The Gilded Isolation
The bed was the worst kind of torture. It was vast and soft, draped in white furs that felt like clouds, yet the moment I lay down, the silence of the Royal Wing became an unbearable pressure. I was accustomed to the rhythmic breathing of a hundred wolves, the constant creak of floorboards, and the sour, familiar scent of the kennel. This silence was hollow, the quiet of a tomb.
I finally sat up, the heavy indigo silk robes the handmaids had forced me into pooling around me. They were beautiful, a dark, royal blue that somehow deepened the brown intensity of my eyes, but they felt like woven lead. The silver chain, the symbol of the True Luna, was still around my throat, cool and heavy, a physical reminder of the leash Demetrius had snapped onto my life.
I walked to the enormous window, where glass stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Below, the city of the Iron Citadel glittered, a terrifying sprawl of power and light. Up here, I was invisible, untouchable, and utterly alone.
This is what a cage looks like when it belongs to a King, I thought, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. It smells like sandalwood and fear, not copper and dirt.
The worst part of the opulence was the scent of my mate. It was everywhere. It clung to the heavy velvet curtains, it lingered in the clean air, a ghost of iron and discipline that both reassured my primal wolf and screamed danger to my human mind. The Mate Bond, now officially acknowledged by the King's brutal decree, was quieter than it had been in the field, but it was a constant, dull ache, a low hum of connection that I had to continuously fight to ignore.
A flurry of activity had followed my installation. Handmaids, terrifyingly silent and efficient, had treated me like a broken, expensive doll. They'd brushed my hair until my scalp was sore, massaged oil into the scars on my arms (which did nothing to hide the faint silver lines), and then dressed me for the evening's non-existent duties.
When they had finally left, I was led to the adjoining dining room, a hall so large it could host the entire Black Hills pack. A massive mahogany table was laden with food: roasted fowl, glistening wine, imported fruits. It was a feast for ten, prepared for one.
I hadn't eaten anything since Old Man Silas died. My stomach was a tight knot of paranoia, but my body was weak. I sat at the head of the table, feeling foolishly small, and stared at the lavish spread.
It's too perfect. How do I know it's not laced?
In the kennel, the danger was obvious—a knife, a boot, a shove. Here, the danger was hidden in the perfection. I cautiously broke off a tiny piece of bread, chewing it slowly, testing for any chemical bitterness. It tasted only of yeast and fine craftsmanship. I couldn't swallow it. The fear was a concrete wall in my throat.
You have all the wealth of the kingdom, Esmeralda, and you can't eat a single bite. This is his final victory over you.
I spent nearly an hour there, pushing the food around the plate, listening to the echoing silence of my magnificent prison. I hated the King, but even more, I hated that he had stripped me of the quiet dignity I'd managed to maintain in the slums. Here, I was merely a symbol, a fragile lie waiting to be broken.
The quiet rhythm of my paranoia was broken by a decisive, heavy knock on the outer door. It wasn't the tentative sound of the handmaids; this was authoritative, absolute.
"Luna Esmeralda. Commander Finn, Chief of the Royal Guard. I am here to commence the night watch."
My pulse jumped. Commander Finn. The massive Lycan whose honorable presence had been my only momentary shield in the chaotic throne room. He was the most dangerous Lycan outside of Demetrius and Rhys, yet I remembered the strange flicker of pity in his eyes.
"Enter," I murmured, my voice brittle.
The doors opened silently. Commander Finn stepped in, his size dwarfing the already vast chamber. He was dressed in the dark, heavy uniform of the King's most trusted guard, radiating discipline. He carried no weapon that I could see, but his body was a fortress.
He didn't approach the table. He stopped several feet away, bowed his head stiffly—a respectful gesture that felt completely empty of warmth and then stood at attention.
"Your Majesty has ordered a full twenty-four-hour perimeter watch of the Royal Luna's personal chambers," he stated, his voice a low, steady rumble, devoid of inflection. "I will personally oversee the perimeter from 20:00 hours until dawn."
I gripped the heavy silver necklace, the metal cold under my fingers. "You are my guard," I confirmed, testing the boundaries. "Not my jailer."
His eyes, dark and intelligent, met mine. They were calm, almost impossibly so, given the hostility I'd faced all day. "My primary duty is to ensure the safety and survival of the True Luna, as commanded by the King. Your survival is paramount to the security of the Kingdom, Luna. I will uphold that."
He's talking about the path in the canyons. He's talking about strategy, not me.
"And if I were to, say, take a walk outside of these chambers?" I asked, pushing the edge. "To see the gardens, perhaps? I haven't seen the sky without a roof since I arrived."
Finn didn't move. His face remained perfectly impassive, but the answer was clear in the absolute rigidity of his posture.
"The King's orders are explicit: complete and total security within the Royal Wing until the tactical deployment is finalized," he replied. "For your safety, Luna. The court is dangerous, and there are many who do not accept the King's claim."
"You mean Selene Voss and Beta Volkov," I said, unable to stop the bitterness from creeping in. "And yourself, perhaps?"
He paused, a fraction of a second that spoke volumes. "My loyalty is to the Crown, Luna. And currently, the Crown resides with King Demetrius Klein, and his claimed Luna."
It was a perfect, devastating confirmation. He wasn't technically my enemy, but he wasn't my friend, either. He was the unbreakable bar of the cage, enforced by honor and duty.
"I see," I whispered, the false hope of escape or alliance dissolving. I looked around the lavish room, the heavy curtains, the untouched food. "So this is it, then? This is the grand life of the True Luna? Being watched, fed by fear, and confined to a silence so loud it's drowning me?"
"You are safe here," Finn corrected, his tone still even, still professional. "Safety is a luxury most Lycans in this war do not possess."
I managed a tight, dry laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Safety for the Kingdom, Commander. Not for the woman. I know the difference. The King made that very clear."
I pushed myself away from the table, walking slowly to the nearest window. I kept my back to him, deliberately exposing my vulnerability, seeing if he would flinch, if he would make a sound. He didn't. He was a statue of military precision.
"Commander Finn," I said, finally. "If I command you to leave this specific room, and stand outside my door, would you obey?"
I held my breath, waiting for the technicality that would doom me.
"Yes, Luna," he replied instantly, his voice unwavering. "As it is a command that does not compromise the established security perimeter of the Royal Wing."
The small victory felt like dust. I hadn't gained freedom; I had only changed the wallpaper of my prison.
"Then do so," I commanded, staring out at the endless, cold lights of the Citadel. "Go stand outside. I prefer my isolation to be complete."
I listened to his heavy, disciplined footsteps retreat, and the soft click of the closing door. I was alone, but the silence was now permeated by his scent and the knowledge that he was just feet away, waiting. The gilded cage was set, and Commander Finn was its quiet, unmoving guardian. I was the King's prize, and I would spend every minute fighting his control from ins
ide this terrifying, beautiful prison.