The palace did not erupt after the attack.
That was what frightened Lyra most.
By dawn, the Unclaimed quarters were sealed off. Guards stood at every entrance, their faces grim, their silence deliberate. No announcements were made. No names were spoken aloud.
The palace had chosen quiet.
And quiet, Lyra knew, meant rot beneath the surface.
She moved through the inner corridors like a shadow, head lowered, steps measured. Her bruises were hidden beneath long sleeves, the cut on her lip concealed by calm restraint. To anyone watching, she looked like what the palace expected her to be again, harmless.
They were wrong.
Her wolf paced restlessly, hackles raised. Ever since the attack, something had shifted. Not snapped, but tightened. Like a wire drawn too close to breaking.
Someone had allowed the Unclaimed to be targeted.
And someone was still watching.
Lyra reached the archive wing just as the servants changed shifts. She slipped inside unnoticed, the scent of old parchment and dust wrapping around her like a shield.
This was where secrets came to sleep.
She moved quickly, fingers skimming spines, eyes sharp. The palace kept records on everything, supply orders, patrol rotations, disciplinary permissions. Especially permissions.
It didn't take long.
Her breath caught as she found it.
A sealed directive. Issued three nights ago. Temporary reduction of guards assigned to the Unclaimed quarters, approved under a false internal seal.
Forgery.
Clean. Professional.
Someone with access.
Her pulse thudded.
This wasn't a rogue attack. It was sanctioned, quietly, by someone who expected no consequences.
Lyra slipped the document back exactly as she'd found it. She couldn't take it. Not yet. Exposure would mean death. Or worse, containment.
She turned to leave...
And froze.
Footsteps.
Heavy. Measured. Familiar.
Her wolf reacted instantly.
Heat surged through her chest, sharp and sudden, the bond flaring like a struck match. Her breath hitched before she could stop it.
No.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
The Alpha's presence pressed into the space like gravity, unseen but undeniable. Power rolled down the corridor, controlled, restrained, but aware.
Lyra flattened herself against the shelves, heart pounding. She didn't move. Didn't breathe.
The footsteps slowed.
The bond tightened.
She felt it then, his attention shifting. Not toward the shelves. Toward her.
Confusion brushed the edge of the bond. Then suspicion.
Then something darker.
"Someone's here," the Alpha said quietly.
Lyra closed her eyes.
If he found her in the archives, with forged directives still warm in the air, there would be questions she could not safely answer.
She did the only thing she could.
She slipped deeper between the shelves, moving silently, timing her steps with his. The bond screamed in protest, tugging hard, demanding proximity, honesty, connection.
Her wolf snarled, fighting it.
The Alpha stopped.
The pressure spiked.
For one breathless second, Lyra thought he would call her name.
Instead, he frowned, just slightly, and turned away, the bond pulling taut before slowly loosening as he left the wing.
Lyra sagged against the shelves, lungs burning.
That was too close.
Too close in every way that mattered.
When she finally slipped out of the archives, her decision was already made.
This enemy was patient. Embedded. Dangerous.
And if she wanted to survive, if the Unclaimed were going to survive, she couldn't rely on protection.
Not even his.
Not yet.
The palace thought she was unseen.
She intended to keep it that way, until she was ready to strike.