The summoning came with no warning.
No knock.
No royal herald.
Just two masked guards and a sealed scroll bearing the emblem of the High Council—two wolves devouring the same moon.
Elara didn't read it.
She didn't need to.
The message was written in the way they avoided her eyes.
In the gloves one wore to hide a silver-tipped dagger.
In the silence between each breath.
Tonight, she would not be a guest.
She would be offered.
They dressed her in silver.
Not silk.
Not armor.
But chains.
A gown of cold-threaded lace bound tight around her ribs, sleeves etched with wolf-teeth embroidery, and a collar made not of fabric—but of linked silver rings, hugging her throat with ceremonial cruelty.
On her collarbone, the bone ring mark pulsed—angry, uncertain, burning through her skin.
"They're binding me," she whispered.
No one answered.
The servant braiding her hair only tightened the weave.
As if obedience might keep her from screaming.
The feast was held in the Moon Chamber—a circular sanctum that had once been used for coronations, then for trials, and now for sacrifice masquerading as tradition.
Dozens of nobles had gathered.
Kael sat on the throne.
Not dressed in his usual blacks and bone-gold.
But in full regalia: silver-lined robes. His crown.
Expression unreadable.
Elara stepped through the threshold.
The doors slammed shut behind her.
"The Silver Feast," the High Priest announced, "is held but once every two centuries. Tonight, the heavens open. And the curse closes."
A murmur passed through the room.
Elara stood very still.
"What curse?" she asked.
The priest smiled.
"The one stitched into the veins of the royal line."
His eyes flicked to Kael.
"Too long have the sons of the moon borne crystallizing blood. Tonight, the mixed-blooded one"—his gaze landed back on her—"shall carry it from him."
She blinked.
"What?"
"The bond must be reversed."
"You mean severed."
"We mean transferred."
Her blood ran cold.
"You want me to take his curse."
"To preserve his reign."
She looked at Kael.
Still, he did not speak.
Still, he did not move.
But his hand—where it rested on the throne's arm—twitched.
Once.
Twice.
A rhythm.
Bone ring frequency.
A code only she could feel.
Wait.
A servant stepped forward.
Held a silver bowl filled with mirrored liquid.
"Elara Voss," said the priest, "kneel and drink."
She stared at it.
It smelled of iron and snow.
Bitter magic.
Cold binding.
"No."
A gasp echoed around the room.
The priest's eyes narrowed.
"You would defy the feast?"
"I am not a chalice," she hissed. "I am not a scapegoat for your cursed bloodlines."
The priest nodded once.
A signal.
Two guards stepped forward.
Grabbed her arms.
She struggled.
Kael still didn't move.
But now his ring was burning.
The signal was clear.
Hold.I'm coming.Let them see what they've made.
The guards forced her to her knees.
The priest brought the bowl to her lips.
Elara clenched her jaw.
Spat into the liquid.
A ripple of gasps.
The priest struck her.
Hard.
Blood bloomed in her mouth.
The crowd froze.
Waiting.
Kael stood.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
And descended the steps.
The crowd parted like a hunted thing.
His footsteps echoed like hammers.
He reached Elara.
Looked at her.
Looked at the priest.
Then backhanded the priest across the mouth.
The man staggered.
Kael took the bowl.
Raised it.
And drank.
Silence.
Stunned.
Shaking.
Kael dropped the bowl.
It shattered.
Mirrored liquid sprayed across the floor.
He turned to the crowd.
Voice sharp. Deep. Commanding.
"The Silver Feast is ended."
"But—" the priest began.
Kael raised a hand.
The man fell silent.
"She is not your cure," Kael snarled. "She is your storm."
He knelt beside Elara.
Wiped the blood from her mouth with his sleeve.
"I told you," he whispered. "They'll bleed for this."
Then louder:
"Let the council try again. But next time—"
He bared his fangs.
"—bring enough chains for both of us."
He lifted Elara to her feet.
Walked her out.
Unhurried.
Unbent.
Unbowed.
Behind them, the shattered silver bled across the floor.
A broken mirror.
A promise unmet.
And the first howl of rebellion was no longer distant.
It was his.