The sun remained behind the thick canopy of the southern borderlands. Grey light fell in narrow strips across the moss and the damp ferns. The air smelled of wet peat, rotting leaves, and the metallic ozone that precedes a mountain storm.

Lyra walked a step behind Lucien. Her dark wool coat brushed the undergrowth. She watched the back of Lucien's neck and the way his dark blond hair caught the light. He moved without the sound of dry twigs breaking. He wore black silk gloves and kept his hands clasped behind his back.

The forest went quiet. The birds stopped their noise. A thick, acrid smell of unwashed fur and stale iron moved through the trees.

Lucien stopped. He stood still. His head tilted three degrees. The silver rings on his fingers caught a sliver of light as he unclasped his hands.

"The Wastes have a pungent reach today," Lucien said. His voice was a low baritone. It did not rise above a whisper.

A heavy thud sounded to the right. A second thud came from the left.

Six figures emerged from the shadows. Their fur was matted with dried blood and dirt. Their eyes were an unstable orange. In the center stood a man with broad shoulders. His chest was covered in horizontal scars and jagged brands. He wore no shirt. The brand of a rogue Alpha was visible on his throat.

Darius.

The Alpha of the Marauder Wastes took a step forward. His boots sank into the moss. He looked at Lyra's eyes. The molten silver in her pupils pulsed with light.

"The scouts spoke the truth," Darius said. His voice sounded like stones grinding together. "The Ashveil woman did not just survive. She woke the source."

He moved his tongue over his teeth. He drew in a breath. "A maternal bloodline this pure does not just create Alphas. It overrides them. It makes gods."

Lucien stepped in front of Lyra. He adjusted the cuff of his charcoal overcoat.

"You are on Vane soil, Darius," Lucien said.

"I do not care about your soil," Darius replied. He signaled to the wolves. "I want the woman. Give her to me, and I will let you bury your dead."

The wolves lunged.

Lyra moved. The silver in her marrow heated. Her fingernails sharpened into points. Her pupils expanded until the silver consumed the amber.

She met the first attacker in the air. Her hand caught the rogue's throat. Her fingers sank into the muscle. She spun and threw the body into a second attacker. The sound of bone meeting bone was wet and quick.

The ground beneath her boots vibrated. A low-frequency hum came from the earth. The oaks groaned.

Two wolves circled her. One lunged for her shoulder. Lyra ducked. Her palm hit the moss. A ripple of energy moved through the ground, throwing the wolves back into the brush.

Her breath came in short, jagged gasps. A sharp pain flared in her lower back. She stumbled.

Darius's lieutenant, a massive grey wolf with a notched ear, lunged for her throat while Darius watched from the edge of the clearing.

Lucien appeared in front of Lyra.

He caught the lieutenant by the throat with one hand. The impact sounded like a cannon blast. The force of the stop flattened the grass for ten yards. Lucien's charcoal coat remained still.

Lucien looked at the wolf in his grip. His blue eyes were pure, crystalline silver. They remained steady.

"I told you," Lucien said. The wolf's claws tore at the silk of his forearms. The fabric shredded, but the skin beneath did not break. It held a metallic sheen. "She belongs to no one."

Lucien's grip tightened. The sound of the lieutenant's windpipe breaking was a hollow snap. Lucien did not look away. He watched the light in the rogue's eyes fade. When the body was limp, he threw it thirty feet.

The corpse hit a granite rock and stopped moving.

The other wolves froze. They looked at Lucien, then at the body. Darius stayed back, his eyes narrowing as he watched the silver energy around Lucien's hands.

Lucien did not pursue. He turned toward Lyra. The silver in his eyes receded to blue. The air was thick and smelled of the storm.

Lyra stood on the moss. Her chest moved up and down. The silver light on her skin stayed bright.

Lucien walked toward her. He stopped inches from her face. His shadow covered her. He smelled of sandalwood, ozone, and the metallic tang of his wolf.

He reached out. His glove was torn at the knuckles. He did not touch her face. He placed his hand on the small of her back. His fingers splayed across the wool of her coat. He pulled her one inch closer. His body was hot through his clothes.

"You took the first two," Lucien said. His voice vibrated in the air. "Your footwork is better. But you are still bracing for a blow."

Lyra looked at him. Her silver eyes flickered. She leaned her weight into his palm. She placed her hand on his chest. His heart beat a heavy, steady rhythm beneath his shirt.

"He wanted the bloodline," she said.

"He wanted a weapon," Lucien replied. He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers stayed on her skin. "You are not a blade to be held, Lyra. You are the hand that holds it."

He leaned in. His forehead was near hers. He looked at her mouth.

"The rest are coming," Lucien said, his breath hitting her lips. "Stay in this space. Do not look for the end of the fight. Look for the next breath."

Darius let out a low, vibrating growl from the shadows. The remaining rogues began to circle again. Lucien did not move away from her. He stayed in her personal space, his hand firm on her waist.