It began with a look.
Not sharp. Not loud or possessive. But it burned all the same.
From the far edge of the ballroom, Thorne stood half-shrouded in shadow, watching Lyra with the stillness of a predator. His hand flexed once at his side—gloved fingers grazing the hilt of his sword—not as a threat, but a tether. Something to keep him grounded.
In the pool of golden light at the center of the hall, Lyra laughed. Cassian leaned in close—too close—his black coat brushing her shoulder as he whispered something that made her lips curl in amusement.
That smile wasn't for Cassian.
It still didn't belong to him.
Thorne's jaw tightened.
He crossed the floor slowly, cutting a path through silks and masks and whispered rumors. His presence didn't need volume. It silenced the room anyway.
Cassian saw him first and had the audacity to smirk.
"Your Highness," he said, dipping his head in a mocking half-bow.
Thorne's voice was low, flat. "You're standing very close to my wife."
Lyra arched a brow but said nothing. Let them spar.
Cassian only smiled wider. "Would you prefer I stood behind her?"
That earned a silence thick enough to taste. Thorne stepped in between them—not touching, but enough to force Cassian back half a pace.
Barely. Just enough to insult.
"Careful, spymaster," Thorne said quietly. "You've betrayed her once. I don't think you'd survive doing it again."
Cassian's smirk faltered for the briefest flicker of a second. "Noted."
He melted into the crowd like smoke. Gone as if he'd never been.
Lyra sighed. "Do you growl at every man who breathes near me?"
Thorne turned to her fully now, gaze steady. "Only the ones who smile like they remember the shape of your skin."
Her pulse jumped, but her expression didn't crack. "He brought news."
"Did he." Thorne's tone didn't shift.
"A smuggling ring in Norwyn. Artifacts. Magical, possibly divine. If it's real, it ties to Evelyne's inner circle."
"And you believed him?"
She took a step closer, chin high. "He poisoned me once. But men who try to kill me rarely lie to me. They don't dare."
Thorne's silence returned, but it had changed shape. Less heat. More ache.
"I don't like the way he looks at you," he said at last.
Lyra tilted her head. "Is this jealousy, or just control wrapped in new armor?"
He didn't answer. He just looked at her—as if trying to memorize the curve of her cheek, the angle of her mouth, the way her voice had gone soft.
She hated when he did that.
Because she believed it.
"You agreed to a contract," she said. "Not this."
"No," he said, voice suddenly rough. "This wasn't in the contract."
Then, lower: "You weren't supposed to matter."
She went still.
The war between them paused—not ended, just hushed. Waiting.
"I meant what I said in the council chamber," he added. "If you fall, I burn the world."
Her throat tightened.
"Then don't look at me like I'm yours," she whispered.
"I never said you were mine."
He reached out. Slow. Careful. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"But I am yours, Lyra," he said. "In ways I don't understand yet."
She didn't step back.
Didn't speak.
Didn't breathe.
Then—
The ballroom doors slammed open.
A soldier stormed in, out of breath. "Your Highness—Lady Vellorin—the northern watchtower has signaled. Riders approaching. Four. Unknown banner."
Thorne stepped back at once, all warmth gone. "Ready the war room. I want them intercepted before they hit the gate."
"Yes, my lord."
He turned to Lyra, all sharp angles again. "You're with me."
They left without another word.
---
Later, in the war room—
Maps sprawled across the great oak table. Thorne stood over them like a storm in human form. Lyra watched him from the far end, arms folded, mind still spinning.
The tension from the ballroom hadn't left. It lingered here in the firelight.
"Why did you tell me that?" she asked suddenly.
He didn't look up. "Tell you what?"
"That you're mine."
He paused. Then, without turning: "Because it's the only thing I haven't lied about."
She didn't speak again.
Didn't need to.
The room held its breath around them—just long enough for the door to creak open.
A figure stepped inside. Cloaked. Uninvited.
Cassian.
But not smiling this time.
"There's something you both need to see," he said, tossing a blood-stained satchel on the table. "The riders weren't messengers."
He pulled the contents free.
And Lyra's blood ran cold.
Because in his hand was a sigil she knew far too well.
One she thought was lost in fire.
Her father's.