CADEON POV
"Absolutely not," I said, staring at the formal dinner invitation like it might bite me.
Veron stood in my study doorway, holding three more identical invitations. "Sir, you've refused the last four court functions. Prince Theron is asking questions. If you don't attend—"
"He'll use it as evidence that I'm avoiding my duties." I threw the invitation onto my desk. "Fine. I'll go. But Lyra stays here."
"That's the problem." Veron shifted uncomfortably. "The invitation specifically requests the presence of 'General Nightfang and his recent acquisition.' They want to see her."
Of course they did.
Three days had passed since the bloody message appeared in my fortress. Three days of investigating, finding nothing, and watching Lyra jump at every shadow. Seraphine hadn't returned, which made me more nervous, not less.
And now the court wanted to parade Lyra in front of them like a prize.
"If I bring her," I said slowly, "they'll tear her apart. You know what court dinners are like—politics and poison disguised as wine and conversation."
"Yes, sir. But if you don't bring her, they'll assume you're hiding something. Or that she's too weak to be seen in public." Veron met my eyes. "Either way, it makes you look vulnerable."
He was right. I hated that he was right.
"Tell the kitchen to prepare my formal clothes," I growled. "And have Lyra ready by sunset. If anyone at that dinner touches her—"
"You'll start a war. I know, sir." Veron left before I could threaten him too.
I sat alone in my study, staring at Elira's portrait. The altered message still haunted me: *The real daughter will kill you. The false one will save you.*
Which daughter was Lyra? Real or false?
And why did it matter? The mate bond didn't lie. My panther recognized her as mine, regardless of blood.
But someone wanted me to doubt. Wanted me to turn against her.
I wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
"Tonight," I told Elira's painted eyes, "I'm bringing your daughter into the wolf pack. Try not to haunt me too badly if this goes wrong."
The portrait, as always, didn't answer.
---
Lyra stood in the center of my study, looking like she wanted to murder someone. Probably me.
"No," she said flatly, crossing her arms.
"It's not a request."
"Then it's a command from my owner?" Her silver-grey eyes flashed. "Go ahead, General. Command me. See how well that works."
We'd been arguing for ten minutes. She refused to attend the dinner. I refused to let her refuse.
"They want to see you," I explained again. "The court nobles. If you don't appear, they'll make assumptions—"
"Let them assume!" She stepped closer, anger radiating off her. "I'm not your pet to be shown off. I won't sit there while beasts mock me and you pretend it's normal!"
"I won't pretend anything." I kept my voice level. "And I won't let them mock you."
"How? By threatening them? By reminding everyone you bought me?" She laughed bitterly. "That'll just make them hate me more."
"They already hate you, Lyra. You're Elira Thorne's daughter. You're human. You're alive despite laws that say you shouldn't be." I moved around my desk to face her properly. "This dinner isn't about making friends. It's about showing them you're under my protection. That attacking you means attacking me."
"And what if I don't want your protection?"
The question hung between us like a blade.
"Too bad," I said quietly. "You have it anyway."
She stared at me, searching for something in my face. "Why? Why does it matter so much?"
*Because you're my mate. Because the bond is killing me every time you're in danger. Because I failed your mother and I won't fail you.*
But I couldn't say any of that.
"Because I gave you my word," I said instead. "One year of service for your freedom. You can't earn your freedom if you're dead."
She flinched. "Fine. I'll go to your stupid dinner. But if any of them touch me—"
"They won't."
"How can you be sure?"
I let my panther show in my eyes—gold and predatory. "Because I'll break every bone in their hand if they try."
---
The carriage ride to the palace was silent.
Lyra sat across from me, stiff in the formal clothes Veron had found—simple but elegant. She kept touching her neck where a thin silver chain sat. Not a collar. Never a collar. Just jewelry that happened to indicate she was under my household's protection.
Small difference. Huge symbolism.
"Remember," I said as the palace came into view, "stay close to me. Don't eat or drink anything I haven't tested first. And if anyone asks you direct questions—"
"Let you answer," she finished. "I know. You've told me six times."
"Because this matters. One wrong word and—"
"They'll have ammunition against you. I understand." She looked at me properly for the first time since we'd left. "But what if they have ammunition against me? What if someone knows something about my past? About my mother?"
"Then we deal with it." I leaned forward. "Together."
She blinked, surprised. "Together?"
"You're under my protection. That means when they attack you, they attack me." I held her gaze. "And I'm very good at surviving attacks."
The carriage stopped. Footmen rushed to open the doors.
Showtime.
I stepped out first, then offered my hand to Lyra. She hesitated—just a fraction of a second—before taking it.
Her hand was small in mine. Warm. The mate bond hummed with contentment at the touch.
Focus, I told myself. Tonight is about survival, not feelings.
The palace entrance blazed with light. Beast nobles in expensive clothes filled the hall, drinking and laughing. The moment we entered, conversation died.
Every eye turned to us.
To Lyra.
"General Nightfang!" A boar beastman called out, too loud and too friendly. "We wondered if you'd actually bring her!"
Lyra's grip on my arm tightened. I covered her hand with mine—protective.
"Lord Brennan," I acknowledged coolly. "Of course I brought her. Why wouldn't I?"
"Well, rumors said she was... delicate. Too fragile for court." His eyes raked over Lyra with obvious judgment. "She certainly looks human enough."
Meaning weak. Worthless. Prey.
"She's stronger than she looks," I said, my voice dropping to a warning growl.
Before Brennan could respond, another voice cut through the crowd—smooth, dangerous, female.
"General Nightfang. And this must be your little acquisition."
Lady Morvane approached, a lion beastwoman with golden eyes and a smile that promised violence. She'd been trying to seduce me for fifty years. I'd refused for fifty-one.
"Lady Morvane," I said neutrally.
"Such an interesting choice." She circled us like prey, examining Lyra from every angle. "Human. Grey-eyed. And rumored to be Elira Thorne's spawn." Her claws extended slightly. "Tell me, General, why keep such a dangerous creature alive? Why not send her to the Pits for entertainment?"
The Pits. Underground fighting rings where humans were thrown against beasts for sport. Most died within minutes.
The room went silent, waiting for my answer.
Lyra's hand trembled against my arm. I squeezed gently—reassurance.
"Because she's mine," I said clearly. "And I don't send my property to the Pits."
"Property?" Morvane laughed. "She's a threat. A rebel's daughter. You should eliminate her before—"
"Before what?" I stepped forward, letting my full height and presence dominate the space. "Before she overthrows the empire single-handedly? She's one human girl, Morvane. If the empire can't survive one unarmed woman, we deserve to fall."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
I'd just defended a human. Publicly. In front of witnesses.
Morvane's eyes narrowed. "Careful, General. People might think you're going soft."
"People can think whatever they want." I turned away dismissively. "Now if you'll excuse us, dinner is being served."
I led Lyra toward the dining hall, feeling every gaze burning into our backs.
"That was stupid," Lyra whispered. "You just made an enemy."
"I've had worse enemies."
The dining hall was massive—long tables arranged in a U-shape, with the head table reserved for Prince Theron and his favorites. Other human slaves sat on the floor at their masters' feet, eating scraps.
I'd been assigned a seat near the head table. Position of honor.
Or position of scrutiny.
As we approached our seats, I heard Lyra's sharp intake of breath. She'd seen the other humans on the floor.
She expected me to make her sit there too.
Instead, I pulled out the chair beside mine—not at my feet, but next to me, like an equal.
The entire hall went silent.
"Sit," I said quietly.
Lyra stared at the chair like it might explode. "Cadeon, if I sit there—"
"Sit. Down."
She sat.
Shock rippled through the room. Nobles whispered furiously. A few looked scandalized. Others looked calculating.
At the head table, Prince Theron watched with hooded eyes. He raised his wine glass in a mock toast.
"General Nightfang," he called out. "How... progressive. Seating your human beside you like she's a person."
The insult was deliberate. Public.
I met his gaze steadily. "She is a person, Your Highness."
More gasps. Even Lyra looked shocked.
Theron's smile sharpened. "Interesting philosophy. Tell me, does this person have a voice? Or does she simply warm your bed?"
Rage flared, hot and immediate. My claws extended under the table.
Lyra's hand found mine, stopping me. Her touch was deliberate—grounding.
"I have a voice," she said clearly, shocking everyone including me. She looked directly at Theron. "But I'm still learning when it's wise to use it in present company."
The implication was clear: Theron wasn't worth speaking to.
The prince's expression darkened. Several nobles choked on their drinks.
I wanted to kiss her and strangle her simultaneously. She'd just insulted the crown prince.
"Clever tongue," Theron said softly. "Let's hope you don't lose it."
The threat hung in the air.
Dinner was served in tense silence.
I tested every dish before letting Lyra eat. She noticed, and something in her expression softened—just slightly. Gratitude? Understanding? I couldn't tell.
Halfway through the meal, a servant delivered a covered dish specifically for Lyra. The card read: *"A gift for the General's guest, from a well-wisher."*
No name.
Every instinct screamed danger.
"Don't touch it," I said.
"I wasn't planning to." Lyra pushed it away.
I lifted the cover.
Inside was a single silver rose—beautiful, delicate, and unmistakably coated in poison. The thorns glistened with it.
Attached was a note: *"False daughters don't deserve to bloom."*
My blood turned to ice.
"Who delivered this?" I demanded of the servant.
"I-I don't know, my lord! It was left in the kitchen with instructions—"
I stood abruptly, pulling Lyra up with me. "We're leaving. Now."
"General?" Theron called out. "Leaving so soon? Dinner isn't over."
"My guest isn't feeling well." I kept moving, keeping Lyra behind me.
But as we reached the door, a new voice rang out—female, powerful, terrifyingly familiar.
"Leaving without saying hello, sister?"
Lyra froze.
I turned slowly.
Seraphine stood in the doorway, dressed in formal court attire, silver-grey eyes glittering with challenge.
And beside her, arm linked with hers like an old friend—
Prince Theron.
He smiled at my expression. "Surprise, General. I'd like you to meet my new advisor. Lady Seraphine Thorne. Elira's true daughter. The real one."
Lyra's hand clenched around mine, her face going white.
Seraphine looked at her—at us—with an expression I couldn't read.
"Hello, little sister," she said softly. "Did you really think you were the only one Mother wanted at court?"
The room spun.
Real daughter. False daughter.
And Seraphine had just allied herself with our greatest enemy.