ARIEL
The sword is heavier than it looks.
My arms burn after just ten swings. Sweat drips down my spine despite the cool morning air. And Varder—standing perfectly still fifteen feet away—hasn't even broken his stance.
"Again," he says. Not a request. A command.
I grit my teeth and swing. The blade whistles through empty air as he sidesteps with minimal effort.
"You're telegraphing," he observes. His voice is clinical. Detached. "Your shoulders tense before you swing. Any competent fighter will see it coming."
"Maybe if you actually taught me instead of just saying 'again' like a broken record—"
"I am teaching you. You're just not learning fast enough." He tilts his head. "Frustration is clouding your judgment. Clear your mind. Focus."
"Easy for you to say. You're not the one who's been swinging this gods-damned sword for an hour—"
"Forty-seven minutes." He checks his pocket watch. "And if you spent less energy complaining and more on correcting your form, we'd be done by now."
I want to throw the sword at his head.
Instead, I force myself to breathe. To center. To try again.
This time, I focus on keeping my shoulders loose. On not telegraphing the movement.
I swing.
The blade comes within inches of him before he moves.
"Better," he says. And coming from Varder, that's practically a standing ovation. "Again. Same technique."
I swing. Miss. Swing. Miss. Swing—
This time he doesn't dodge. His hand shoots out, catching my wrist mid-swing. Stopping the blade dead.
"Adequate." He releases me. "You're learning. Slower than I'd like, but learning."
"High praise," I mutter, lowering the sword. My arms feel like they're going to fall off.
"It's accurate praise." He moves to the weapons rack, selecting a pair of daggers. "Swords aren't your weapon. You don't have the strength or reach to use them effectively. But these—" he tosses me a dagger "—might work better."
I catch it. Lighter. More manageable.
"Show me how you'd hold it in a fight," he instructs.
I position the dagger like I've seen in training. Blade down, edge out.
"Wrong." He crosses to me. "That's for slashing. You want to stab. Blade up, like this—"
His hand covers mine, adjusting my grip. His touch is warm, firm, impersonal.
Purely instructional.
So why does my pulse quicken?
"Feel the difference?" he asks, his voice near my ear. "This angle gives you more force. More penetration."
He steps back immediately, like prolonged contact might burn him.
"Try it. Attack me."
"With a real blade?"
"I'll survive. Attack."
I hesitate. Then lunge.
He deflects easily, but his eyes gleam with something that might be approval.
"Better. Again."
We drill for another twenty minutes. Attack. Deflect. Attack. Deflect. My movements get smoother. More confident.
Finally, he raises his hand. "Enough. You've learned the basics. The rest is practice."
I lower the dagger, breathing hard. "When do I get to actually hit you?"
"When you're good enough that I don't see it coming." His lips curve slightly. Almost a smile. "Give it a few years."
Despite everything—despite the fact that he's using me, that this is all strategy, that he's made it clear I'm nothing but a weapon—that almost-smile makes something warm bloom in my chest.
I shove the feeling down.
"What now?" I ask. "More training? Or do I finally get breakfast?"
"Now—" Varder's expression shifts. Goes serious. "—we need to talk."
The warmth evaporates. Those four words never lead anywhere good.
"About what?"
"About your position here. Your role." He gestures toward the manor. "Walk with me."
I follow him across the courtyard. My legs protest every step. I'm going to be so sore tomorrow.
"Yesterday," Varder begins, his voice carefully neutral, "I received a visit from the Elders. Three of them. Cornelius, Marcus, and Thaddeus."
"I heard." Theresa had mentioned it this morning. Said the whole manor was buzzing with gossip.
"They came to discuss two issues. First, the fact that you're here. Second, the fact that I don't have a Luna."
My stomach tightens. "What did they say about me?"
"That harboring my brother's castoff violates pack law. That it's causing political instability. That it gives Davian ammunition to use against me." He glances at me. "They want me to send you away."
The words hit like a physical blow.
Send me away. Where would I even go? Back to Davian? Never. To my family? They'd turn me away in shame. To wander alone as a rogue? I wouldn't survive a week.
"And?" I force the question out. "Are you?"
"No."
Relief floods through me so powerfully my knees almost buckle.
"But," Varder continues, and that one word destroys the relief, "the Luna issue is more complicated. The Elders are insisting I take a mate. Secure the succession. Stabilize my political position."
"So take one,Take Cornelius's daughter. Or whoever else they're pushing on you. What does that have to do with me?"
He stops walking. Turns to face me.
"Because I've decided to make you my Luna."
The world tilts.
"What?"
"You heard me." His expression is unreadable. "I'm going to announce publicly that you're my mate. My Luna. Queen of all werewolf territories."
"That's—that's insane—"
"It's strategic." He starts walking again, forcing me to follow or be left behind. "It solves multiple problems simultaneously. The Elders get their Luna. You get protection from Davian's claims. I consolidate political power. Everyone wins."
"Everyone except me!" I grab his arm, forcing him to stop. "You can't just decide to make me Queen without asking—"
"I'm not asking, Ariel. I'm telling you." His eyes are cold. Flat. "This is happening. The announcement will be made tomorrow. The ceremony will follow within two weeks."
"No." The word comes out fierce. Final. "No, I won't do it."
"You don't have a choice."
"I always have a choice—"
"Do you?" He steps closer. Looms over me. "Let's examine your choices, shall we? Option one: you agree. You become my Luna. You get protection, power, status. You stay here where Davian can't touch you. We continue our plan to destroy him."
His voice drops.
"Option two: you refuse. The Elders force my hand. I take a mate from one of their approved candidates. You lose my protection. Go back to your family who will probably reject you and live the rest of your life as a rogue, and everything you've endured—the humiliation, the pain, the sacrifice—will be for nothing."
Each word is a hammer blow.
"So tell me, Ariel. Which choice are you making?"
Rage burns through me. Hot. Incandescent.
"You're backing me into a corner."
"Yes."
"This changes nothing except your title".
"It changes everything!" My voice rises. "You're asking me to pretend to be your mate. Your Queen. To stand in front of the entire realm and lie—"
"I'm not asking. I'm requiring." His jaw tightens. "And it's not a lie. You will be my Luna. In every public way that matters. Only you and I will know the truth."
"And what is the truth, Varder?" I step closer, refusing to be intimidated. "What are we really doing here? Because it feels like I'm trading one cage for another. One Alpha who controlled me for another."
Something flickers in his eyes. Too fast to identify.
"The difference," he says softly, "is that I'm honest about what I want from you. I'm not pretending to love you. I'm not making promises I won't keep. This is a transaction. Pure and simple."
"How romantic," I say bitterly.
"Romance isn't part of our deal." He turns away. "You wanted revenge. I'm giving you the means to achieve it. The fact that it requires you to play a role shouldn't be surprising."
He's right. I know he's right.
But that doesn't make it easier.
"I need time to think," I say finally.
"You have until tomorrow morning. That's when the announcement will be made."
"That's not enough—"
"It's all you get." He starts walking again. "I suggest you use it wisely."
I'd barely had time to process Varder's ultimatum—marry me by moonrise—when
Theresa appeared in the doorway of my temporary chambers, her expression carefully blank.
"You have visitors," she said, her tone neutral but her eyes sympathetic. "Your parents."
My stomach dropped. "What?"
"My lord—Miss Ariel—" She stops in front of us, clutching a sealed letter. "This just arrived. From the border. The messenger said it was ururgentur