If Prince Ciaran had ever done anything stranger or more terrifying than throwing a birthday gala for a man who he strongly suspected wanted to kill him, he certainly couldn’t think of it.

It was a situation made even more strange and terrifying by the fact that this man was not just the most powerful man in Windemere, but also his older brother.

Ciaran threw back his sixth—or was it his seventh?—measure of whiskey that evening, along with a handful of lords and ladies who joined him in the southern pavilion. The liquor was peaty and smooth and warmed him to his core; everything he loved in a good whiskey. He allowed the flavor to linger in his mouth for a few seconds before taking a sip of sparkling wine from the flute in his other hand.

The alcohol had all been obtained from the two territories the kingdom had acquired that year. It seemed a fitting tribute to Nolan’s rule.

He glanced down to check on his royal ridgeback, Bane. The dog sat next to Ciaran, facing the opposite direction so that he could watch for any approaching threats behind the prince. His lovely red wheaten coat glistened in the evening light. A strip of fur along his spine grew in the opposite direction from the rest of the sleek pelt, creating a ridge that ended in two whorls just under the dog’s shoulder blades. This was a hallmark of the breed that Ciaran’s family had spent generations perfecting.

Ciaran stroked one of Bane’s soft drop ears and the dog’s tail wagged against his foot.

“You’ve outdone yourself again, Your Highness,” one nobleman said to Ciaran with a bow.

Ciaran gave him a polite dip of his head. Etiquette dictated he try to deflect the compliment, to humble himself in some way, but Ciaran didn’t see the point in arguing with a true statement. The palace gardens sparkled beneath the purple sky. Waiters offered platters of finger foods to the guests and ensured no one’s glass was ever empty. Nolan and Ciaran had very different tastes in music, so Ciaran had opted for a sensible pianist whose sonatas filled the air just above the excited chatting of the guests.

If this was the last party he was ever going to throw for his brother, he might as well make it the best one yet. Despite their current situation, he still owed Nolan that much. And admittedly, there was still a part of him that hoped he could gain back his brother’s favor.

The fact that Ciaran had no proof that Nolan wanted him dead made his stomach churn, but he couldn’t help but be reminded of their father’s increasingly erratic behavior in the weeks leading up to their mother’s death. The red flags were only growing redder.

And if Nolan was going to go the same way as their father, Ciaran was determined to strike first. After all, if he died, who would care for Bane?

“All the more impressive considering you spent the afternoon facing down a werewolf,” a woman said.

Ciaran shrugged good-naturedly. “It wasn't the first time I’ve dealt with a dangerous animal.”

He took another sip from his glass. He hated this charade.

“Has anyone seen Lady Ophelia around?” Ciaran asked. “I was looking for her but I got—ah—distracted.”

“I believe I saw her out in the west gardens earlier,” a noblewoman answered.

She gave a salacious glance to the lady next to her. Ciaran paid it no mind. Ophelia was a free woman for the next three months, and their relationship was no one’s business until then. He threw back the rest of the wine and turned to leave, but was cut off.

“I don’t suppose His Majesty will be joining us?”

Ciaran shook his head with a gracious smile. “He has work to attend to, I’m afraid. The kingdom doesn’t stop for a birthday.”

“Probably has even more work now, with that beast showing itself,” said a man.

“It’s been so long since anyone has seen one. Why do you think they’re back now?” a woman asked.

“What was it like, being so close to one?” said another woman.

Ciaran could see where this was going, and he didn’t have any desire to continue the conversation. He tapped Bane’s hind leg with his foot twice, and the dog immediately broke his statuesque sit to tug on Ciaran’s trouser leg.

“I’m terribly sorry, but I think Bane needs to relieve himself. If you’ll excuse me.”

The guests bowed reverently, disappointment and a thousand more questions evident on their faces. When they were out of earshot, Ciaran tousled Bane’s ear and said to him, “Good boy.”

Ciaran wandered through the east gardens to the west gardens, nodding to each guest that bowed to him as he passed. His dog stayed strictly at his left side, ever alert for danger.

Ciaran fiddled with one of the numerous earrings he wore in each ear. It was still relatively new and was beginning to itch. Perhaps he’d been too hasty to swap the simple gold stud out for a heavier jeweled stud.

As he wandered, he considered the guests’ last questions. Werewolves—or whatever these shapechangers were—had all vanished over a century ago. The only sign they still existed was the occasional sighting in the badlands, where Ciaran presumed their settlements must be.

It had only been within the last ten years that they began reappearing in the capital city. Ciaran had been to enough closed-casket funerals of unfortunate guards and soldiers to know how much damage these creatures could do.

Eventually Ciaran’s feet took him where they always did when he wandered the palace grounds—the memorial garden that housed the statue of his mother.

She stood as tall and proud as she did in his memories. At her right side stood Rimfire, Bane’s grandsire, and cradled in her arms was a puppy—Trigger, the bitch who would grow to become Bane’s dam. Trigger’s litter was the last one Ciaran whelped together with his mother.

“I thought I might find you out here.”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Ciaran turned to see Ophelia approaching him, the skirts of her summer dress flowing easily around her long legs. Gold bangles shone against her dark brown skin, and her thin braids were twisted into an elegant bun on top of her head.

“I was looking for you, actually,” Ciaran said when she reached him.

“And doing a wonderful job at it.” They kissed each other once on each cheek. “I’m surprised to see you still sober.”

He laughed. “Well, it’s not for lack of trying.”

Bane whimpered softly at Ciaran’s side, drawing Ophelia’s attention.

“Oh, I wouldn’t forget about the best boy in the whole world,” she sing-songed to him as she bent down to scratch his neck. He leaned into the touch and pulled the corners of his lips back into a doggy smile.

“It’s a shame dogs can’t talk to us, isn’t it?” Ophelia asked. “I bet Bane would have a lot to say.”

“I don’t think it’s a shame at all,” Ciaran said. “They can communicate with us just fine. We just have to be humble enough to learn their language, rather than demand they learn ours.”

“Oh, don’t get touchy,” Ophelia said, rolling her eyes. “You know what I meant.”

“Was there something you needed from me?” His temper was shorter than he realized if he was being impatient with Ophelia.

She straightened and said, “Not really.” She brushed her fingertips up and down Ciaran’s arms and continued, “I was just wondering if I would see you this weekend.”

Ciaran sighed as he took her hands in his. “Unfortunately not. That’s why I needed to speak with you, actually. I’ll be at the downtown penthouse. Vincent is coming to pick up the rest of his things.”

Not entirely a lie.

Ophelia laughed. “So neither of us will be having any fun this weekend.”

“At least he’ll finally be out of my hair.”

“Out of everyone’s hair. I’m tired of him glowering at everyone in the palace. Speaking of which, has the guest of honor made an appearance at all today?”

Ciaran shook his head. “He’s been holed up in his office all day.”

“I can’t say I blame him, after what happened at the parade.” She fidgeted with the betrothal ring on her left hand. The Duke of Westbrook was a very lucky man. “Do you think they’ve caught that beast yet?”

“Of course not,” Ciaran said, laughing. “If they had, Nolan would be staging a public execution as we speak. He couldn’t ask for a better birthday present.”

Ophelia didn’t share his laughter. “I’ve heard that some of the commoners think it was a hellhound. Surely it can’t be?”

Ciaran held out a hand to the tranquil garden, the string lights glittering like the twilight sky above them. “Does this look like the end of days to you?”

“Then what was it? A werewolf?”

Ciaran recalled the blurry photographs captured that afternoon. “It didn’t look like a wolf to me. It looked like a gazehound of some kind.”

“A what?”

Ciaran sighed. Sometimes he forgot how clueless the average person was about dogs. “A type of dog bred to hunt by sight rather than scent. They’re typically slender and tall with a deep chest, like a greyhound. Bane’s breed is considered a gazehound.”

“Well, you would know a lot more about that than I would.”

They fell into silence as Ciaran recalled the guards’ reports of the afternoon. The assassin had seemed like a completely normal woman at first, aside from the bright yellow sigils on her arms and face. Tall and lean, but well muscled. Brown skin and dark brunette hair. And then in an instant she was a giant dog, nearly the size of a horse.

As far as he knew, he had only ever met one other shapechanger, when he was eight years old. She had been a young child herself, no more than a year or two older than him. She’d been caught stealing and was brought to Nolan in the palace, where he and Ciaran were eating dinner. His brother had been kind to her and even offered her a place at the table. Not too long after, he’d sent Ciaran to bed.

Ciaran saw her once more that night, when the emergency bells woke him from his sleep. He’d escaped the nanny to search for Nolan, racing through the palace halls only to run into the largest dog he’d ever seen in his life. She towered over him, fangs bared, her muzzle still red and slick from the blood of the guard whose throat she’d torn out. He couldn’t suppress his shiver at the memory.

He wondered if it was the same person who tried to murder Nolan today. They had the same color hair and skin, the same gazehound shape. He could never remember the girl’s name, though it always seemed right on the tip of his tongue. Aria, or Ava, or—

“She’s watching over you from Paradise. She had a strong legacy.”

He startled at Ophelia’s gentle voice. He hadn’t noticed that his mind had wandered with his eyes lingering on the statue of his mother.

“Maybe a little too strong,” Ciaran grumbled. “It casts a long shadow.”

“She would be proud of you,” Ophelia said, turning toward Ciaran to pin him with an earnest look. When he said nothing, she went on, “You should build another kennel. Get more dogs. I know it won’t replace what you lost, but you could use something to occupy your time.”

“I’ve tried. Nolan won’t let me.”

“Why not?”

Ciaran threw his shoulders up. “Who knows? Getting an answer would require him to actually want to speak to me.”

“He loves you, Ciaran. You know that.”

“Does he? He has a funny way of showing it.”

He shook his head. Badmouthing the king shortly before he was mysteriously assassinated was probably not a wise choice.

And besides, it wasn’t Nolan’s fault he was so suspicious of everyone around him. He’d welcomed that shapechanger into his palace, and had been betrayed by her kind many times over. There was one girl—one woman, at this point—who could be blamed for his brother’s paranoia. She was the reason Ciaran was in this predicament.

“I’m sorry,” Ciaran said. “That was unfair of me. He just hasn’t been the same since … ”

Ophelia took his hand in hers. “Nolan is hurting, too. Anyone would be changed by what you both went through.”

It took Ciaran a moment to realize Ophelia was not referring to the night the shapechanger girl had been brought to the palace.

“That’s not what I meant,” he snapped.

Ophelia dropped his hand, and Ciaran instantly regretted his words.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “The stress from this week is getting to me, but it’s not fair to take it out on you.” He held out his elbow to her, and thankfully she took it in her elegant hands as they headed back to the party. “He’ll have to talk to me today, at least. I have to tell him I’ll be at the penthouse all weekend.”

Ophelia’s eyes widened. “Oh, I hope for your sake you got him a very good birthday gift.”