Drakor Nightfang wanted the throne of Ulmwood's hidden court, but tonight he only wanted to reach the gate alive. He kept to the shadow of the crimson tower where he slept, a jagged castle that bled firelight from every window. Under a heavy mantle of layered cloth, he hid the one thing that would get him killed: wings, one red, one blue, folded flat against his spine. The court ruled every half-blood in Ulmwood, and only full-bloods could claim its crown. So he had learned to pass as one. The scent reached him first. Then the footsteps, matching his own. Behind him walked an enforcer of the court, a half-blood built like a door, whose nose had found the thing the mantle could not hide. Drakor's blood. His mixed, forbidden blood. The enforcer's job was simple: drag trespassers before the court in chains. A trespasser never became a contender. Drakor slowed. He could not outrun a tracker who already had his scent. He could only kill the scent or kill the man. He turned into a narrow court between the castle walls and stopped. The enforcer stepped in after him and smiled. "Half-blood," the enforcer said. "You reek of two bloods. The court will want a word." "Then let it," Drakor said. "After I'm named a contender, not before." The enforcer lunged. Drakor threw off the mantle. His wings snapped open, red and blue, and the enforcer froze one breath too long. Drakor's hand went cold with magic. Frost crawled up the enforcer's arm and locked it to his side. The man roared and swung with his free fist. The blow caught Drakor's jaw and knocked him into the wall. The frost cracked. The enforcer was stronger, and he was winning. Then a small shape dropped from the dark above. Drakor's pet hit the enforcer's shoulder, a shadow wolf pup no bigger than a cat, one leather wing beating, black scales flashing along its back. Its scaled hide turned the enforcer's clawing hands. The pup bit down on the frozen arm and the ice shattered inward. The enforcer screamed. Drakor pushed off the wall and drove his cold hand against the man's chest. Frost spread over the heart. The enforcer dropped and did not rise. Drakor stood over the body, breathing hard. The pup trotted to his boot and pressed against it. He picked up the fallen mantle but did not put it on. The scent was dead. But the man was court. Someone had sent him, and someone would notice when he never returned. Drakor had meant to slip into the court quietly, a stranger with clean blood, and work his way toward the crown. That path was gone now. He had killed an enforcer at the castle wall, and his real face hung open in the night air. The court would not meet a quiet stranger. It would hunt a murderer with red and blue wings.