Crown of Moonstone Lies

Chapter 1

Phoebe

“It’s a death sentence.”

The words hang in the air of my small cabin, thick and heavy as winter smoke. Alpha Marcus says them with a finality that’s supposed to end the conversation, but my eyes stay fixed on the impossible thing lying on my table. The invitation glimmers, its iridescent parchment shifting from silver to violet to a pale, watery blue in the low light of the hearth. It seems to breathe, pulsing with a magic our quiet woods haven’t seen in a century. It’s beautiful. And it’s addressed to me.

“It’s an honor,” I say, my voice quieter than I intend. I trace the elegant, looping script of my name. *Phoebe of Silent Creek.* It looks wrong. We’re never called ‘of Silent Creek.’ We’re just the Creek-pups, the backwater pack, the ones forgotten by the Moon Goddess at the edge of the world.

“An honor?” Marcus scoffs. His heavy boots scrape against my floorboards as he paces. The sound grates on my already raw nerves. “They’re culling the weak, Phoebe. That’s all the Iridian Games have ever been. A way for the great Alphas to flex their power and thin the herds of packs they deem… inconvenient.”

He stops pacing and plants his scarred hands on the table, leaning over the shimmering invitation as if its light physically pains him. He’s my Alpha, but he’s also the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father. His scent, a mix of pine and damp earth, has meant safety my entire life. Right now, it feels like the walls of a cage.

“Look at us,” he says, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “We have enough to eat. We have our territory, small as it is. We don’t have enemies because we don’t have anything worth taking. We survive because we are silent. And you want to go to the heart of the world and scream your name from the rooftops?”

“I don’t want to scream,” I counter, my gaze finally lifting from the invitation to meet his. His eyes are a deep, worried brown. “I want to compete. I want to see something more than these same trees I’ve seen every day for twenty years. Is that so wrong?”

“It is when it will get you killed.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he insists, his voice rising again. “Do you know who competes in these games? The heirs of the great packs. Kaelen of Stormfang, whose father can level a forest with his rage. The twins from Sunstone, who are said to be faster than the wind. Rogues and mercenaries who have spent their lives killing for coin. And then there’s Valerius.”

He says the name of the Iridescence Alpha like a curse. The Game Master.

“They say he can bend light itself,” Marcus continues, his lip curling. “That he can make you see things that aren’t there. They say he enjoys the games more than anyone. What chance does a girl from Silent Creek have against monsters like that?”

My hand instinctively flies to my throat, my fingers searching for the smooth, cool comfort of the stone that always hangs there. It’s a nervous habit, one I’ve had since I was a child. The moonstone amulet was my mother’s. It’s the only thing I have left of her. My fingers brush against my skin, finding nothing but warmth.

I frown. That’s not right.

My hand pats my collarbone, then sweeps to the side, my heart giving a single, hard thump against my ribs. It’s not there. The leather cord is gone.

“No,” I whisper.

“No, what?” Marcus asks, his frustration momentarily forgotten as he sees the look on my face. “Phoebe, what is it?”

I don’t answer. I stand so fast my stool clatters to the floor. My hands fly to my neck again, frantically searching. “It’s gone. It’s gone.”

“What’s gone? Your nerve?”

“My amulet,” I choke out, spinning around to scan the small cabin. “My mother’s amulet. It’s gone.”

The room is tiny. A bed, a table, two stools, a cold hearth. There is nowhere for it to be. I would have felt it fall. I never take it off. Never.

“You probably took it off before you slept,” Marcus says, his voice softening. He rights the stool. “Calm down. It has to be here.”

“I don’t take it off. Not to sleep. Not to wash. Never.” My breath starts coming in ragged bursts. The shimmering invitation on the table seems to mock me, its beauty suddenly sinister. It’s the only thing out of place. The only new thing that has entered my life in years.

I begin tearing my small home apart. I rip the thin blanket off my cot, shaking it out with a violence that feels foreign to my own body. Nothing. I drop to my knees, my hands sweeping through the dust and stray leaves under the cot. Nothing.

“Phoebe, stop,” Marcus says, his hand landing on my shoulder. “You’re panicking. We will find it.”

“You don’t understand,” I say, my voice cracking. “It’s all I have. It’s all that’s left.”

His hand tightens. “I know.”

He does know. He was there the day she died. He was the one who carried her back to the pack, the one who pried the moonstone from her cooling fingers and placed it around my neck. He knows it’s more than a stone to me. It’s her last touch. Her last breath.

My eyes land on the invitation again. It arrived an hour ago, delivered by a hawk with feathers like polished silver. It fell from the sky and landed on my doorstep, already glowing. A personal summons. An impossibility.

I crawl back towards the table, my movements stiff and clumsy. I stared at the thing. It felt wrong from the start. We don’t get invitations. We get warnings. We get demands for tribute from the larger packs. We don’t get invited to the most prestigious, dangerous competition in the world.

“It’s a trap,” Marcus had said the moment he saw it.

Now the words echo in my head with terrifying clarity. I reach out a trembling hand and pick up the parchment. It’s heavier than it looks, and warm to the touch. As I lift it, a tiny piece of folded paper, no bigger than my thumb, flutters from between its folds and lands on the wooden table.

It wasn’t there before. I would have seen it. It’s plain, rough paper, a stark contrast to the magical invitation it was hiding in.

Marcus moves closer. “What is that?”

My fingers feel like lead as I pick it up and unfold it. The script is messy, jagged, a complete opposite of the elegant writing on the invitation. There are only five words.

I read them out loud, my voice a dead thing.

“Win the game, win it back.”

The silence that follows is heavier than any words. The truth of it crashes down on me, stealing the air from my lungs. This isn’t an honor. It isn’t a random selection. It’s a threat. A ransom.

They took her. They took the last piece of my mother and they are holding her hostage.

“By the Goddess,” Marcus breathes, taking a step back. The scent of his fear, sharp and acrid, fills the room. “They knew. They knew what it meant to you.”

He snatches the note from my fingers and reads it himself, as if he can’t believe what I said. He crumples it in his massive fist.

“This changes nothing, Phoebe. It only proves my point. This is a trap, designed just for you. They’re using your grief, your love for your mother, to lure you in. Don’t you see? You’ll be walking into the wolf’s den with a collar already around your neck.”

I stare at the invitation, at the shimmering lie of it. All the wonder I felt an hour ago has curdled into a cold, black fury. They didn’t just invite me. They didn’t just threaten me. They reached into my past and are using my dead mother to control my future.

The grief that has been a quiet ache in my chest for ten years ignites. It’s not sadness anymore. It’s rage. Hot and pure.

“This changes everything,” I say, my voice perfectly level. The shaking has stopped. My hands are steady. A strange calm settles over me, the kind that comes when every other option has been burned away and only one path remains.

“Don’t be a fool,” Marcus growls. “You can’t win. They won’t let you. This is just a game to them, and you are the pawn.”

“Then I’ll be the pawn that takes the king,” I reply, meeting his gaze without flinching. “What choice do I have, Marcus? Let them keep it? Let some monster, some arrogant Alpha-heir, hold the last piece of my mother as a trophy? Let it sit in their treasure room and collect dust? No.”

I push myself to my feet, my spine straight, my shoulders back. I feel taller. Something inside me has shifted, solidified. The girl who dreamed of seeing the world is gone. In her place is a she-wolf with a singular purpose.

“They think they’ve found my weakness,” I say, my voice low and dangerous. “They think they can manipulate me with this. But they’ve made a mistake. They haven’t found my weakness. They’ve given my grief a target. They’ve given my anger a name. And now they’re inviting me into their home.”

“Phoebe, listen to me. This is what they want. They want you angry. They want you reckless.”

“I’m not reckless,” I say calmly. “I’ve never been more focused in my life. You said it yourself. We survive because we are overlooked. Because no one expects anything from Silent Creek. They won’t see me coming. They’ll be looking for a scared little Creek-pup who is mourning her mother’s memory. And that’s what they’ll get. Right up until the moment I take back what is mine.”

I reach for the shimmering invitation and fold it carefully. The magic in it hums against my fingertips, no longer feeling beautiful, but like a weapon I have yet to understand.

“You can’t forbid me from going,” I state. It isn’t a question. “An Alpha cannot refuse a summons from the Game Master for one of their pack. It’s ancient law.”

Marcus lets out a long, slow breath. The fight drains out of him, replaced by a profound, heavy sadness. He looks at me, and I know he sees my mother in my eyes, in the stubborn set of my jaw. He saw that same look on her face the day she went into the woods and never came back.

“No,” he says, his voice rough with defeat. “I cannot forbid you. But I can tell you that you are walking the same path your mother did. A path of pride. And I can beg you not to.”

“She walked her path for her reasons,” I say softly. “I’m walking mine for her.”

I slip the invitation into the small pouch at my belt. I have nothing to pack, nothing to prepare. My worn clothes, my hunting knife, and the fury in my heart are all I own. It will have to be enough.

He doesn’t try to argue anymore. He just stands there, the crumpled ransom note still clenched in his fist, watching me as if I’m already a ghost. As if I’m already gone.

“They’ve made a grave mistake, Marcus,” I say, my hand resting on the hilt of my knife. “They think they’ve stolen my most precious possession.”

I turn and walk out of my cabin, leaving him standing in the flickering firelight. I don’t look back.

“They’re wrong. They’ve just given it back to me.”

Chapter 2

Phoebe

The air tastes like honey and lightning.

It’s so thick with magic I feel like I could choke on it. Back home, magic is a whisper in the rustling leaves, the faint pull of the moon. Here, it’s a roar.

Everything shimmers. The pathway isn’t stone, but something like polished pearl that glows with its own inner light. Trees with silver leaves weep trails of sparkling pollen that hang in the air like constellations. The scent is overwhelming, a mix of night blooming flowers I’ve only read about and the clean, sharp smell of ozone.

It’s beautiful. And I hate it.

I hate it because it’s a cage built of impossible beauty, designed to awe wolves like me into submission. To remind us of our place. My worn leather tunic and simple boots feel like a brand, marking me as an outsider. Everyone I pass wears silks and finely tooled leather, their scents a complex mix of power and privilege. They move with an easy grace that says they belong in places like this. They walk with their chins high, their eyes sweeping over the grounds as if they already own them.

I keep my head down, my hand resting on the hilt of my knife. It’s a foolish comfort, but it’s the only one I have. My mother’s amulet should be hanging at my neck, its familiar weight a counterpoint to the wild thumping of my heart. The empty space it left behind is a cold, constant ache.

A wolf in gleaming silver armor, his face impassive, directs me towards a great hall. The doors are carved from a single piece of white wood that seems to hum with a life of its own. Inside, the roar of magic becomes a symphony. A chandelier made of what looks like captured starlight hangs from a ceiling so high it feels like the night sky.

Dozens of contestants are already here, gathered in small, powerful groups. They laugh, their voices sharp and clear in the echoing space. They don’t look at me, but I feel their dismissal. It’s a physical force, pressing in on me from all sides.

I’m a stray who wandered into a den of kings.

I find my way to a long table where a severe looking she wolf is checking names off a list. She doesn’t look up when I approach.

“Name and Pack.” Her voice is clipped, bored.

“Phoebe of Silent Creek.”

Her pen stills. For the first time, she lifts her head, her eyes, the color of winter ice, raking over me. A slow, condescending smile touches her lips.

“Silent Creek,” she repeats, drawing the words out. “I wasn’t aware they were still a pack.”

My jaw tightens. “We are.”

She lets out a small, unimpressed huff and makes a mark on her list. “Your quarters are in the east wing. Number twelve. Don’t get lost.”

She dismisses me with a flick of her wrist, her attention already on the next contestant, a tall male whose fur trimmed cloak probably cost more than my entire pack’s yearly tribute.

I turn away, the flush of anger hot on my cheeks. I knew this would be hard. I knew they would look down on me. Knowing it and feeling it are two very different things.

“Well, well. Look what the river washed in.”

The voice is deep, laced with an arrogance that grates on my nerves like stone on bone. I turn to find a young man leaning against a marble pillar. He’s handsome in a cruel sort of way, with sharp features and hair the color of a thundercloud. His eyes, a startling electric blue, are fixed on me with mocking amusement. The scent of storm and raw power clings to him. This must be one of the heirs Marcus warned me about.

He pushes off the pillar and saunters towards me, his movements a fluid, predatory glide. A few others turn to watch, sensing a bit of sport.

“I must have misheard,” he says, his voice loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “Did the proctor say Silent Creek? I thought that was just a cautionary tale parents told their pups about what happens when you have no ambition.”

My hand tightens on my knife hilt. I say nothing. Engaging him is a mistake. He wants a reaction. He wants to see me snarl.

He stops a few feet from me, circling me slowly, like a predator inspecting its prey. “Look at you. Still dressed in your hunting rags. Did you get lost on your way to the kitchens, little pup?”

A ripple of laughter goes through the nearby contestants. My blood feels like ice in my veins.

He leans in closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that is still somehow a performance for his audience. “This is the Iridian Games, not a charity for destitute packs. You’re out of your depth.”

“And you are?” I ask, my voice quiet but steady. I refuse to let it shake.

He throws his head back and laughs, a sharp, barking sound that echoes in the vast hall. “She has a voice. Kaelen of Stormfang. My father is Alpha Caden. Surely even in your forgotten corner of the world, you’ve heard of him.”

I have. Alpha Caden was a butcher who carved out his territory with a brutality that was legendary. This is his son. It shows.

“I’ve heard the name,” I say, my tone deliberately flat.

His smile falters for a fraction of a second, my lack of fawning reverence clearly an insult.

“Then you should know your place,” he sneers, his confidence returning in a wave of dismissive power. “A Creek-pup like you has no business being here. Run home before you get hurt. The games are for wolves, not mice.”

He turns his back on me then, a clear sign that I am no longer worthy of his attention. He addresses his laughing friends. “Can you believe the standards this year? They’re letting anyone in.”

The words are meant to break me. To send me scurrying back to my quiet woods with my tail between my legs. But all they do is stoke the cold fire in my gut. They remind me why I am here. It’s not for glory or honor. It’s for a piece of my soul. And I will not let this arrogant child stand in my way.

They think I am a mouse. Good. Mice can slip through cracks that wolves can’t.

“Don’t listen to him.”

The new voice is warm, calm. It cuts through the lingering chill of Kaelen’s mockery. I turn to see another young man standing beside me. He is the opposite of Kaelen in every way. Where Kaelen is sharp edges and stormy darkness, this wolf is all warm tones and gentle strength. He has sun streaked brown hair and his eyes are the color of warm amber. His scent is like sunshine on stone, clean and steady.

“His bark is worse than his bite,” the newcomer continues, offering me a small, genuine smile. “Though I admit, both are pretty terrible.”

I watch him, wary. Alliances in a place like this are just another kind of weapon.

“Why do you care?” I ask.

He doesn’t seem offended by my suspicion. “Because I know what it’s like to be underestimated. And because I think judging a wolf by the size of their territory is a fool’s game.”

He extends a hand. “Liam of Sunstone. My father is Beta to our Alpha.”

A Beta. Not an heir to an Alpha. That explains the lack of suffocating arrogance. I hesitate for a moment, then shake his hand. His grip is firm and warm.

“Phoebe,” I say.

“I know. I heard,” he says, his gaze flickering towards Kaelen’s group. They are still watching us, though with less interest now that the main event is over. “Stormfang’s pack has bordered ours for generations. Kaelen has always believed power is something you take by force. He sees a smaller pack and assumes weakness.”

“That’s a mistake,” I say quietly.

Liam’s smile widens. “I have a feeling it is. That’s why I came over. Kaelen and his friends will stick together. They’ll try to eliminate anyone they see as an easy target. It might be wise to have someone watching your back.”

“An alliance?”

“A friendship,” he corrects gently. “One that might also be mutually beneficial. I’m a strategist, not a brawler. I have a feeling you’re smarter than you let on. Together, we might actually survive the first challenge.”

I consider his offer. Alpha Marcus’s warnings echo in my head. *It’s a trap.* Everyone here has an agenda. But looking at Liam, at the open honesty in his amber eyes, I don’t sense deceit. I sense a kindred spirit, another wolf trying to navigate a world of predators. And he’s right. Facing this alone is suicide.

“Alright, Liam of Sunstone,” I say, giving a slight nod. “You have a deal.”

Relief floods his face. “Good. Now, about those quarters. East wing, right? Me too. Let’s brave the golden hallways together, shall we?”

He leads the way, and I fall into step beside him. The other contestants part for us, their eyes still lingering, but Liam’s presence seems to provide a small shield against their judgment.

We walk in silence for a few moments, the pearl floor glowing under our feet.

“He’s wrong, you know,” Liam says suddenly, not looking at me. “About your pack. There’s a strength in being quiet. In surviving. It’s a different kind of power. One they won’t see coming.”

His words are a balm on a raw wound. It’s exactly what I told Marcus. To hear it from a stranger, from a competitor in this gilded cage, feels like a sign.

We arrive at a hallway where the doors are inlaid with gold filigree. He stops at number ten. I’m at twelve.

“Looks like we’re neighbors,” he says with another smile. “If you need anything, just knock. And Phoebe?”

“Yes?”

“Try to get some rest. I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

He disappears into his room, and I’m left standing alone in the opulent, silent hall. I push open the door to my own quarters and stop on the threshold.

It’s not a room. It’s a suite. A four poster bed is draped in shimmering silks, a plush velvet couch sits before a cold, marble fireplace, and a balcony overlooks a garden of glowing moonpetal flowers. It’s more luxurious than my entire cabin. More luxurious than anything in Silent Creek.

I walk over to the bed and press my hand against the silk. It’s soft and cool, and it feels like a lie. This comfort isn’t a gift. It’s a tool. It’s meant to soften me, to make me forget the hard earth and rough blankets of home. It’s meant to make me want this life, to fight for it with a desperation that will make the games more entertaining.

I am not here for comfort.

I turn away from the bed and walk out onto the balcony. The air is cool and sweet. The stars above are the same stars I look at every night, but here they seem brighter, colder, more distant.

They have my mother’s amulet. They have a piece of her. And they think these beautiful things will distract me. They think Kaelen’s insults will break me.

I lean against the cold stone railing and let the shimmering, magical world of the Iridescence Pack surround me. It’s a gilded cage, just as Marcus warned. But they’ve made one critical error.

They’ve locked the predator in here with the prey.

Chapter 3

Phoebe

The great hall is a storm of scents and sounds. Power, perfume, and paranoia all mingling in the magically lit air. I stand beside Liam near a pillar of gleaming obsidian, trying to look like I belong here and failing spectacularly.

“Nervous?” Liam asks, his voice a low anchor in the chaos.

“I’m not used to crowds,” I lie. It’s not the crowd. It’s the predators in it.

He follows my gaze to where Kaelen is holding court, his laughter a sharp, ugly sound. “He’s all posture. Don’t let him get to you.”

“I’m not,” I say, my hand resting on my knife. A habit. A comfort.

Liam scans the room, his amber eyes missing nothing. “That’s the interesting thing about this place. Everyone comes here thinking they’re the hunter.”

“And they’re not?”

A wry smile touches his lips. “We’re all just waiting for the real one to show up.”

As if summoned by his words, a voice I recognize cuts through the air. “Protecting your little stray, Liam? How noble.”

Kaelen has detached from his group and stands before us, his electric blue eyes dripping with scorn. He doesn’t even look at Liam, his gaze is fixed solely on me.

“Still here, Creek-pup?” he sneers. “I’m surprised you haven’t run home crying already.”

“She has more right to be here than you do, Kaelen,” Liam says, stepping slightly in front of me. His scent is calm, but I can see the tension in his shoulders.

Kaelen finally glances at him, a look of utter dismissal. “A Beta defending a nobody. It suits you. A weak wolf for a weak pack. Stay out of my way, both of you. When the culling begins, I won’t be so polite.”

He turns his back and saunters away, leaving the threat to hang in the air between us.

“Thank you,” I say quietly to Liam.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he murmurs. “He’s right about one thing. This is a culling. We just have to make sure we’re not the ones getting cut.”

Before I can respond, it happens.

The sound in the hall does not fade. It is severed.

One moment, there is a roar of a hundred conversations. The next, a profound, ringing silence that is louder than the noise it replaced. Every head turns in unison toward the high dais at the front of the room. He is there.

I did not see him arrive. He simply exists where a moment before there was nothing. Alpha Valerius.

He wears no silks, no jewels, no armor. Just simple, dark clothes that seem to drink the light around him. Power is his mantle. It rolls off him in palpable waves, a pressure that settles deep in my bones and makes the air thick and hard to breathe. His hair is blacker than a starless midnight. He is stillness and fury in one form.

He stands at the center of the dais, his hands clasped behind his back. The silence stretches, tightens. He is the Game Master, and this is his board.

Then, he speaks.

His voice is not loud, yet it possesses the entire hall. A low, resonant sound that vibrates through the stone floor and up into my chest.

“You have come to my home.”

“You have accepted my invitation.”

“You believe you are here for glory.”

He pauses, and his eyes, the color of starlight and ice, begin to sweep across the assembled contestants. It is the gaze of a god inspecting his sacrifices.

“You are wrong.”

“Glory is a story told about the dead. Honor is a luxury for those who have already won. Power is a burden, earned through sacrifice.” He lets the word hang in the charged air. “Here, you will learn the meaning of sacrifice.”

His gaze continues its slow, methodical path across the faces of the powerful and the proud. I feel it approaching like a physical thing, a storm front moving over the sea. My heart begins to pound, a heavy, frantic beat against my ribs.

“The Iridian Games are not a test of what your bloodline has given you. They are a crucible, designed to burn away your pride, your weakness, your fear. To discover what remains in the ashes.”

His eyes pass over Kaelen, who stands taller, trying to meet the gaze with defiance and failing. They pass over Liam, who looks down, a flicker of something like fear on his face. They are almost to me.

“There are three rules.”

“Rule one. The challenges will test your body, your mind, and your spirit. Fail any test, and you are eliminated.”

“Rule two. What happens within the confines of a challenge is part of the game. Alliances are permitted. Betrayal is encouraged.”

“Rule three,” he says, and his voice drops, becoming something ancient and cold. “Do not die. Elimination from the game is not a release. It is a forfeiture. Should your life be forfeit, it becomes mine to claim.”

Terror, sharp and cold, lances through the room. A hundred brave heirs suddenly look like lost children.

And then his eyes find me.

The world doesn’t fade. It shatters.

Everyone else disappears. The grand hall, the captured starlight, the scent of fear. It’s all gone. There is only the impossible silver of his gaze locking onto mine. It’s not a look. It’s an anchor, a hook in my soul, pulling me into a depth I cannot comprehend.

My breath leaves my body in a rush. A wave of dizziness crashes over me, so powerful I stagger, my hand shooting out to grip Liam’s arm.

A spark. Deep within me, a sleeping thing awakens and hums in response to him. It’s a note of recognition that makes no sense. It’s not a memory. It’s older than that. A song my soul knows the words to, even if my mind has never heard the melody.

Why does looking at him feel like coming home?

Why does it feel like being cornered?

He holds my gaze. One second. Two. An eternity. The world narrows to the space between us. The pull is terrifying, a current that wants to drag me out of my own skin and into his orbit. Part of me wants to run, to tear myself away from this feeling. Another, impossible part of me wants to take a step closer.

My free hand flies to my throat, my fingers scrabbling for the familiar, grounding weight of my mother’s amulet. The bare, cold skin they find is a shock that jolts me. Without it, I am adrift in the silver tide of his gaze.

He gives a single, almost imperceptible nod. It is not for the crowd. It is for me.

Then he looks away.

The connection shatters. The world rushes back in, a cacophony of sound and light. Air floods my lungs with a ragged, painful gasp. I am shaking.

“And the prize for the victor,” Valerius continues, his voice utterly unchanged, “is more than a simple boon. It is a chance to rewrite your destiny. A power great enough to save a dying pack, or to build an empire.” He lets the promise settle over the now greedy silence. “The games begin at dawn. Be ready.”

He turns and vanishes, melting back into the shadows at the rear of the dais as if he were never there.

For a moment, there is absolute stillness. Then the dam breaks.

A roar of conversation erupts, a hundred voices talking at once, laced with fear and a fresh, brutal ambition.

“Phoebe?” Liam’s voice is urgent in my ear. He places a hand on my shoulder to steady me. “What was that? Are you alright?”

I snatch my hand back from his arm, my face hot with shame. “I’m fine. Just… the air in here.”

“No,” he insists, his honest eyes searching my face. “That wasn’t the air. He looked right at you. It wasn’t just a glance. Everyone saw it.”

My blood runs cold. Everyone saw it?

I risk a look around. Several contestants are staring in my direction, their expressions a mixture of confusion, suspicion, and in Kaelen’s case, pure, venomous hatred. I have been marked.

“He was looking at everyone,” I say, the lie tasting like ash in my mouth.

“No, he wasn’t,” Liam says, his voice low and certain. “He was looking at you.”

I can’t answer him. I can’t explain what happened because I don’t understand it myself. That feeling of recognition. That terrifying pull.

I came here with a single, clear purpose. Win the game, win back the amulet. It was a straight line, a path of anger and grief.

Now, nothing is clear. The path has fractured into a thousand possibilities, and at the center of them all is the enigmatic Game Master.

He isn’t just a variable in the game. He is the game.

And he just looked at me as if he already knew how it would end.