The bathroom smelled of heavy lye soap and damp marble.
Lyra leaned over the porcelain basin, her hands shaking so violently she splashed cold water straight up her nose.
She gasped, coughing, and gripped the edges of the sink until the porcelain bit into her palms.
On her left shoe, a dark, rust-colored smear remained where the soapy water hadn’t quite cleared Vance’s blood.
She stared at it, her mind cataloging the memory with cold precision.
The sound of the throat cutting.
The heavy drop of the skull.
They weren’t going to let her out.
Tripling her mother’s pay was a golden leash, nothing more.
The moment they figured out how to sever whatever freak magic was humming in her blood, she would become a liability again.
And the princes didn’t leave liabilities breathing.
A sudden, deep resonance vibrated through the stone walls, shaking the water in the basin.
Dong.
Lyra froze.
Dong.
The great iron bell in the palace’s western tower only rang at night for one reason.
Dong.
Three times.
The King was dead.
Lyra pushed the heavy bathroom door open, stepping back into the main bedroom.
The mood in the room had shifted from tense to frozen.
Jaxon was standing by the map desk, a rolled parchment gripped tightly in his right hand.
Cassian had stopped playing with his dagger; it was tucked securely into his boot, his posture rigid.
Ryker was already at the heavy outer door, his hand hovering over the iron bolt.
“It’s time,” Ryker said, his voice dropping an octave, completely stripped of its earlier dark amusement.
“The Council will be convening in the rotunda within twenty minutes to verify the succession.
If we aren’t there before the northern lords take their seats, they’ll claim we’re stalling.” “We go together,” Jaxon said, his voice flat, professional.
He turned his head toward Lyra, his amber eyes narrowing.
“You stay here.
Under no circumstances do you approach the windows or the balcony.
The courtyard will be crawling with vanguard soldiers within the hour.” “And if someone handles the master keys?” Lyra asked, her voice tight.
“The head housekeeper has a copy for every room in this wing for morning linen changes.” “No one enters this room,” Jaxon said, walking over to her.
He stopped just outside her personal space, the air between them immediately thickening with that heavy, sweet scent of frost and midnight flora.
He looked down at her, his jaw tight as he fought the instinctual urge to close the distance.
“I’ve locked the internal mechanisms from the inside.
If someone tries to force it, Ryker’s personal guard at the end of the hall will execute them on the spot.
You’re safe, Lyra.
For now.” “I don’t care about being safe from your enemies,” Lyra said quietly, looking him dead in the eye.
“I care about being safe from you.” Jaxon’s mouth twitched, a shadow of something dangerous passing over his features, but he didn’t answer.
He turned on his heel.
“Let’s go.” The three brothers slipped out, the heavy bolt clicking into place from the outside with a sound that felt like a coffin lid closing.
Silence descended on the room, heavy and absolute, broken only by the distant, rhythmic tolling of the funeral bell outside.
Lyra walked over to the velvet armchair near the cold hearth and sat down, pulling her knees up to her chest.
Her skin still felt hyper-sensitive, a faint, lingering warmth buzzing beneath her collarbone where Jaxon had touched her.
It was infuriating.
She was a human—she spent her life watching the wolves treat her kind like cattle or scenery—and now her own body was betraying her, humming in sync with the very men who had debated killing her thirty minutes ago.
An hour passed.
Then two.
The bell finally stopped ringing, replaced by the distant, muffled sound of iron-shod boots marching through the courtyard below.
The palace was mobilizing.
Suddenly, a faint scratch from the balcony doors made Lyra snap her head around.
It wasn’t the wind.
It was the distinct, metallic sound of a wire picking at the lock of the glass French doors leading to the terrace.
Lyra’s breath hitched.
Jaxon had locked the outer hallway door, but the balcony faced the sheer drop of the palace’s western cliff side.
Nobody was supposed to be able to scale a eighty-foot vertical wall of smooth marble.
The lock gave a sharp, sickening pop.
One of the glass doors nudged open, letting in a blast of freezing night air.
A figure slipped through the gap, moving with the silent, fluid grace of a high-ranking wolf.
They wore dark, lightweight leather armor, their face obscured by a charcoal cloth mask.
Lyra scrambled out of the chair, backing away toward the bathroom, her eyes searching the dark room for anything she could use as a weapon.
There was nothing.
The princes kept their gear locked away.
The intruder didn’t look at the bed or the desk.
Their eyes scanned the room until they landed directly on Lyra.
“The maid,” a low, muffled voice muttered from behind the mask.
It was a woman’s voice, sharp and laced with an aristocratic northern accent.
“So the rumors from the corridor were true.
They kept you alive.” The intruder drew a short, curved blade from her hip.
The steel didn’t gleam; it was coated in black matte to prevent reflection.
“Who are you?” Lyra demanded, her back hitting the stone wall beside the bathroom door.
“Someone who wants to ensure the Triad never sees the crown,” the woman said, stepping forward.
“If the triplets lose their human anchor before the Council vote, the bond backlash will drive them feral in front of the lords.
It’s nothing personal, human.
You’re just a loose thread.” The woman lunged.