Chapter 5

The revelry still hadn't died by dawn.

I slipped toward the birch grove—the pack's quietest, holiest ground. Snow squeaked beneath my boots: eight years crushed one step at a time.

The elders were already there—five cloaked shapes ringed around obsidian stone. The air smelled of herbs and ice.

“Leona Hale,” the first elder rasped. “You are early.”

“Delay serves no one,” I said. “Begin.”

Another elder sighed. “The sundering is pain beyond pain. Three trials as one. You must bear them alone. The alpha—”

“He is nothing to this,” I cut in. “My choice. My rite. Begin.”

They exchanged looks and nodded.

“First trial: the Question that Carves.” The chief touched my brow. Cold power lanced my mind. “Face your deepest fear and pain, and answer truly. Lie or flee, and the bond will lash you to pieces.”

Visions struck—

—Coronation night. His mouth at Viola's white throat, red beading;

—Moonlit colonnade. His fingers on my chin, gold eyes frozen: You're mine. His teeth in my neck—pain and humiliation;

—Rumors. Viola's tears. His distrust—

Agony burst from my heart, squeezing it in a fist. I nearly dropped to my knees, sweat soaking my spine.

“Ask,” thundered the elder in my skull.

“Do you still love him?” another asked.

The bond screamed, choking off truth. Love? What remnants? Resentment? Habit? Or—

I jerked my head up, eyes blurred with tears, and tore the answer free. “I loved him. But I hate him more. For wrecking us. For choosing power over me. For turning me into someone I don't recognize.”

A wet snap inside. Pain, then vacuum.

“First trial, passed.”

Meanwhile, at the east gate—

“She isn't here?” Asher paced, frowning at the empty road for the third time. Unease gnawed at him.

“Don't fret,” Viola murmured, fingers gliding on his arm. “Maybe she needs time to… settle. Perhaps she's crying in her room, reluctant to go.”

He didn't shake her off. He only grew more irritable.

Another quarter hour.

“Or—” Viola tried again, worry pitched just right, “perhaps she means to make you go to her? She did that sometimes—wanting your attention?”

It sounded plausible and felt wrong. Leona? Use ploys? No. She'd rather burn the world—

Then—

A soul-deep pain tore his chest. The bond—ripping.

Color drained from his face. He spun toward the birches.

“Leona—!” He bolted like a loosed arrow. Stop her. Stop her.

In the birches—

“Second trial: silver fire,” the elder intoned.

They slit my forearm; silver liquid burned into the cut.

“Ah—!”

Pain beyond words—burning, freezing, tearing—rushed my veins. Every nerve shrieked. Blood ignited and iced at once. My wolf slammed against my ribs, begging to shift to survive it.

I clamped my teeth. Blood seeped at my mouth. I shook, refusing the change by will alone, riding the silver storm until it thinned.

Soaked, spent, I dropped to a knee, gulping air.

“Second trial, passed.”

“Leona—stop!” Asher hit the grove—and the barrier struck him back. Sundering seals its own field; none may cross. His gold eyes were wild on me—rage and fear.

I wiped my mouth, didn't look his way. “Continue.”