The palace gleamed like a blade waiting to cut. Crystal chandeliers blazed above, gold ceilings reflecting firelight, as if the court itself had been polished for blood.Every gaze swung toward them when the doors opened.
Lyra Vale, pale from the wound, spine stiff with defiance. And at her side, the Wolf of the West, a war-scarred mercenary, bound no longer in silk but tethered by the light touch of her hand on his arm.A scandal in motion."Smile," Lyra says without looking at him."I don't.""You imitate it well enough."
She adjusts his cuff, an unnecessary touch that is also a warning and a privilege."Shadow my right. Speak only if I look at you. If I say down, you are.""Yes, my lady," he rumbled, the words built to misbehave.
Whispers erupted at once, furious and delighted."Monster!""The Queen's fixer has a pet, the Queen must be in a generous mood after what happened in the west..""Did he steal her away?""Why is she holding him?""Did she… let him?"
Lyra's chin lifted higher. Let them wonder. Let them choke on it. Every rumor was a weapon if she wielded it first.Kaelen walked as if he owned the marble beneath his boots. Scarred, broad-shouldered, hair black as midnight, a sharp contrast with her fiery red hair. Eyes piercing and unflinching. He did not move like a prisoner dragged in chains.
He moved like a storm invited inside.
Their entrance begged the question, Beast or lover? Who lead the leash?The Queen's fan stilled mid-motion. Her lips curled in something that was not quite a smile.Captain Delan stood at her dais, polished and venomous.
He tapped the hilt of his sword and called across the chamber, his voice pretentious and silk-loud. "Wolf! You left us worried. When you steal the Queen's favorite, tongues wag."Gasps, titters, shuffling fans.Kaelen's eyes met Delan's, steady and sharp. His voice carried, low but cutting. "If I were stealing, Captain, you wouldn't have her back."Laughter erupted, scandalous and thrilled.
Lyra didn't smile. She pressed her fingers harder against his arm, a warning disguised as poise. "Say it," she murmured under her breath.Kaelen's head dipped, his hair catching candlelight. His lips brushed her ear, and only she heard the growl: "Yes, my lady."Heat ran along her skin before she strangled it back into ice.
They approached the dais. The Queen regarded them with that practiced boredom that could curdle into cruelty at any second. "My Lyra bleeds," she said mildly. "Fetch the physician at once. What were you doing holed up with him? "Lyra inclined her head, and her hands trembled slightly when she met the queen's gaze. "Your Majesty, if I am to lead your inquiry, I must keep the accused close.
A hound strays less when leashed."More whispers. A few chuckles. A daring man murmured too loudly, "Looks more like the hound leads her."The Queen's eyes glinted with private amusement. "Very well. Parade your beast. But see he doesn't bite."Delan stepped forward, tray in hand. Upon it gleamed a goblet of red wine, the surface too still. "A toast," he purred. "To justice. To the truth we shall unveil."Kaelen's nostrils flared. He smelled the bitter-sweet trace of poison. Queenbane.
Soldiers used it when they wanted death to look like fever.Lyra reached for the goblet.Kaelen caught her wrist. His grip was firm, unyielding. The hall gasped, scandal-struck, how dare he touch the Queen's fixer?He lifted the goblet himself, studied it, then tipped it slowly onto the marble floor. Red spread like fresh blood, seeping into the cracks.
The room froze.Kaelen's voice rolled through the silence, low and dangerous. "You'll need stronger poison than that."Whispers ignited like fire racing across dry leaves. "He knows." "Impossible." "The Wolf can smell poison?"Delan's smile faltered. "Careful, mercenary. Insolence is treason."Kaelen tilted his head. His scars caught the light, his posture too measured for a brute.
He looked at Lyra and she realized suddenly, he was like a man raised to command halls like this. Too rich in bearing, too precise in word. A noble's son, not a mercenary.But she buried the thought. Impossible."Leave the drinks," the Queen said lazily, fanning herself. "I prefer honesty to theatrics. Continue.
"The court rearranged itself, Lyra led Kaelen towards their assigned place, just beneath the Queen's right hand, visible to all.He settled beside her, folding into stillness, though his eyes tracked every movement in the chamber.
He looked savage in scars and silence, yet his hand brushed the goblet at his seat with unconscious grace, like a man who knew court etiquette too well.Lyra saw it again. Saw too much."You're confusing them," she murmured, fan hiding her lips."Good," he said."They expect a beast. You act like a lord."He looked at her then, a pale gaze steady. "Perhaps I was born for both."Her pulse stumbled. She masked it by snapping her fan shut.The queen decided there was no more to see and took her leave.
As they made to leave, across the room, a duchess in lilac drifted over, a smile sharpened to a point. "Lyra," she purred, "you've found such…company.""The company found me," Lyra replied. "It had excellent tracking."The duchess lets her gaze drag over Kaelen like a silk blade. " Do you dance?""Poorly," he says.
Lyra's fan opens with a whisper. "He follows superbly.""Bow," the Queen said, voice like sugar over glass. "To my Vale. Let us see how tame you are."Lyra didn't turn. She didn't dare give him her eyes with all of theirs on his back. She felt him move anyway, the air changed when he chose to obey. He went down on one knee, not to the throne but to the place where her shadow cut the floor.
The court rustled, satisfied."Lower," The Queen breathed.He inclined his head. Not much. Enough to look like obedience if you were far away, not enough if you knew what obedience cost."Speak," the Queen said, amused. "Say something pretty."His voice came quiet, unhurried, pitched for Lyra's shoulder and the Queen's delight.
"By the old law or the new," he murmured, "The wolf bows only to truth."Nothing in the room moved. A fan paused. A smile froze. The phrase slid through the chamber like a thin knife, too archaic for a sellsword, too precise for a bluff. Lyra felt it catch in her ribs. Old law. New. That was not tavern talk.
That was a lesson taught to boys who learned history from the inside.She risked a breath. "Rise," she said, before silence made it treason.
The Queen signalled her near and whispered, "One mistake. One rumor and you hang beside him. Smile."
She did.