Page 57 of The Panther's Price

“You’re not,” Lucien said softly.

She looked at him, shadows flickering around her like they wanted blood.

“They want me as a weapon. Or a grave.”

Lucien stepped into her space, firm and steady. “They don’t get either.”

She searched his face—torn between fury and heartbreak, grief and the ghost of trust trying to be reborn.

“I’m tired, Lucien.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“You’re the one person in this realm who scares the hell out of every ruling bloodline. That’s who you are.”

She stared at him. Then leaned her forehead into his chest, and this time, when the tears came, she didn’t fight them.

Lucien held her as if she were only truth left.

Because maybe she was.

TWENTY-FIVE

LUCIEN

The night was thick with fog and tension.

Lucien stood beside the dying fire, fingers stained with ink and ash, watching as the shadow raven pulsed to life in his palm. A twisted thing of smoke and intent, its wings unfurled in the shape of darkness stitched with silver threads—an Umbraclaw signature.

Evryn sat nearby, her back to the stone outcrop, knees tucked close. Her eyes hadn’t left the flame, but he could feel her watching him through it. Since the truth—since the unraveling—they hadn’t spoken much.

But nothing between them had stayed silent either.

Lucien held the tiny scroll of ciphered warning between two fingers. One for Seraphine. One for Calder. One for Malrik Sablewing—the bat shifter whose allegiance was murkier than most, but whose name still held weight in ancient courts.

He tied the threads tight.

“This won’t reach them immediately,” he murmured.

Evryn glanced up. “But it will reach them.”

Lucien nodded. “And when it does, they’ll know the stakes. That it’s not just your bloodline in danger. That if my mothergets her hands on this power, the throne won’t be the only thing she rewrites.”

Evryn swallowed. “They might not believe you.”

“They’ll believeyou.”

He let the raven go.

It beat upward, scattering shadow-sparks in its wake, before vanishing into the mist.

Lucien turned back toward her, the emptiness in his chest no longer hollow, butdense—like it was being filled with something too sharp to keep carrying.

They ate in silence, half-burnt bread and dried fruit; neither of them touched much. The wind had quieted. The trees stood still. Somewhere in the distance, a nightwolf howled low and long across the fen.

Evryn lay back, arms folded behind her head, eyes on the stars.

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