Page 60 of The Panther's Price

TWENTY-SIX

EVRYN

The morning mist clung to the marsh like memory.

Evryn moved through it in silence, boots sinking into soft moss, her breath fogging in the cool air. Lucien trailed just behind her—close, not crowding. He hadn’t spoken much since they broke camp.

Neither had she.

Not because she was angry. Not even because she was grieving.

Because something inside her wasstirring.Not power. Not quite. It was older than that.

Older than the shadows, older than her dreams. Like a thread had pulled taut inside her chest, humming with recognition.

She hadn’t told Lucien yet. That she feltwatched.Not by enemies. Bysomething that remembered her namebefore she was born.

They crossed into the crumbled ruins of a watchtower long swallowed by the marsh trees. It was the place Seraphine’s raven had told them to meet. But Seraphine hadn’t come.

Someone else had.

He stepped from the shadows with wings tucked like blades—Malrik Sablewing.

Evryn had never met a Sablewing before. She wasn’t sure anyone had in generations. But he looked exactly as whispered: tall, pale bronze skin, with black dragon wings laced with veins of silver. His eyes were obsidian. Not black.Obsidian. Ancient. Sharp.

“You’re late,” he said, voice like gravel soaked in wind.

Evryn tilted her chin. “We weren’t expected.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Malrik said, stepping forward. “She sent you to me for a reason.”

Lucien tensed beside her. “Why?”

“Because the blood in her veins just shifted the balance of the realm,” Malrik said, eyes never leaving Evryn. “And someone has to help her survive what comes next.”

Evryn’s throat dried. “What are you talking about?”

Malrik stopped three feet from her. “You aren’t just Veil-born. You aren’t just royal. You’re not a scion of a house. You arelegacymade flesh.”

He stepped closer.

Evryn’s hands trembled. “So what does that make me? A target? A weapon?”

Malrik’s expression didn’t change. “A queen—if you survive long enough to claim it.”

The air stilled.

Lucien stepped beside her, tension radiating from every inch of him. “Why you?”

Malrik finally turned to him, wings rustling like leather scraping stone. “Because there are only a handful of us left whorememberwhat the First Queen was capable of. Who were trained to sense the root lines buried in blood and shadow. The magic in her name wasn’t just tied to power—it wasidentity. Memory woven into bone and soul. And I... was sworn to protect the last of her line if it ever surfaced.”

Evryn’s voice dropped. “You’re a memory-weaver.”

Malrik nodded once. “I don’t just erase or restore memories. I read them. I thread through bloodlines. I see the echoes of who someonewasbefore they were told who to become.”

He took a slow step toward her, his voice almost reverent.

“You carry ancestral dominion—power tied not to a House, but to thesourceof shifter royalty. Before the Houses fractured. Before the treaties. When one line ruled, not with council, but with right.”

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