The grand tapestries of the Southern Palace's private royal wing were woven from thread-of-gold and heavy northern wool, designed to withstand both time and climate. Yet, none of those ancient weavers had ever factored in the sheer, unadulterated chaos of a week-old infant with a fractured ancestral lineage and an unstable magical core.
The morning sun had barely cleared the horizon, casting long, amber-hued shafts of light across the polished mahogany floor of the nursery, when the first pop occurred.
It was a soft, wet sound, like a bubble of soap bursting against a silk sheet.
Kaelen, who had been sitting on the edge of a massive velvet armchair with his head tilted back, snapped his jaws shut. His golden eyes flew open, his wolf instincts immediately scanning the perimeter of the room. Beside him, Lucien didn't open his eyes, but his fingers, long and blackened at the tips from his recent mana-burns, tightened against the armrest of his chair.
