Lysander
The journey from Summer Court to Bloodmoon should have been straightforward—a simple matter of traversing the paths between realms that I’d walked for six millennia. Instead, it had involved three days of exhausting political maneuvering that left me longing for the relative simplicity of werewolf pack dynamics.
My mother, Queen Titania, had summoned me to her solar as I prepared to depart. The chamber bloomed with impossible flowers that existed nowhere in the mortal realm, their golden petals turning to follow her movements as if she were their sun.
“You’ve bound yourself to the shadow wolf,” she’d stated without preamble, her beauty terrifying in its perfection. Not a question—nothing was ever a question with my mother. Always statements, observations sharp enough to draw bl
