The sun had barely risen, yet the keep thrummed with tension—tight, metallic, and bitter on the tongue like old blood. Guards marched along the parapets with blades sharpened anew, their silver-plated armor catching the pale dawn light. Every step was rehearsed, every glance twice-checked.
Lyra stood behind the frost-streaked window of her chamber, watching the forest below shift like something alive—its breath held, its trees bowed in anxious silence. Even the crows that usually circled the towers were gone.
Something was coming.
No.
He was coming.
Kael of Moonblood.
The name alone made her grip the window ledge hard enough to turn her knuckles white.
She had never seen his face that night. Only the aftermath—smoke curling from the mangled ruins of her home, her brother's blood on the snow, her mother's scream echoing into silence.
But she had seen the seal. Moonblood. And the name carved beneath the lie that ended her pack.
Kael.
The wolf responsible for the death of everything she once loved.
And now, he was coming here—to Bloodveil. To Cain.
To her.
Cain hadn't spoken to her since the night in the sacrificial chamber. But she could feel him. The tether between them burned hotter with each hour, as if the bond itself sensed a threat approaching.
Lyra hated it.
Hated the way it pulsed whenever she thought of him. Hated the echo of his voice in her bones. The memory of his expression when she confronted him—stormy, conflicted, real.
And now?
She was expected to stand at his side like some Luna he'd lovingly chosen, not the resurrected ghost of the girl he left to die.
She paced her room, too restless to sit, too alert to cry. Her cloak—red, too rich for a rogue—lay folded on the chair. Aisla had delivered it with a terse nod and instructions:
"Wear this. Walk beside him. Say nothing you'll regret."
Lyra had almost laughed. Regret?
She had burned through regret long ago. What remained now was resolve.
Let Kael come.
Let Cain lie.
Let the whole damn keep rot in tension and fear.
She would play their game.
And when the time was right, she would tear them all apart from the inside.
The keep was dressed for war masked as welcome.
Torches lined the inner courtyard, their smoke laced with protective herbs. Crimson banners bearing Bloodveil's sigil—an obsidian fang beneath a burning moon—snapped in the morning breeze. Fresh wolves lined the walkway to the main gate, all armed.
No one believed this was just a diplomatic visit.
Lyra descended the grand stairs, each step echoing across the chamber like a countdown. She wore the Bloodveil cloak now, its weight pressing against her shoulders like a shackle. The mark beneath her collarbone still ached—a dull, ever-present reminder of the bond.
Cain waited at the bottom of the stairs.
He didn't glance at her.
Didn't speak.
But the second she drew close, the bond surged between them—like lightning trapped in skin.
Lyra bit the inside of her cheek to stay still.
"You're late," he murmured, golden eyes fixed on the courtyard.
"I was deciding whether I wanted to be seen beside you," she answered without missing a beat.
His jaw ticked.
"We have to appear united," he said.
"So now I'm your pet?" she hissed.
Cain's gaze finally slid to her, sharp and burning.
"You're my mate. And if we want to survive this meeting, you'll play the part. Or Kael will smell blood and tear through this place."
Lyra met his stare. "Let him try."
Cain didn't smile. Didn't speak.
But she saw it in his eyes—the worry. Not for himself.
For her.
And that only made her angrier.
The warning horns sounded at high noon.
Wolves gathered on the parapets and stairs, murmuring as the silver-cloaked figures emerged from the treeline. Moonblood. Their soldiers moved in near-perfect silence, mounted on midnight-colored horses draped in steel.
At their center rode a man dressed in pale silver and blood-red leather.
Kael.
He was exactly what she'd imagined—and worse.
Tall. Regal. Beautiful in a cruel, aristocratic way. His black hair was streaked with silver like moonlight across a blade. His eyes gleamed with twin colors—one silver, one red—and the crescent-shaped scar above his right brow only enhanced the feeling that he had been carved, not born.
He dismounted slowly, gaze roaming over the Bloodveil wolves with the detachment of a collector examining spoils.
Then his eyes found Cain.
And then—they found her.
Lyra's spine went rigid.
Kael's smile was slow, calculated.
"So," he drawled, voice smooth as black silk, "the rumors were true. Bloodveil has chosen a Luna."
He stepped forward and, without waiting for consent, took Lyra's hand.
His fingers were cold.
Unnaturally cold.
"And such a lovely one at that."
Cain didn't growl this time.
He didn't have to.
The entire keep bristled behind him.
Lyra jerked her hand away, but Kael only chuckled.
"Relax, cousin," he said lightly, turning to Cain. "You don't have to be so territorial. I'm only admiring what's yours."
Lyra blinked.
Cousin?
She shot Cain a sideways look. He said nothing, only stared straight ahead, shoulders tight.
"Family reunions are such awkward affairs," Kael added with mock regret. "Especially when they involve blood oaths and murdered packs."
The air turned colder.
Lyra barely kept herself from reaching for the dagger hidden beneath her cloak.
This wasn't over.
It was just beginning.
The feast that followed was the kind of farce only wolves and warlords could perform.
The long tables groaned under the weight of roasted venison, salted boar, dark berries soaked in wine. And yet, no one touched the food.
They watched each other. Studied. Calculated.
Lyra sat at Cain's right, a position of power—but also exposure. Every glance was a test. Every sip of wine a gamble.
Kael sat directly across from her.
He hadn't stopped watching her since the moment they entered the hall.
"You're quieter than I expected," he murmured across the table. "The rumors painted you as… fierce."
Lyra smiled, slow and dangerous. "And what did they say about you?"
Kael's grin widened. "That I don't need to speak to be feared."
"Then maybe you're overcompensating."
A nearby Bloodveil warrior choked on his drink. Even Cain's fingers twitched beside her.
Kael leaned in, gaze gleaming.
"I've seen your eyes before," he said softly. "In flames."
Lyra's breath caught.
"I was there," Kael whispered. "Silverfang's fall. I saw your mother fight. Brave woman. Died screaming. You survived, didn't you?"
She said nothing.
There was no need.
Kael's smile sharpened.
"I should've made sure you didn't."
Lyra's fingers slipped beneath the table, curling around the bone-hilted dagger Cain had given her two nights ago.
"Try it," she whispered, eyes glowing violet now. "You'll lose more than your pride."
Kael leaned back, satisfied.
Across the table, Cain rose from his chair.
"Enough," he said, voice low but carrying through the stone hall like a growl in a storm.
The wolves stilled.
Even Kael tilted his head with a mock sigh.
"Tense, cousin. Is this how you treat family?"
Cain didn't respond.
His gaze locked with Lyra's, and for a heartbeat, the bond between them flared—blinding and raw.
She was fire. He was stone. But Kael… Kael was ice, and ice could burn too.
Lyra turned back to Kael and smiled coldly.
"Enjoy your meal," she said. "It may be your last here."
Kael's silver-red gaze glittered.
And Lyra knew, in her marrow, in her curse-scarred soul, that this was not the last time they'd trade threats over blood and legacy.
It was only the first.