Chapter 7: Lion and the lamb
Lord Veyne's gaze lingered on her a moment longer before turning toward the hearth."Your mother will arrive before dusk."
The words struck differently—like ice after fire.
Nyrielle's spine stiffened."She's coming here?"
"With your sister." His voice was clipped. "You'll begin instruction the moment she arrives. There's much to correct."He sipped from a glass on the mantle as if discussing nothing more than fencing technique or a shipment of wine."Your posture. Your tone. The way you look at men when you speak. Kael won't tolerate insolence, and I won't have you embarrassing this house."
She swallowed hard."Myra is coming too?"
A flicker of approval crossed his face—barely perceptible."Yes. She'll assist your mother. Consider her an example."Another pause. Then, as though tossing her a bone:"There is one piece of good news. Kael has agreed to let you keep one of your maids. You may choose."
Nyrielle's breath hitched. It wasn't much. But it was something.
Renna.
She could at least have one thread of safety. One voice that didn't echo commands.
Lord Veyne set down the glass."We're done here. Compose yourself. And Nyrielle…"His eyes found hers again, the frost sharper now."You'd do well to start practicing silence."
He turned and walked out, his cloak trailing behind him like the tail of a stormcloud.
That night, something in the castle stirred.
It began with footsteps—distant, echoing through hollow halls that hadn't seen servants in years. Then light returned to corridors long cloaked in shadows. Chandeliers were unshrouded. Tapestries were shaken free of their dust. Fires roared in hearths that hadn't known warmth since Nyrielle's childhood.
And the silence—once thick and absolute—fractured beneath the weight of movement. Carriages rolled up the long-abandoned northern drive. Horses were stabled. Crates were hauled in, bolts of fine fabric and perfumes and rows of porcelain arranged in neat preparation. Tailors, perfumers, etiquette masters. A battalion of civility summoned overnight.
The castle had not lived like this in decades.
Now it breathed. Restless. Waiting.
Waiting for the arrival of the Queen Consort of House Veyne.
And for a wedding that would bind Nyrielle's life to the prince of a foreign empire.
Nyrielle watched it unfold from her balcony with a disquiet she couldn't name. The grounds below bustled with unfamiliar hands. The ivy-choked fountains were being scrubbed. The great hall was aired out and hung with crystal lanterns. She hadn't set foot in that hall since she was ten.
Renna stood beside her, quiet as always. "They're waking it up for her," she said softly. "And for the wedding."
Nyrielle's eyes followed a maid hauling flower crates up the eastern stairs. "Why here? Why not the city estate?"
But the answer came before Renna could speak.
Because Lord Veyne would never allow Kael inside his city residence. His pride would not bear it.
The marble house in Virellan—regal, modern, polished—was his sanctuary of control, the face he showed to the world. Allowing the Crown Prince of Dravareth to step foot inside would be a silent admission: that he was beneath him now. That he had to kneel to the boy king across the sea.
So instead, he chose this place. This ancient, half-forgotten relic. A castle that still smelled of iron and ghosts. Let Kael have this—these ruined halls and crumbling stone. Let him see what remained of their family's former grandeur. Let him marry a Veyne in the last place they still ruled without pretense.
It was the most beautiful insult Nyrielle had ever witnessed.
She closed her eyes.
Three days.
The walls breathed around her, groaning with preparation and the low whisper of something older, colder, watching.
She turned from the balcony just as a horn sounded from the gates.
Renna froze. "That's…"
Nyrielle already knew. She didn't need to be told.
The Queen Consort had arrived.
Nyrielle felt it like a pulse against her skin—the sharp scent of frost-laced pine, polished leather, and the ever-present musk of wolves. Not just one or two. A hundred, maybe more. They were coming in waves now.
By the time she reached the grand staircase, the air was thick with it.
Outside the castle gates, carriages rolled through the frostbitten fields, flanked by riders on horseback. But not all had come as humans. Shifting figures darted between trees and stone, their fur catching the gold of the dying sun. Massive, breath-steaming wolves ran freely alongside the procession—unleashed and restless. Some snapped at each other as they passed, jostling for dominance even before they reached the castle doors.
Nyrielle gripped the banister tighter.
Pack members. Allies. Courtiers. Old blood returning home for the spectacle of a wedding, or perhaps merely for the excuse to hunt and drink and bare their teeth beneath moonlight.
There was a rumble from the courtyard—one of the larger wolves had lunged at another, both now circling in low growls until a commander on horseback barked a warning. The wolves fell back, but only just.
This wasn't peace. It was tension in velvet and fur.
And then the gates opened again.
A sleek black carriage, untouched by dirt or frost, glided into the courtyard with a grace more chilling than the wolves. The horses—silver-maned and draped in the Veyne royal crest—stilled without command. Footmen scrambled into formation before the door even opened.
And when it did, the temperature in the air seemed to drop.
Queen Elenys Veyne stepped out in silence.
Her presence was not theatrical—it did not need to be. She wore no crown, no billowing cloak. Just a long coat of dark wolf-fur lined in silk the color of bone, her raven black hair twisted into a flawless knot. Her eyes, the same grey-steel as Nyrielle's, surveyed the castle like a queen returning to a battlefield she had once conquered.
There was no warmth in her expression.
Only calculation.
And at her side…
"Myra," Nyrielle breathed.
Her younger sister followed a step behind their mother, chin lifted, eyes bright. She wore white—soft, embroidered, and glinting with tiny opals. A dress designed to suggest innocence, even when none remained.
The contrast between them was brutal.
Myra looked like a vision from a fable, radiant and beloved.
Nyrielle looked like she'd crawled back from a forgotten grave.
Elenys's gaze swept up the steps.
She didn't pause when she saw Nyrielle. She didn't smile. She didn't flinch.
She simply climbed the stairs, each footfall smooth as glass, Myra trailing behind like a perfect echo. At the top, they stopped.
Nyrielle stood rooted to the stone.
The queen tilted her head.
"So," she said, her voice low and cold, "you will finally stop hiding."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Nyrielle opened her mouth—but no words came.
Her mother didn't wait for them.
She turned to a steward and said crisply, "We begin immediately. She has much to learn and no time for softness. I will need the east wing readied, and a private chamber for Myra beside mine. I'll speak to her father shortly."
As if Nyrielle were not standing right there.
As if this were all a military campaign, and she a disobedient soldier.
But just before Elenys walked past, she paused.
For one sliver of a moment, her eyes met Nyrielle's.
And what flickered behind them was not cruelty. Not exactly.
It was purpose.
"You'll live," she said quietly. "But only if you listen."
Then she was gone, Myra following like a pale shadow, her white skirts whispering across the stone.
Behind them, the castle roared to life—servants moving in double-time, guards taking up new posts, tailors opening trunks of silk and bone-lace. The east wing lit up with motion.
Nyrielle remained still on the stairs, the wind cold against her face.
Renna stepped beside her, quiet for a moment. Then: "Welcome home."
But it didn't feel like home anymore.
It felt like the beginning of a war dressed in finery.