Kael Draven woke to silence.
Not the peaceful kind—but the kind that pressed against the ears, heavy and wrong, as though the palace itself was holding its breath.
Sunlight filtered through the tall windows of his chambers, pale and unforgiving. His head throbbed, wine clinging to his senses like a fog he could not fully push away. He sat up slowly, muscles tense, memory fragmented.
The night before came to him in pieces.
Anger.
Council words echoing in his skull.
The taste of wine—too much of it.
Then… warmth.
Not silk. Not perfume.
Her.
Kael's breath hitched as the image formed—Lyria in the gardens, moonlight threading through her dark hair, her eyes lifted to his as if she had been waiting without knowing she waited.
His wolf stirred, restless, possessive.
"She wasn't here," he muttered aloud, grounding himself. "You were drunk."
Still, the pull in his chest refused to fade.
The door opened quietly.
Riven stepped in, his expression carefully neutral. Too careful.
"You're awake," the Beta said.
Kael looked up sharply. "What happened last night?"
Riven hesitated—a fraction too long.
The silence answered before words could.
Kael rose to his feet. "Say it."
"The palace believes you spent the night with Lady Isolde."
The air shifted.
Kael's eyes flashed amber. "I did not."
"I know," Riven replied calmly. "But belief is rarely built on truth alone."
Kael clenched his jaw. His wolf growled low, displeased—not because of Isolde, but because something precious felt threatened.
"And Lyria?" Kael asked, before he could stop himself.
Riven studied him. "She has not said a word. But she has heard."
—
Lyria stood by the herb tables in the rear garden, fingers brushing dried leaves she did not truly see. The scent of mint and sage did nothing to steady her thoughts.
"She stayed the night."
"She's an elder's daughter. Of course she would."
The words cut sharper than blades.
Selene lingered close, eyes searching Lyria's face. "You don't have to listen to them."
Lyria forced a small smile. "It's fine."
It wasn't.
She felt foolish—dangerously so—for the way her heart had softened toward a man who belonged to power, not possibility. She had known better. Always had.
Yet when she turned—
He was there.
Kael stood at the garden's edge, sunlight catching in his hair, eyes dark and unreadable. For a moment, neither of them moved.
"You're avoiding me," he said quietly.
Lyria swallowed. "You are mistaken, my lord."
He stepped closer. Not touching. Never crossing the line.
"Look at me," he said.
She did—and whatever he saw in her eyes made something tighten in his chest.
"I don't remember last night," Kael admitted. "But I know what did not happen."
Her breath caught. "The palace does not care what is true."
"No," he said softly. "But I do."
Their closeness crackled—unspoken, restrained, dangerous. His wolf pressed forward, curious, drawn.
From behind a pillar, unseen eyes watched.
Serina's maid.
And farther still—Maris.
—
Elsewhere, Isolde lay in silk sheets not her own.
The man beside her slept deeply, unaware of his purpose beyond the warmth he had provided. She rose quietly, already dressed in control.
By the time the palace fully woke, she would return.
By the time Kael questioned his memories—
The damage would already be done.