The marsh stank of rot and stagnant water. Mist clung to the pools like torn sheets, drifting in slow curls that made the reeds look like they were breathing. Every step Thomas took sank into mud, a wet sound that stuck to his ears. Wolves hated swamps. They belonged to ghosts and witches, not packs and kings.
Mira walked ahead as if the ground shaped itself for her. Her black hair hung damp against her back, swinging as she moved. She didn’t look back at him once.
Thomas hated following her. He hated how steady she looked while he had to pick his steps carefully. He hated that he needed her.
“You’re certain about this?” he asked, his voice low but sharp.
Mira’s laugh cut through the mist. “You’re the one who wants the crown, Thomas. Crowns don’t come without blood—or filth.”
The reed
