The council chamber smelled of wax and old stone, the kind of scent that clung to shadows and lingered in the folds of velvet curtains long after the candles had burned themselves out. The fire in the great hearth crackled low, its glow swallowed by the vastness of the room so that much of the chamber seemed to dissolve into darkness. High above, the carved beams of the vaulted ceiling disappeared into gloom, and every footstep echoed too sharply, as though the air itself disapproved of sound.
Alaric entered in silence, though the weight of his presence was louder than any voice. Cloaked in black, his amber eyes caught the light of the candles and held it like two smoldering embers. The nobles were already gathered around the great obsidian table — a circle of wary faces, some pale with fear, others sharpened with suspicion, all watching him with the hunger of carrion birds circling a battlefield.
Mr. Silverclaw, the king's counselor, was the first to incline his head. His eyes glinted, keen and cold, as though he measured not only Alaric's words but the very breaths he took. Beside him sat Me Thornfield, Tobias's father, his broad shoulders stiff with the arrogance of old blood. Across from them leaned Mr. Moses, head of the bureau of investigation, whose ink-stained fingers tapped the table with slow, deliberate impatience. Duke Cedric Vale sat at the far end, his expression unreadable, lips pressed into a thin line that betrayed neither allegiance nor dissent. Next to him lounged Baron Voss, his smile sharp and serpentine, as if the whole affair were an entertaining performance staged for his amusement. And the others whose loyalty always wavered between duty and fear.
The chamber doors closed with a heavy thud. Silence swelled, dense, expectant.
Alaric did not sit. Instead, he remained standing at the head of the table, his shadow stretching long behind him like a dark herald. His voice, when it came, was quiet — yet it filled the chamber with ease, curling into every corner.
"Tell me again," he said, "how it came to pass that the guards of my palace lay in heaps of ash."
The words hung in the air, heavy as lead.
Mr. Moses cleared his throat. He pushed forward a scroll, its edges smudged with soot. "Your Majesty, the bodies were discovered at the northern gate just before dawn. Twelve men — burned not by fire, but by something… unnatural. Their flesh bore no flame scars, no blistering. Instead, they crumbled to ash at the touch." He hesitated, as though the words themselves soured his tongue. "Only the armor remained."
Whispers rustled around the table like dry leaves. Baron Voss's smile widened; Thornfield's brow furrowed.
Silverclaw's voice cut through the murmurs, sharp and precise. "The Black Fang has returned."
The name coiled through the chamber like smoke, choking the air.
Duke Cedric's eyes narrowed, though his hands stayed perfectly still upon the table. "That cult was purged two decades ago. Their remnants scattered, hunted down to the last."
"And yet," Silverclaw countered, his gaze sliding to Alaric, "their mark lies upon our gates. Ash for flesh. Whispers in the villages. Entire households vanishing before dawn."
Alaric's jaw tightened. He remembered the smell of it — not ash, but something older, fouler, the reek of a shadow that had lingered too long in the world. He had known it the moment he stood among the corpses: the taste of sorcery that bent toward ruin.
Eamon, standing at his side, leaned forward slightly. "Your Majesty, scouts sent to the borders report strange movements. Caravans turned away by unseen barriers. And… rumors of a banner bearing a dragon, black as night."
The words were enough to still every whisper, to draw every gaze toward the king.
Draven.
Alaric's half-brother. The Dragon King of Pyrelis. The name that did not need to be spoken, because it lived in the marrow of every man present, carved into memory by blood and fear.
For a heartbeat, the room seemed to shrink around Alaric, the shadows pressing closer. His eyes burned brighter, and his hand flexed at his side as though he longed to grasp the hilt of a sword.
"They dare," he murmured, almost to himself. Then louder, his voice laced with steel: "Whether cult or kingdom, shadow or man — they will not breach these walls and leave unpunished. You will double the patrols at every gate. Mr. Moses, sift through every village for whispers of their passage. Silverclaw, I want the names of every noble who has trafficked with Pyrelis in the last ten years. And Thornfield—"
The man stiffened as Alaric's gaze pinned him.
"—you will keep your tongue still unless you can prove it does not wag for them."
A flush spread across Thornfield's face, but he bowed stiffly, words choking in his throat.
Alaric straightened, his presence filling the chamber like storm air before lightning. "This is not coincidence. This is not accident. This is a hand moving in the dark, one that would test my patience and my throne. Let them think me blind. Let them think me slow. And when they draw near enough…" His eyes gleamed, cold and merciless. "I will burn them to the marrow."
The chamber fell silent again. Only the fire in the hearth crackled, sparks rising like tiny souls fleeing into smoke.
And yet, behind his fury, Alaric felt it: the unmistakable scent of Draven's shadow. The Black Fang had not returned on their own. This was orchestration, deliberate and cruel, meant not only to wound but to distract. To draw his eyes away from something — or someone — else.
Lyanna.
The thought whispered unbidden, curling through his mind like smoke.
He dismissed the council with a single gesture, his cloak sweeping behind him as he turned and strode out. The great doors shut with a hollow boom, sealing the chamber's murmurs behind him.
Weeks passed, heavy with tension. Patrols doubled, whispers spread, and the shadow of Pyrelis loomed like a storm gathering beyond the horizon. Alaric did not return to the Duke's mansion as he had promised, though his thoughts wandered there more often than he allowed himself to admit.
Rowena, ever watchful, prowled the halls of the Vale estate like a sentinel. She kept her sister within sight whenever possible, her sharp eyes searching for slips, for secrets. She questioned servants, shadowed footsteps, lingered in doorways. And yet, nothing. Lyanna, for all her quiet defiance, carried on as though no thread bound her to danger.
It should have reassured Rowena. Instead, it only made her restless. Suspicion gnawed at her like a hunger that could not be sated. She knew her sister too well. Secrets clung to Lyanna the way moonlight clung to water — impossible to catch, but impossible to ignore.
One evening, as the sky bruised itself into twilight, Lyanna found her father alone in his study. The room smelled of ink and dust, the desk crowded with letters and scrolls sealed in red wax. She lingered at the threshold for a moment, heart thrumming, before stepping closer.
"Father," she said softly.
Cedric looked up, his expression unreadable. "What is it, child?"
Lyanna hesitated. The question had lived in her throat for years, unspoken for fear of rejection, but it pressed now with a weight she could no longer bear.
"My mother," she whispered. "Who was she? Truly?"
A flicker crossed Cedric's face, so brief she might have imagined it. His jaw tightened, and he leaned back in his chair. "Your mother," he said flatly, "abandoned you the day you were born. She left you to die. It was Elara who persuaded me to take you in."
The words struck like cold iron. Lyanna stared, uncomprehending. "Abandoned me?"
"She is dead now," Cedric continued, his tone clipped, as though reciting lines from a script. "Illness took her years ago. There is nothing more to tell."
But there was something in his eyes — a tremor, a refusal to meet her gaze fully. Lyanna saw it, even if he tried to hide it. And the emptiness inside her deepened, a hollow that no answer could fill.
She bowed her head, swallowing the ache in her throat. "I see."
And with that, she left, carrying the weight of a truth that felt more like a lie.
The night of the family supper arrived like a strange blessing. For the first time, Lyanna was invited to dine at the grand table with Cedric, Elara, Rowena, and her brother. She dressed carefully, her hands trembling as she smoothed the folds of her gown, heart alight with fragile hope.
The hall was warm with firelight, the long table gleaming with silver platters and crystal goblets. Laughter rang faintly as they gathered, and for once Lyanna felt as though she belonged, if only at the edges. She ate quietly, smiling when Cedric asked her a question, laughing softly when her brother teased. For a fleeting moment, she let herself imagine a life where she was not hidden, not silenced, not caged.
When the meal had softened into conversation, she gathered her courage.
"Father," she said, voice steady though her palms dampened, "when will I be permitted to leave the house, as Rowena does?"
The words fell like stones into still water. Silence spread, rippling outward. Knives paused in midair. Rowena's eyes flicked to Elara, who sat rigid, her fingers tightening around her goblet.
Then Elara slammed it down, the sharp sound cracking through the hall.
"You cannot leave," she hissed, her voice vibrating with fury. "Do you want to invite ruin upon us all? Do you not know the king searches for a girl who bears your face? Do you think yourself clever, walking into his hands? You will stay here. You will obey."
Lyanna flinched, her fragile hope shattering. Tears stung her eyes, and she rose quickly from the table, words choking in her throat. Without a glance back, she fled the hall, her sobs echoing faintly in the corridors.
The mansion seemed darker as she climbed the stairs, the shadows pressing closer, mocking her with every step. She felt less a daughter than a prisoner, less a girl than a bird kept in a cage gilded only on the outside.
She pushed open her chamber door, wiping her tears with trembling fingers. And then she froze.
On the window ledge, bathed in the pale light of the moon, sat Alaric. One leg crossed over the other, his cloak draped like liquid night, his eyes burning with quiet intensity. He looked as though he had been waiting for hours, patient as a predator, certain as fate.
A faint smile curved his lips, dangerous and intimate all at once.
"Lyanna," he murmured, her name tasting like a promise.
Her heart stopped, then thundered so violently she thought it might tear free of her chest. The boy from the forest. The stranger who haunted her dreams. The man she least expected, and yet most longed for — here, now, at the very moment her hope had crumbled.
The cage was real. But so was the shadow that had come to claim her.