The silence between them crackled.
Lyra didn't move as the final seal melted beneath Thorne's signature, the parchment curling faintly at the edges where wax met heat. She didn't look away when he pressed his ring into the blood-red seal, watching it hiss, binding the pact — binding her.
A one-year marriage.
A weapon, not a wedding.
And yet… as the shadows coiled tighter around Thorne's frame and he lifted his gaze to hers, something deep inside her twisted.
Not fear.
Not yet.
Something older. Something she buried long ago with the girl they burned.
Thorne's voice cut through the silence like a blade unsheathed. "It's done."
His tone was quiet, but final — like dirt thrown over a coffin.
Lyra nodded once. "You'll have your alliance. I'll have your name."
"And everything that comes with it." He stepped forward.
Too close.
The hearth behind him cast long, licking shadows across the stone floor. They moved like wolves on the hunt — wild, fluid, relentless. A single thought beat through her like a drum:
Don't flinch. Don't yield. Don't trust.
"I don't care who you were," Thorne said, voice like gravel dragged over frost. "I only care about who you become beside me."
"Beside you?" she echoed, arching a brow. "Or behind you?"
His lips curved — not a smile. Something darker. "No one stands behind me unless they're bleeding. Or dead."
She matched his stare. "Then I suppose I'll be walking beside you with a dagger in my hand."
He gave a low chuckle — not amused, but approving. "Good. You'll need it."
A beat passed.
Then he reached up, slowly, deliberately, and undid the clasp of his cloak. It fell from his shoulders in a rustle of velvet and steel, revealing the black-and-silver armor beneath — regal, war-forged, terrifying in its beauty. Across his chest, the sigil of the Southern Wastes gleamed: a raven circling a burning sun.
Without asking, he stepped behind her.
Before she could move, she felt it — the weight of his cloak settling around her shoulders. Heavy. Warm. Claimed.
Her breath stuttered.
The scent clung to it: smoke, wind, and a faint trace of blood. Not fresh. Not alarming. Old. Faded into the fabric like a memory.
"This will keep them off your back for now," he murmured, close to her ear. "You wear my name. Let them choke on it."
Lyra turned, slowly, letting the cloak drape around her like a mantle. Her fingers brushed the clasp at her collarbone. "And what do you want in return?"
Thorne didn't hesitate. "Your honesty."
"That's all?" she asked, mouth dry.
"No lies," he said simply. "You may use me — my title, my armies, my reputation. Use my name like a blade. But don't lie to me. Ever."
"And if I do?" she asked, chin lifting.
A pause.
His eyes — winter-grey, storm-deep — locked on hers. "Then I will burn everything you've built and salt the ashes with your name."
The words shouldn't have thrilled her. But they did. Because there was no honey in them. No mask. No softness pretending to care.
Just truth.
Unapologetic and unyielding.
She could work with that.
"Then I suppose we understand each other," she said, and turned away — half-expecting him to reach for her, to try to own her as Caelum once had.
But Thorne didn't move.
No lingering touch.
No leering eyes.
Just that quiet weight of presence — powerful, patient, deadly.
She walked to the mirror across the room and studied herself. The cloak transformed her. She looked taller. Sharper. Cloaked in something more dangerous than silk or spite.
Power.
It shimmered over her like invisible armor.
Her voice was steady as she said, "Tomorrow, we announce the engagement."
Thorne didn't reply at first. Then, "Make it loud. Make it vulgar."
She glanced back. "You want to start a war?"
"I want to end one," he replied. "And sometimes the quickest path to peace is by burning down the palace."
That earned him a real smile. Brief. Crooked. Gone before it settled.
As she moved to leave, Thorne's voice stopped her cold.
"Lyra."
She turned.
"You've walked in darkness," he said. "I see that. I don't expect warmth from you. I don't expect trust. But if you ever need something to hold onto… take me."
She blinked, slowly. "Use you?"
"Yes."
He stepped forward, expression unreadable. "Use me. As shield. As sword. As flame. I'll be whatever you need to survive this — so long as you don't lie. And don't leave me behind."
His words struck harder than they should've. Something beneath her ribs clenched. Not love. Not longing.
Recognition.
It was the kind of offer no one had ever made her — not Caelum, not her father, not the gods. They all wanted a piece of her. Thorne offered himself instead.
That was dangerous.
So she answered the only way she knew how — with teeth.
"You may regret that," she said, slipping past him and pulling the cloak tighter. "I bite."
Thorne's laugh was low, nearly a growl. "Good."
She didn't look back.
But as she crossed the threshold, she heard it — his final murmur, low and almost lost beneath the sound of the closing door:
"I only bleed for wolves."