can barely get it out. “You hear me? You don’t get to do that. Not after… not after you took that bullet. Not after you waited. You don’t get to leave.”
His lips move. A smile. Small. Tired. “Bossy.”
“Damn right I’m bossy.” Tears burn my eyes. I’m not crying. I don’t cry. “You said thirty days. You don’t get to quit on day one.”
The guards surround us. A wall of bodies. Swords out. Facing Rhea. Facing the garden entrance where the assassin came from.
Mara, the head maid, runs forward with bandages. Her hands shake.
I push her away. Not mean. But firm. “I got him.”
I rip his shirt open. The wound is closed. Rhea’s power sealed it, but silver poisoning leaves marks. A black spiderweb of veins around the hole. It pulses.
Silver stays, Lyra says inside. In the blood. It will try to kill him again.
“Then we get it out,” I snap out loud.
Rhea laughs. “You can’t. Only Original blood can pull silver. And I just spent mine. Your turn, little sister.”
She says sister like it’s a joke.
She lies, Lyra snarls. She has plenty. She just wants you to beg.
I look down at my palm. At the scar from when I was eight. I grabbed a silver fence to save a pup. The scar is still white.
I grab the assassin’s silver knife from the grass.
“Ella, no—” Caelan tries to sit up.
I put a hand on his shoulder. Push him down. Gently.
“Stay,” I tell him.
I cut.
One fast line across my palm. Deep. Blood wells up. Not red. Red with silver threads in it. Like starlight.
Everyone gasps.
Rhea’s eyes go wide. For the first time, she looks surprised.
“You stupid girl,” she whispers.
I press my bleeding palm to Caelan’s chest. Right over his wound. Over his heart.
The heat under my skin explodes. Lyra rises, but not to kill. To heal.
Let me, she says. Let me show you, little moon.
“Scream if it hurts,” I tell Caelan.
He doesn’t scream. His back arches again. The black veins under his skin pull toward my hand like they’re being dragged by a magnet.
He groans. Bites down so hard I hear his teeth click.
My blood drips into his wound. Where it touches, the black fades.
It takes ten seconds. Ten years.
Then he collapses back onto the grass. Breathing hard. Eyes closed.
The wound on his chest is pink now. New skin. No black. No silver.
My palm is still bleeding.
I wrap it with his torn shirt. Tight.
Good, Lyra says. Soft. Proud. You chose to bleed. That’s what makes you different from me.
Caelan’s eyes open. He looks at my hand. At his chest. At me.
“You healed me,” he says. Quiet. Like he can’t believe it.
“You bled for me first,” I say.
He sits up. Slowly. Tests his chest. No pain. He stares at my blood on his skin.
Mara drops to her knees next to us. “Your Majesty, we need to get you both inside. Now. The Council—”
As if the word summons them, the main gates groan open.
Black SUVs. Again. Same as the motel. But more. Ten. Twenty.
Doors slam. Council soldiers pour out. Not ten this time. Fifty.
Elder Miriam steps out last. Her tactical gear is gone. She wears Council white again. Formal. Like she’s here for a trial. She holds a scroll. Big. Sealed with silver wax.
“Alpha King Caelan Drayce,” she calls. Her voice carries across the courtyard. “By order of the Council of Twelve Packs, you are required to prove your claim.”
Caelan stands. He sways once. I grab his arm without thinking.
He steadies. Puts his hand over mine for half a second. Then lets go.
“Speak,” he says to Miriam. Cold again. King again.
Miriam unrolls the scroll. “Article Seven, Section Three. ‘No Queen may be crowned without proof of wolf. No Queen may be claimed without shift under Council eye.’ You claim this girl is Original. Prove it. Or step down.”
Fifty soldiers raise rifles. Silver barrels. All pointed at me.
The guards around us raise swords.
One word and this courtyard becomes a slaughterhouse.
Let me out, Lyra says. Let me show them. One shift. They’ll kneel or die.
I can feel her pushing. Her claws under my nails. Her rage at being questioned.
I squeeze my fists. Blood from my cut drips onto the grass.
“No,” I whisper. To Lyra. “Not like this.”
“Ella,” Caelan says. Low. Only for me. “You don’t have to.”
“Yes, I do.” I look at him. “If I shift now, because she tells me to, I’m her puppet. If I don’t shift, they take you. Or kill you.”
His jaw tightens. “Let them try.”
“That’s not a plan,” I say.
I step forward. Out from behind the guard wall. Into the open space between the King’s guards and the Council’s guns.
Every rifle follows me.
Elder Miriam smiles. Small. Victorious. “Wolfless girls bleed pretty. But bleeding isn’t shifting, child.”
My cut palm throbs. My knees shake. I’m in soft pants and a shirt that isn’t mine, barefoot, covered in blood that isn’t all mine. I probably look insane.
I look at Miriam. At the Council soldiers. At Rhea, who watches with her arms crossed, bored.
At Caelan, who stands behind me, bleeding still from where my blood dried on his chest, ready to die for me again if I let him.
“I’m not wolfless,” I say. My voice carries. I don’t shout. I’m tired of shouting. “And I’m not your Queen. Not yet. I’m Ella Shaw. I’m twenty-one. I like honey in my tea and I hate roses. And I’m done proving myself to people who watched me get cut three times and said nothing.”
Miriam blinks. “Excuses. Shift, girl. Or we take you.”
“You want proof?” I hold up my bleeding palm. The blood still has silver threads in it.
Show them, Lyra whispers. Not the wolf. The light.
I close my eyes.
I don’t call for claws. I don’t call for fangs. I call for the heat. The one that sat by the door in the motel. The one that purred when Caelan knelt.
The heat answers.
My eyes snap open.
Silver.
Not a flash. Not half a second.
Full, steady, blazing silver. Like two moons in my head.
The wind stops. The birds stop.
Every wolf in the courtyard feels it. Their knees buckle. Even Caelan drops to one knee, head bowed, not because I command him, but because his wolf knows. Older than him. Stronger than him.
Rhea drops too. One knee. Her face twisted. She hates it.
Miriam stumbles back. Her hand goes to her silver knife, but she can’t draw it. Her own wolf is whimpering.
I let the light flood the courtyard.
Then I speak. And my voice is not just mine. It’s mine and Lyra’s, layered together.
“I am Lyra. I am Ella. I am the first and the last. Kneel.”
Fifty Council soldiers hit their knees at once. Rifles clatter to stone.
Elder Miriam is the only one standing. Shaking.
“This… this is trick… silver contacts… witch—”
“It’s real, Miriam,” Caelan says. He stands. His voice is raw but strong. “You felt it. We all did.”
He walks to me. Stands beside me. Not in front. Beside.
Miriam looks at me. At my silver eyes. At the guards still kneeling. At her own soldiers kneeling to a girl she called wolfless yesterday.
She rolls the scroll up. Slowly.
“Day one,” she says. Her voice shakes. “You have twenty-nine days left, King. Prove she can control it. Prove she won’t burn us all like Lyra did. Or the law stands. Prove her wolf or step down.”
She turns. Walks back to her car.
Her soldiers scramble up, grab rifles, run after her.
The SUVs reverse. Gone.
The courtyard is silent except for breathing.
My silver eyes fade. Brown again. My legs give out.
Caelan catches me before I hit stone.
“You’re bleeding again,” he says, looking at my palm.
“Worth it,” I whisper.
Rhea walks past us. Stops. Looks down at me in Caelan’s arms.
“You just declared war, little sister,” she says. Soft. Almost kind. “They’ll come back with chains, not scrolls.”
Let them, Lyra says. Tired now.
Caelan carries me inside. The guards still kneel until we pass.
In the hall, he sets me down. Mara brings water and bandages.
“Did I pass?” I ask him. My eyes feel heavy. Using the light took everything.
He wraps my hand. His fingers are careful.
“No,” he says. “You terrified them. That’s not passing. That’s winning.”
I laugh. Then wince. Everything hurts.
“Twenty-nine days,” I say.
“Twenty-nine days,” he agrees.
He leans his forehead against mine. Just for a second. Not a kiss. Just… resting. Two tired people who bled for each other on day one.
He is yours, Lyra whispers. If you want him.
I don’t answer. I’m too tired.
A guard runs in, pale. “Your Majesty – the Council’s second seal was on that scroll.” Caelan goes still. “Second seal means what?” I ask. Rhea answers from the doorway, smiling: “It means they didn’t come to take you. They came to see if you could shift. You showed them light, not wolf. Tomorrow, they come back with the Hunters. And Hunters don’t kneel.”
- Writer
