The fire in Silas’s chambers burned low, casting an amber glow over the stone walls. Victoria paced the rug in tight, clipped steps, her voice low but sharp.
“Who is she? What is she? Why didn’t you tell me? Silas, her skin was glowing. That’s not normal.”
“Victoria,” he cut in, steady but firm, “sit down.”
She froze for a second before lowering herself into the chair across from him, though her eyes kept darting to the bed where Celeste lay unmoving.
“You remember the old histories,” Silas began, leaning forward, forearms braced on his knees. “The stories about the first royal lines, the ones chosen by the Moon Goddess herself?”
Victoria gave a cautious nod. “Of course. Every wolf pup grows up on those tales. The Winters were the first.”
“They weren’t just rulers by bloodline. Their
