Wolf Born : The Lost Princess

The Lost Heir

Elara backed away, her heart racing.

Princess?

The word echoed in her mind, an unfamiliar word, full of hidden meaning that she did not comprehend.

Maren stood beside her, her face a mask of inscrutable face. There was something, however, in her eyes—something taut, something unspoken.

"Inside. Now," she said, her voice hard and commanding.

Elara paused, glancing back across the wood splintered by the storm. The trees creaked and rocked beneath the whistling blast, their silhouettes extended and contorted in the dim lantern glow. Whatever had compelled this man to this location—whatever lay beyond—remained still.

Despite this, she nodded.

With a power greater than Elara ever imagined a woman her age could possess, Maren helped her haul the wounded man in. He was huge, his arms and legs limp but refusing to be moved, his scorching skin blistering even under the water-logged fabric of his battered and wrecked coat. Blood oozed from the wounds, combining with rainwater as it left a red trail on the wood floor.

They laid him out on the little cot by the fire. The dancing light of the fire illuminated his battered form, casting harsh shadows along the grid of old and new scars on his chest and arms—each scabbed testament to pain and endurance.

Elara grasped for a clean cloth and pushed it into the most grievous of his wounds, stopping the blood from flowing. The air stuck to her thick with the rich odor of the metallic stench of blood, a bitter, gagging smell, but she fought it, the training prevailing.

She had washed wounds before, sewn together dozens of shattered bodies. But never a body such as his.

A body that was not human.

His breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling in ragged, labored gasps. His dark hair plastered to his face, rain, and sweat, and despite all the pain twisting his features, his presence was. Powerful. Even broken, he seemed larger than life, as if he wore the weight of something much heavier than himself.

And then his eyes opened.

Deep, piercing gold.

"You don't know, do you?" His voice was gritted, rasped by pain, but his eyes were clear, burning her like scald on cold water. "You don't remember."

Elara's brow creased, perplexed. "Remember what?"

He was about to speak when Maren gasped sharply and stepped forward.

"You must rest," she said, too swift, too curt.

Elara's head twitched back in her direction. Something about the way Maren had said what she had said—something in her sense of urgency—gave Elara a chill run down the center of her back.

Thorne, however, seeming to notice her trepidation, simply disregarded Maren entirely. He tilted his head around in Elara's direction, golden eyes freezing her in place as they landed upon hers.

The words cascaded over her like a tidal wave, leaving her breath in her lungs.

There was no air, just a silence heavy with tension.

And then she laughed—a sharp, glacial laugh. "That's crazy."

She looked at Maren, hoping—longing—for the old woman to laugh, shake her head, roll her eyes at the rejection of this insanity.

But Maren did not speak.

Elara's heart skipped a beat. Shiver coursed down her bones.

She leaned forward, her voice low and commanding. "Tell him he's wrong."

Maren's face didn't change. But she didn't glance at Elara.

The air between them was huge and suffocating.

Elara's gut churned. A vortex of shadow and evil began to churn deep within her, welling up out of the darkness.

"No," she whispered. "This isn't. This cannot be."

And yet far below in her mind, something shifted.

A gasp against her skin. A shiver of some forgotten, ancient creature.

A name. Nightbane.

A throne. A kingdom. A war.

Her head pounded with fragments of strange memories trying to force themselves into being—a foggy image of a ballroom, of a man with silver hair and cold eyes, of cries in the darkness of night. A lullaby, sad and sorrowful, sung by a voice she couldn't recall.

And fire. Much fire.

Her hands were shaking and she trembled to hide them in the cold folds of her dress, anchoring herself.

No. This is a lie. It has to be.

She turned to Thorne with her gaze clenched in anger. "If this is some sort of twisted joke, it isn't funny."

Thorne's face remained blank, but his eyes—those unhumanly golden, glowing eyes—were full of something like sorrow.

“Malgar took everything from your father,” he murmured. “And he thinks you’re dead. If he finds out you’re alive—”

"Enough." Maren's voice was icy, charged with something Elara couldn't pinpoint.

Anger?

Fear?

Desperation?

Thorne winced but didn't break his gaze from her. His breathing slowed now, exhaustion tugging at him, but before his eyes could even close, he squeezed out one final whisper:

"The kingdom needs you, Princess."

Elara was motionless, unable to move, unable to breathe.

Outside the windows, the storm raged.

But within, something far more dangerous had started.