The first needle came out of Finn Cross’s neck slick with black blood. Abigail Foster froze, medical tweezers trembling between her fingers. It was nearly two inches long. Silver. Barbed. Painted matte black.

The sky over Mount Ironfang turned the color of bruised plum as dawn approached.

Outside the thick stone walls of the fortress, the thunder of war drums rolled up the canyon. Lord Vance’s rebel army—over twelve hundred armored warriors, rogue mercs, and shadow-mages—had encircled the base of Obsidian Ridge, hurling flaming boulders from heavy catapults against the lower ramparts.

Inside the Royal Private Suite, Abigail paced the floor with silver-hilted dagger drawn.

The heavy oak doors were barricaded with two iron-reinforced dressers she had dragged across the room herself. Finn was awake now. He had shifted out of his wolf form for the first time in six months, revealing a thin, black-haired little boy with bright, intelligent hazel eyes.

He sat on the plush bed, eating a bowl of warm oatmeal and honey Abigail had prepared from the suite’s private pantry.

"Abi?" Finn’s voice was small, raspy from disuse, but entirely clear.

Abigail stopped pacing and rushed to his side, her heart melting as he used her name. "Yes, sweet prince?"

"Is Daddy fighting the bad man?" Finn asked, holding out his spoon.

"Your daddy is very strong, Finn," Abigail said softly, wiping a drop of honey from his chin. "He's making sure the bad men never come near you again."

"The bad man put needles in my back," Finn whispered, his small fingers reaching behind his neck, touching the clean bandages Abigail had placed over his wounds. "He said if I cried, he would hurt Mommy in the sky."

Abigail’s eyes burnt with fresh tears. Lord Vance hadn't just tortured the boy physically; he had used the memory of his deceased mother to keep him silent and obedient.

"He lied to you, sweet boy," Abigail said fiercely, kissing his forehead. "Your mommy is watching over you, and she is so proud of how strong you are."

Suddenly, a massive explosion shook the entire room.

Dust rained down from the stone ceiling. The iron chandeliers swung violently back and forth. Down in the outer courtyard, screams of dying wolves and the clash of heavy steel cut through the roaring flames.

CRACK.

The barricaded oak doors of the suite groaned.

Abigail whipped around, bringing the silver dagger up into a defensive guard, stepping firmly between the door and the bed where Finn sat.

"Stay behind me, Finn," she commanded.

CRACK. BANG.

An iron axe-blade splintered through the heavy wood of the door. A second strike sheared off the iron hinges. The heavy dressers blocking the entrance were violently shoved aside, sending mahogany splinters flying across the room.

Three men stepped through the ruined doorway.

They weren't royal guards. They were dressed in dark, rusted chainmail, their faces covered in black leather masks etched with the viper crest of Lord Vance’s vanguard. The lead warrior held a blood-soaked battleaxe, his eyes gleam with malicious intent.

"Lord Vance sent us for the boy," the lead merc grunted, his voice thick with sweat and blood. "He wants his head on a pike before the King returns from the lower gates."

He looked at Abigail, his eyes sweeping over her slender frame with dark amusement. "Move aside, maid. Or we’ll gut you first."

Abigail didn't step back. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, but her hand holding the silver dagger was completely steady.

"You won't touch him," Abigail said, her voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly calm register.

"Kill her," the merc ordered.

The second warrior lunged forward, his shortsword flashing in a lethal arc aimed straight for Abigail’s throat.

Abigail didn't try to block the heavy sword. She ducked beneath his wild swing, her apothecary training taking over. She reached into her apron pocket, pulled out a small glass vial filled with a fine, iridescent silver powder—crushed Moon-flower pollen—and threw it directly into the warrior's face.

The moment the powder touched the wolf's eyes and nose, he let out a blood-curdling shriek. The pollen acted like concentrated acid to werewolf senses, instantly blinding him and burning his lungs. He dropped his sword, clutching his face in agony.

Before the lead merc could react, Abigail lunged forward and drove her silver dagger deep into the blinded warrior's neck, twisting the blade just as her father had taught her.

The man collapsed to the floor, dead before he hit the rug.

The remaining two mercs stopped in their tracks, their eyes wide with shock. They hadn't expected a castle maid to fight like a trained assassin.

"Bitch!" the lead merc roared, raising his heavy battleaxe with both hands and charging at her.

Abigail readied another vial, but the third merc sprinted around her, aiming his blade straight for Finn on the bed.