Irene slammed the cellar door behind her, breath ragged. The vial in her hand shimmered faintly under torchlight.
She set it down, watching the silver liquid swirl inside like liquid moonlight.
*One drop severs a wolf's bond to the moon forever.*
She uncorked it. The scent was sharp—mint, iron, betrayal.
“You brewed it," Mikhail said from the shadows. “You actually made it."
She nodded. “Two vials."
He stepped closer. “One for Cassian?"
“The other for leverage."
He picked up the second vial. “The rebels will want proof."
“They'll have it," she said. “At the tribute ceremony."
“You'll poison him in front of the king?"
“No," she replied. “I'll poison the king."
Mikhail blinked. “What?"
She met his gaze. “Cassian was a pawn. Always was. The crown is the rot."
“And Cassian?"
Her
