The chains were warmer this time.
That somehow made it worse.
They rose from the floor under the council’s command, curling around my wrists and ankles with smooth, almost gentle precision. No Frostclaw sigils. No divine scorch. These were Blackthorne-made—old magic, carved into the bones of the sanctum long before I was born.
They hummed with pack power.
With Kael’s ancestors.
With wolves who would never have imagined their own queen kneeling in them.
The circle of the ritual chamber closed at my feet, locking me in a ring of faintly glowing runes. A low, shimmering barrier rose, sealing me from the rest of the room like a glass of light.
On the other side, the council watched.
Kael watched.
“Faye,” he rasped. “Stop this. You don’t have to—”
“I already did,” I whispered.
Myra s
