The corridors of Silver Moon Palace buzzed with quiet unrest. Whispers curled around corners, glancing off the marble floors, darting along torch-lit walls. Every servant, concubine, and guard knew the story: another wife had been chosen, a decree from the council that even the Alpha could not resist.
In the east wing, Lyria continued her chores, unaware of the scheming that surrounded her. The tension in the air pressed against her chest, subtle and unnameable. She moved between rooms with careful grace, listening to hushed conversations, glimpsing the worried glances of other servants. She did not belong in the politics of the palace—but somehow, the palace's heartbeat had started to echo inside her own.
Meanwhile, Lady Isolde glided through the corridors, every step deliberate, every glance measured. Maris, her loyal maid, shadowed her silently, eyes sharp for any hint of movement or conversation.
"Observe everything," Isolde murmured under her breath, lips curling into a faint, predatory smile. "Even whispers carry power if you know how to catch them."
Maris inclined her head, noting the servants who seemed unusually attentive, the concubines who cast nervous glances in Isolde's direction. All of them could be allies—or threats.
Across the palace, Serina's chamber was quieter but no less alive with scheming. Her own maid reported with careful, hushed words. "Mistress, the last wife moves like a shadow, but she is aware we watch. Every step is deliberate."
Serina's dark eyes narrowed. "So she knows," she murmured, fingers curling over the edge of the table. "Let her think she controls the game. And when she is confident, we will strike."
High above, in his private study, Kael Draven's wolf shifted restlessly. He sensed the unseen threads weaving themselves through the palace, tugging at his instincts. His amber eyes narrowed, following a shadow in the corner of his vision—a fleeting movement, impossible to identify fully.
Something is coming, he thought. I do not yet know what, but it is… close.
Even as he considered the scheming of the concubines and Isolde, his mind flickered to the quiet figure he had glimpsed that evening in the gardens. Lyria. Her presence had left a spark—a small, unplaceable heat in his chest. He could not define it, could not name it, yet it lingered.
He shook his head slightly, forcing his attention back to matters at hand. The Alpha had games to play, enemies to observe, and moves to counter—but that fleeting presence, delicate and unassuming, remained tucked in the corner of his mind.
That night, in the quiet shadow of the palace, the threads of intrigue tangled further. Maris returned to Isolde with careful reports of Serina's movements; the rival concubine's eyes and whispers were tracked, catalogued, and noted for manipulation. Serina's maid, in turn, returned with tales of Isolde's careful movements, each word a tool in the silent war between the women.
Meanwhile, Lyria lingered near the moonlit fountain, unaware she was a silent axis in the palace's web. She felt only the pull she could not name—the subtle recognition that someone watched her, someone aware yet unseen.
Kael passed above, unseen on the balcony, amber eyes scanning the horizon, and in that brief, almost imperceptible instant, the threads brushed: instinct against presence, wolf against maiden, tension against restraint.
Neither would act tonight. Neither could yet understand the power of that connection. But it had begun, delicate and dangerous, as all things destined to shift the fate of Silver Moon Palace always did.