Despite her anger at her inner wolf and fear of it, she missed Danya.

Since childhood, Devon had been her father's shadow. Growing up at his side meant she was no stranger to the heartbreaking and often useless pleas of the lost. Although each town usually applied justice according to the restrictions set by the crown, offenses such as the ones Prince Marcus had accused her of ended up in the King's High Court before her father and his chosen jury.

Why did even Sheriva believe my enemy?

The housekeeper had been like an older sister to her—one of the few people who made her feel normal.

OnlyBayle remained unwavering in his loyalty to me, which endangers him. I can't imagine what evil the dark prince plans to visit upon the general for it.

Devon's back bowed into an arch, and she feared her muscles might snap her spine. But as the tension released, her mind returned to the present.

It was the strongest convulsion yet, and the silver caused it, affecting her much like arsenic poisoning in a human. The bonds bit deeper with each spasm, making her gasp for breath and hope for a final release from this broken world. Hallucinations reminiscent of a waking dream interrupted the clarity of her mind as visions of the rotting dead rearing to life and screaming abuse at her with soundless voices threatened her sanity.

A slight breeze picked up strength and carried the sickening scents of rot laced with the cloying odor of death. It overwhelmed the soothing undercurrents of earth and dry heat, yet it cooled Devon's feverish skin and told tales of faraway grasslands, forests, and fields. She isolated those aromas to stop herself from fixating on the thundering beat of her stuttering heart. The ache of her muscles and the sting of unhealed tissue distracted her, the agony of broken bones rivaling all but her raging thirst. Breathing became a struggle, and she focused instead on her surroundings. The rustling sounds of scavengers pecking and tearing at meat drew her attention—so did the movements of rodents scurrying from their hiding places to join in the feast. She pictured them feasting on her dead flesh in a few hours, and she shuddered, pushing her perception further.

Somewhere, an actual wolf skulked; its scent was unmistakable: dog, forest, wilderness, carrion, and musk. The beast kept its distance, waiting for her to stop moving.

Predators recognize each other, and the hunter will take no chances.

Birds sang in the far-off trees, and Devon followed these soothing sounds, but the slightest hint of water almost robbed her of her concentration. Without the potency of her despair, she might have marveled at her fortitude.

Her body eased into a dull, throbbing discomfort, interrupted by a forceful seizure that rocked her helpless form to its limits.

Amid the torment, Devon accepted her fate.

A familiar shadowy form again materialized in the shade of the farthest monolith. Tendrils of darkness shifted like eerie mist and surrounded Artemis, and as she had done before, she watched Devon suffer. The smirk tugging at her lips did not much alter the detached expression on her exquisite face as those glacial blue eyes stared at the young werewolf without even the pretense of compassion.

"Let go, my child," she urged in that pleasantly lilting voice. "Stop fighting." She took a step closer, but a sound halted her steps.

It did not repeat.

"Have I not already won?" Artemis whispered as if sharing some great and wonderful secret. "For your own sake, let it end."

The evening wind stirred the dust at her feet.

"On the day I destroyed his legacy, I warned Great-Uncle Heracles his prophecies were doomed." A chuckle escaped her as if she could not contain her glee. "He was the one who revealed to Grandmother that I would not be her successor. If he was the greatest oracle of our line, how did he not see what would happen?" she asked almost idly, inspecting her darkly painted nails. "Yet, what good did his prophecies do? The mages are dead, and the world has lost its guardians."

Her attention returned to Devon like a snake spotting prey.

"With your death, I will assure the outcome. You and your sibling are the last of our blood. Yet again, Terra failed to protect what she loves most."

Satisfied that nothing could save that flickering life force, Artemis vanished in a swirl of black vapor. Close to where she had stood, another figure appeared and disappeared in the same instant—her white dress shimmered in the light, and a midnight-blue cape covered her shoulders.

"I have not yet lost, Grandmother, and we are not all dead. The power of your magic may stop me from stepping in and saving my child, but there is hope as long as a spark of life remains. Hold on, my love," she muttered, despite knowing Devon could not possibly hear her.

Lord Darren reined his fiery black stallion to a standstill. It shivered and pawed the ground, shying away from the bodies and snorting at the overpowering smell of wolf.

"Shhh, Ragnor. There is no danger," he assured the animal despite his misgivings.

The midnight-black horse flicked its sensitive ears at him.

"Good boy," he soothed, patting it on the neck and loosening his hold on the reins.

"It's alive," Arlene called, directing his attention to the center of The Circle of Justice.

The elf, his closest friend and confidant, had been his companion for almost a century. Although she was secretive about her past, he had long since discovered why she distrusted werewolves more than Ragnor hated them.

Yet her empathy allows the scene before us to unsettle her, he realized.

"It is a woman," the elf pointed out. "Why would a female occupy the place of honor?"

Lord Darren leaned forward and focused on the vague human form as the harvest moon hid behind ominous clouds. His night vision revealed the dullest red trace of body heat.

The surrounding carrion overwhelmed his sense of smell but for the faintest tang of something familiar.

"The werewolf king has three female relatives. How can this be one of them, with Aretha banned to the far reaches of their kingdom and Maria deceased?"

The mystery intrigued his vampire.

"You are right. My senses tell me she is a Creed," Lord Darren said, testing the waters.

There were murmurs of a royal execution, but until he caught the smell of Wolfgang's blood, he did not entirely believe them. Nor did he come here simply to find out if it was true. This place plagued his dreams for weeks, robbing him of sleep.

A sense of urgency beset him, and the closer to the full moon it got, the more intense his disquiet became. This evening, the urge to see the monument for himself overpowered his will.

No, that was not entirely true either. He was convinced someone needed his help.

The moment he saw the werewolf princess, he was at peace.

The furrow between his friend's dark-blonde brows made him uneasy, and those direct eyes stared into his soul, stirring the embers of guilt.

Whatever drew me here . . . there is no leaving without the wolf, he admitted to himself, with or without Arlene's cooperation or approval.

Ragnor advanced with palpable reluctance, and his shod hooves clopped against the solid stone, echoing eerily into the desert.

"What sin brought her to this end?"

Arlene's distracted curiosity was unexpected.

"I have no idea," Lord Darren murmured, staring uneasily at the dense darkness. He did not bother using his night vision, knowing it would gain him only a few feet of visibility and unsettle him more.

Since his father first brought him here as a youth to witness an execution, he disliked it.

"Too much blood soaked these strange, dark-colored stones that are not native to this area," the vampire said uneasily. "There is an odd energy to them."

"And I've never seen their like in all my travels," Lord Darren murmured.

"The druids and the fairy folk speak of a mystic isle created by the first mages that contains such monuments," the vampire reminded him. "According to legend, runes containing prophecies pertaining to the end of days, written by Gaia and Heracles themselves, fill their surfaces."

"Dragon poop," Lord Darren said dismissively. "You know faeries like to spin tales."

"They stretch the truth, but they never lie," the vampire replied.

Lord Darren hesitated outside the granite monoliths surrounding The Circle of Justice as the spirits of the dead seemed to linger in the deepest shadows.

Ragnor refused to budge when his master urged him forward, and the horse's unwillingness was not something Lord Darren often encountered.

"The lycan won't survive," Arlene concluded.

His heart clenched, rebelling against the possibility.

"Will she not?" he drawled, filled with a strange need for her to be wrong.

"Her chances are slim," the elf admitted.