Lyra barely slept after the feast.
Kael's voice lingered in her mind like venom beneath her skin.
"You're not his mate. Not truly. But by magic."
She wanted to dismiss it as manipulation, a lie spoken through teeth sharpened by ambition. But even in the stillness of the night, her mark throbbed—restless, burning—like it was trying to speak. It didn't hum with comfort or warmth. It seethed. It pulled.
It didn't feel like love.
It felt like shackles.
When dawn finally broke, the cold light of morning only made her questions sharper. She sat on the edge of her bed, cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders, bare feet planted on the icy floor. Her fingertips brushed the mark above her collarbone.
Still there. Still warm.
And still not hers.
A knock shattered the quiet.
She didn't answer.
The door creaked open anyway.
Kael.
Of course.
He entered like he owned the place—like he'd already mapped every inch of Cain's keep and every secret buried beneath its stone. His silver cloak shimmered faintly in the muted light, and his pale eyes gleamed with a cruel sort of patience.
"Should I be flattered?" Lyra said without looking at him. "Or just annoyed?"
Kael's smile curled. "You should be curious."
She turned her head slightly, eyeing him with open distrust. "You're bold to walk into the Alpha's claimed mate's chambers."
He shrugged. "Cain can chain me to the gate later if he wants. But I doubt he'll touch me while you're still uncertain about him."
She narrowed her eyes. "Who said I'm uncertain?"
Kael didn't answer. Instead, he stepped further inside, something small and square in his gloved hand.
"I brought you something." He placed the box on the table between them.
"A threat disguised as a gift?" she asked.
"A truth." He tapped the lid. "Or a warning. You choose."
Lyra stood slowly, bare feet soundless as she crossed the room. She didn't touch the box.
"I don't take offerings from traitors."
Kael's expression didn't waver. "Then think of it as evidence."
He turned and walked to her window, gazing out as if surveying his future kingdom. "You don't even know what he did to make you his."
Her blood chilled. "Cain didn't force the bond."
"No," Kael said softly. "He didn't have to. He let the Hollow do it for him."
Lyra frowned. "That's impossible."
Kael's eyes met hers, pale as winter. "Is it?"
He stepped toward her, voice lowering like a priest whispering a confession.
"That mark on you? It wasn't given by the Goddess. It was carved by ancient magic. The Hollow's kind. The kind our ancestors used in blood rites—when they didn't trust the Moon to choose for them."
She flinched, the words clawing at her carefully rebuilt certainty.
"You're lying."
"Am I?" Kael's voice turned gentle, coaxing. "When he touches you… do you feel love? Or fire?"
Her silence was enough.
Kael stepped back again, no longer mocking, just watching.
"Come with me," he said. "Leave Bloodveil. I'll show you the truth—the records, the marks, the circle where the ritual was done. You deserve more than a curse dressed up as fate."
"You mean betray him," she snapped. "Sell myself to the other wolf wearing a crown."
Kael's expression turned to stone. "I won't lie. I want power. I want the seat Cain stole. But you—Lyra, you could rule at my side. Not as a mate. Not as a mark. As a sovereign."
She walked to the door, heart slamming against her ribs.
"Get out."
Kael paused at the threshold. "When the bond breaks," he said softly, "you'll come to me. Because deep down, you already know…"
He looked back at her, silver eyes gleaming with something too ancient to be lust.
"Cain was never your mate."
And then he was gone.
Later, the silence that filled the keep felt louder than Kael's threat.
Lyra didn't eat. Didn't speak to the guards. She just sat in her room, back pressed to the door as if she could still feel his scent lingering on the wood.
Her hand hovered over the box.
Don't open it.
But of course she did.
Inside lay a folded scrap of paper and something wrapped in crimson silk.
The paper held a map—one she recognized immediately.
It showed the Hollow. The outskirts. The stone altar where forbidden rites were done under moonless skies. She knew it because she'd seen it in her dreams.
And the cloth?
Her breath caught as she unwrapped it.
A fang. Not Cain's.
Hers.
Silverfang.
She dropped it, the mark on her skin flaring violently in protest. She clutched her chest and gasped, body trembling.
The bond didn't like what she'd touched.
But it wasn't rejecting it either.
It was reacting.
Recognizing.
Cain found her in the war chamber that evening.
He didn't knock. Didn't speak at first. Just stood in the doorway, backlit by torchlight, his expression a mask of storm and guilt.
"You let him into your room," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"He came on his own," Lyra said coolly. "Next time I'll tell him to use the window."
Cain stalked forward, slamming his hand against the table. "He's baiting you."
Lyra didn't flinch.
"He said the mark wasn't real."
Silence.
Cain's breath hitched just once. Barely noticeable. But she caught it.
"He said you used magic. Ancient magic. You let the Hollow carve it into me."
Still silence.
Then Cain said, voice low and hoarse, "There are things I never told you. Things I never admitted to myself."
Lyra stared at him. "You knew."
"I suspected. When I felt the bond that night—it was like being struck by lightning. It wasn't slow, it wasn't gentle. It was… violent. Consuming. It shouldn't have happened like that."
"Because it wasn't fated."
"No," he admitted. "Because it was made."
Her throat tightened. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I didn't want to lose you before I even had a chance to earn you."
The confession hit her like a blade to the ribs.
Cain, always so composed, looked broken now. As if the truth had cost him everything.
"I didn't know it was you," he said. "Not until the archives. Not until I saw your eyes."
Lyra's heart pounded.
"You killed my family."
"I know."
"You smiled."
His jaw clenched. "I thought… you were already gone. I didn't smile because I was proud. I smiled because it was over."
"It wasn't."
"No," he said softly. "It wasn't."
They stood in silence. The space between them filled with things neither could say.
Then Cain stepped closer.
"There are truths in this place that predate us both. I think someone wanted this bond. Not you. Not me. But someone."
Lyra's voice cracked. "Kael."
Cain nodded. "He was there when the rites were done. He knew the Hollow's language. I didn't understand what I was agreeing to—I thought it was a healing ceremony. I didn't know it would brand you."
Her hands shook.
"So I'm cursed. Not chosen."
"You're still mine," Cain said, voice rough. "Fate or not. Magic or not. You're the one the bond called. And I'll burn down every part of this cursed world before I let them take you again."
That night, Lyra stood alone at the mirror.
The mark on her collarbone shimmered faintly—half silver, half flame.
If it wasn't real… why did it still feel real?
Why did it still ache when Cain spoke her name?
She brushed her fingers over the scar left behind by the night she died. Her wolf stirred in her chest—half memory, half fury.
He didn't give us the bond.
But he hasn't broken it either.
He's still here.
Lyra's breath trembled.
She closed her eyes and whispered the truth out loud, just once.
"I don't know who to trust."
And the mark pulsed in reply.
That same night, far beyond the keep, Kael rode to the border under a moonless sky.
The forest shifted for him.
At the edge of the old stones, someone waited.
Shrouded in black. Hair like ash. Eyes like dried blood.
One of the Hollow's remaining elders.
"Is she breaking?" the figure asked.
Kael dismounted and handed over a scrap of cloth.
Lyra's cloak.
"She will," Kael said.
He smiled then. Cold. Triumphant.
"She's already halfway undone."
He paused.
"And when I have her soul…"
He looked back toward the keep with a glint of ancient hunger.
"The curse ends. And Cain dies."