The stolen horse clopped dully along the forest road, its hooves sinking into mud softened by the night’s downpour. The air still smelled of rain—wet bark, sodden leaves, the sharp tang of earth turned over. Malachai Veyr sat hunched in the saddle, cloak hood shadowing his face, though it did little to hide the faint yellow glow of his eyes. They cut through the dark like lantern glass, making night travel easy, but also marking him for what he was.

Not entirely man. Not entirely welcome.

The woods stretched silent around him, save for the creak of leather tack and the horse’s labored breath. He preferred it that way. Silence didn’t judge. Silence didn’t whisper the words devil’s son or wolf-eyes.

He spat into the mud, jaw tight as memory stirred—his old crew, laughing as they dragged screaming girls down into the hold. His knuckles whitened on the reins. Bastards. He’d slit a man’s throat quick as breathing, but that? That crossed a line even his black soul couldn’t stomach. So he’d walked, left behind the only steady coin he’d had, and now scraped by on bounties and pockets cut too close to the bone. His latest job had ended with steel flashing and a count’s hand on his wrist. He’d escaped with a bruised jaw and not a single coin for his trouble.

And now, here he was. Hungry. Tired. Riding a horse five towns stolen.

The road curved, slick with mud, when something caught his eye. A figure—small, trembling—huddled at the roadside where the forest broke thin. His horse snorted, ears flicking nervously. Malachai slowed him with a tug, frowning. The shape resolved into a woman, dress clinging heavy and ruined, hair plastered to her cheeks. Her body shook as though the rain hadn’t stopped falling, though the storm had long since passed.

“Holy shit,” he muttered under his breath.

He knew that face. Not from life, but from parchment. A poster nailed to the board in the last town, bold letters promising fortune for news of the kingdom’s missing heir. A fortune for her return.

Luck, at long last, had slunk out of the trees and into his hands.

A grin spread, sharp and hungry, across his face. The kind of grin that had made taverns quiet and dogs snarl. "Well, I’ll be a lucky son of a bitch."

He nudged the horse forward, slow and easy, savoring the sight of her caked in mud, too weak to even stand. The woods were so quiet he could hear the shallow rasp of her breath, the faint clink of some trinket at her wrist.

He reined in just before her, leaned forward in the saddle, and extended one gloved hand down. His eyes glowed brighter in the dark as he looked at her like prey cornered.

“You lost, pretty bird?”