A single bead of sweat trickled down Devon Creed's dirt- and blood-encrusted forehead. It edged her dark eyebrow, rushing down the swollen bridge of her nose before dropping down to the sand.

Why does it feel like days have passed since the guards bound me in place with silver-plated chains and cuffs crafted from solid steel? she wondered. "When, in fact, it has only been a few hours."

The precious metal seared her skin and insidiously poisoned her bloodstream, serving its purpose well. It drained her will to fight until she stopped defying the bonds holding her on her knees. The abrasive, sun-warmed texture of the blood-soaked stone bruised her skin.

And I am none of those things.

Her restricted blood flow made it feel like hundreds of fire ants were devouring her legs.

Everything started when Prince Marcus arrived on our doorstep. From the first moment I laid eyes on him, something about him didn't sit right with me. Our dislike was mutual, although I was the only one who didn't fall for his charm and deceit—except my friend and mentor, General Bayle. The prince fashioned me into a villain the likes of which the werewolf kingdom had not seen in a thousand years, framing me with minimal effort.

Not even life at court had prepared her for Marcus' knack of orchestrating each detail of his nefarious plans to perfection.

His ability to always put me in the wrong place at the wrong time seemed almost supernatural, leaving me with no excuse for my presence or idea of what I might find.

On the few occasions she managed to thwart him, he turned her victories into defeat with a few well-chosen words. Even when Wolfgang caught the prince lying, it changed nothing—something she still could not understand since her father hated liars.

The letter I received in secret from my cousin Maria provided the final nail in my coffin. A sharp, stabbing pain in her abdomen, a symptom of silver poisoning, briefly halted her tormenting thoughts. It convinced me to leave my tasks undone, and despite going against Father's wishes, I hurried to my cousin's aid.

A sharper, deeper flash of agony streaked through her insides, but her milling mind would not be deterred. I snuck from the castle, borrowed Hank's horse from his stable, and picked the shortcut through the forest.

Each choice she made ended up turning the tide against her.

When I arrived, the keep's doors were ajar. There were no signs of forced entry, but a bloodied sword lay abandoned in the foyer.

The familiar blade, with its wrought gold pommel shaped like a wolf's head, drew her attention. It belonged to Malvern, her cousin Maria's husband. Not having brought a weapon along, she picked it up, her fingers locking around the black leather strips covering the haft.

The tang of blood permeated the air, becoming denser near the great hall. The scent trails that were visible to her werewolf sight lingered like a thick, cloying red vapor.

Why is it so quiet? She advanced with caution, but nothing stirred in the hallways. Were they taken?

She avoided considering the alternative as she rushed into the room, and there she froze and her heart stuttered.

"Oh, Creator, no," she whispered with her hand before her mouth.

They are all dead, she realized.

No, no, no! her mind screamed. She glanced around in panic, her gaze going over those familiar faces.

"This can't be happening," Danya, her wolf, muttered inside her mind.

Devon's gaze caught on something near, drawn in his blood, and she recognized the symbol.

It is a warning meant to point out his killer. The hair on the back of her neck rose.

"Why would Marcus do this?" Danya asked, confused. "This makes no sense."

"I do not know," Devon said. The sound of many boots marching over the flagstone floor alerted her to danger.

"There are men in the foyer," the wolf warned.

"Is it a trap?" Devon wondered, suddenly uneasy. "Did he see me enter the gates, and has he returned to finish the job?"

"Surely he would not dare murder us?" the wolf denied the possibility.

"It is not safe for me to be here alone. I must flee," Devon muttered. Panic chased the shock away that kept her stationary.

There must be another way out of this room, she thought desperately.

Then her gaze caught on an opening almost hidden by a large tapestry. This entrance leading to the kitchens will allow me access to the service door, but the only way out of the courtyard is through the main gate.

"Solve that problem when we are safely outside!" Danya yelled.

Before Devon made it halfway across the room, the door behind her burst the rest of the way open. She skidded to a halt and almost lost her footing on the blood-slicked floor. With her borrowed sword at the ready, she faced her enemies. Despite its beauty, the weapon was slightly off balance—meant more for ceremony than battle since the edge was far too dull to do any actual damage against armored men.

"Don't stop! This is not a battle we can win!" Danya implored.

An arrow twanged past Devon, grazing her shoulder, and the sharp burn of silver registered.

"Do not shoot at her, you fool! The king will not thank you for killing his daughter!" Prince Marcus bellowed. Impatience marked his voice.

Why would my father's guards attack me? Devon wondered, dazed.

She recognized most of the men who preceded Marcus into the room, and on any other day, she would have turned to them for help, but she had never seen them look at her as if she were an enemy. Not so long ago, she was one of them.

What changed since this morning?

She glanced at Marcus, and the glow of victory in his eyes spoke volumes. His gray-blue irises turned black like squid ink, reminding her of the day he almost killed her in the practice room at Creed Castle.

What is that? she wondered. It isn't normal for a werewolf.

"Stop fighting, Princess, and drop the sword," Marcus commanded. "We outnumber you and caught you slaying your kin with their bodies still warm."

That smug tone brought Devon to her senses.

"Isn't that Malvern's silver-edged weapon you're holding? Tell me, Princess, is it the same blade you drove through his heart?" the prince accused, distracting her from her feelings of betrayal and disconcertment.

She had forgotten about the heavy weapon resting in her grip, and her insides clenched as the truth became clear.

The guards believe I did this. Marcus has convinced them of my guilt. Why were they so easily persuaded?

"No, I had nothing—"

"Gag her," Marcus interjected, commanding Federer, his second-in-command. "We don't want her using her will to subdue you."

Devon opened her mouth to do just that, but a grimy black bandanna slipped between her teeth as they grabbed her hands and bent them behind her back.

I made a fatal mistake by reacting like a soldier entering a dangerous situation, not a princess surrounded by enemies, she realized.

She turned her head slightly, avoiding her thoughts of the past. Even that slight movement caused her pain and brought her fully back to the present and her current predicament.

The sun mercilessly beat down on her naked body, and flies settled on her open wounds.

"Hindsight has keener eyes than an eagle."

The memory of Hank saying those words to her so many times over the years almost made her sob. The huntsman had been more of a father to her than her own. He had taught her so much, and his tragic death left a crater in her heart that nothing could fill.

The sorrow brought by the thought of her part in his death only added to her grief. If he had not taken pity on a lonely little girl and spoken to her that day while her father and the others hunted, he would live. The human should not have offered her his friendship or loyalty back then. If he had kept his distance, it would not have provided Marcus with a weapon to seal his fate. As the prince did with all the others who were part of her household, he painted Hank as guilty by association.

The monoliths had stood sentinel to the ages for a thousand years, and they towered above the dark-robed woman in her tight-fitting black dress like dark guardians. They bore mute witness to man's unashamed cruelty, brazen folly, and unmatched arrogance for as long as this strip of land divided the vampire and werewolf kingdoms. Both sides often freed outcasts, criminals, and rogues into this hinterland, allowing their royalty to hunt the damned without consequences.

Its justice knows no mercy, not even for the disavowed daughter of the High King of the Lycan Empire—the ultimate ruler of all twelve werewolf domains. It dispensed the same punishment to Devon Creed as it would to a common murderer.

These morbid thoughts pleased the dark queen of the mages as she stood beneath the blazing sun, unaffected by the elements.

Artemis watched Devon, her eyes glowing with malice.

No sane person shall dare enter this place to relieve the former princess of her suffering with those alternating red and black flags lining the road. Their presence proclaims Wolfgang's will, which forbids any interference at the penalty of death, she mused. A smirk pulled at lips painted the color of fresh blood.

"My plans worked out better than expected, dear Terra," she muttered.

Artemis' magic hid her from the werewolf teetering at the brink of death as she strolled into the dense shade of the largest standing stone.

She savored the odd atmosphere of the monument. It was blooded ground, a place of death that suited her tastes. Even in the middle of the afternoon, an eerie sense of motionlessness hung in the air, creating the illusion that time did not pass here as it did in other places.

Her laughter lingered as she disappeared in a cloud of black vapor.

Devon turned her head with great effort in Artemis' direction—almost as if she had picked up on the sound—but the mage's magic made that impossible.