Elsa felt Sylas’s reaction before she processed the priest’s meaning—a surge of protective fury that made the bond sing with tension. Luna. Alpha Queen. The title he’d been circling around since he’d dressed her in his colors and marked her in private.
“The Mating Hunt,” Sylas said flatly. “You’re invoking the Blood Moon chase.”
“I am reminding you that it exists.” Oran’s composure didn’t crack. “The ritual is sacred. Ancient. It predates your bloodline’s claim to the throne. A king who wishes to elevate his chosen mate to Luna must prove himself worthy under Lux’s crimson gaze.” His eyes found Elsa again, and something cold moved in their depths. “The hunt demonstrates fertility, unity, and dominance. It proves the Alpha can claim his mate and still retain control when the moon sharpens every instinct to its killing edge.”
“I know what it demonstrates.” Sylas’s voice had gone dangerous. “I was raised in this court. I’ve watched three Blood Moon hunts since I came of age.”
“Then you know challengers will be watching.” Oran let the words hang. “Any sign of weakness—any indication that the Alpha cannot control himself in the presence of his mate—will invite challenges to your rule. The priesthood cannot protect you from that. The ritual exists to ensure our leaders are fit to lead.”
Elsa’s mind raced. A hunt. A ritual chase under a blood-red moon. Sylas would have to track her, catch her, claim her—publicly proving he could maintain control while in the grip of whatever instincts the moon awakened. And if he couldn’t—
She thought of what she’d seen in the training yards. Warriors who’d trained their whole lives to fight. Alphas and near-Alphas who would circle like wolves at any sign of weakness in their king. The political stability Sylas had fought to maintain would crumble overnight if he failed this ritual.
And she would be at the center of it. The human who broke the Alpha King.
“When?” She heard herself ask, and both males turned to look at her.
Oran’s expression shifted—surprise, quickly hidden, at the human speaking unbidden. “Tomorrow night. The Blood Moon rises at sunset. The ritual must be completed before dawn.”
Tomorrow. Less than thirty hours from now, she’d be running through snow while an alien predator king hunted her under a crimson sky.
The bond trembled with the force of Sylas’s reaction—fury at the timing, at the priest’s careful manipulation, at the trap closing around them both. He’d known this was coming. He’d mentioned it last night, promised to explain today. But he’d clearly hoped for more time.
Time the priesthood wasn’t going to give them.
“The ritual chamber will be prepared.” Oran inclined his head again, the gesture more dismissal than respect. “I trust you’ll ensure your...mate...understands what’s required of her.” His gaze lingered on Elsa one last moment—measuring, assessing, finding her wanting. “Running is not optional. Neither is being caught.”
He withdrew into the shadows he’d emerged from, leaving them alone in the corridor with the weight of his ultimatum pressing down.
Silence stretched.
Elsa became aware of Sylas’s breathing—controlled, deliberate, the kind of careful rhythm that meant he was fighting for calm. Through the bond, she felt the war raging inside him: the part that wanted to chase down Oran and finish what Vask had started, the part that wanted to steal her away to somewhere the rituals couldn’t reach, the part that was calculating angles and consequences and political fallout.
“Tomorrow night,” she said quietly. “That’s the ‘Blood Moon’ you mentioned.”
“Yes.” The word scraped out of him. “I meant to explain properly. To give you time to understand what it would mean. To let you choose whether—”
“Whether I want to be your Luna.”
He turned to face her fully. In the corridor’s dim light, his eyes burned with an intensity that should have been frightening. That would have been frightening, a few weeks ago, before she’d learned to read the meanings beneath his ferocity.
“Whether you want to be hunted,” he said roughly. “Chased through snow and darkness by something that won’t be entirely me. The Blood Moon strips control. Sharpens instincts. Makes the predator more predator than anything else.” His hand rose to cup her jaw, claws carefully angled away. “I would never hurt you. But I don’t know if I could stop.”
“Stop chasing? Or stop when you caught me?”
Something flickered in his expression—surprise at the distinction, maybe, or appreciation for her precision.
“Both. Either.” His thumb traced her cheekbone. “The ritual ends when the Alpha claims his mate. The claiming is...not gentle.”
She thought about what she knew of Yzefrxyl biology. The fangs that could shred armor. The claws that had torn through Vask like wet paper. The possessive, territorial nature that had made him destroy anyone who’d touched her during her captivity.
She thought about the way he’d washed her last night. The reverence in his paws. The careful, methodical gentleness of a predator teaching himself to be something other than deadly.
“And if I don’t run?” she asked. “If I refuse the ritual?”
“Then you can never be Luna. Never hold formal status. Never be protected by anything but my personal claim.” His voice hardened. “And challengers will circle, waiting for the chance to take you from me through politics or force. The priesthood will never accept you. The court will see you as a weakness I’m too foolish to discard.”
“But I’d be alive. Unchased. Uncaught.”