The smell of burnt oil and dead wolf hung in the air like a physical weight.
Lyra didn’t look down at the floor as Jaxon pulled her up.
Her legs were stiff, muscles locking from the sheer volume of adrenaline that had flooded her system over the last two hours.
She didn’t lean against him, either.
Even with the phantom warmth of the bond humming under her skin, pulling her toward him like a gravity well, she forced her spine straight and stepped out of his hold.
“We can’t stay here,” Ryker said.
He was leaning against the splintered frame of the map desk, his bare chest glistening with cold sweat as his breathing slowly returned to a human rhythm.
The silver-wolf transformation always took a toll, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the dark corners of the terrace outside.
“The perimeter is blown.
If one rogue beast can scale the cliff side, a dozen can do it before the first light.” “They didn’t scale the cliff side,” Cassian said quietly.
He was kneeling by the dead black wolf, his fingers buried in the coarse fur near its neck.
He pulled back a thick patch of hair, revealing a small, silver-branded tattoo of a crescent moon pierced by an arrow.
“This isn’t a wild rogue.
This is an elite vanguard beast from the High Council’s personal security detail.
They didn’t climb.
They came down from the roof using the royal guard’s own tactical rigging.” Jaxon’s expression went entirely blank—a cold, terrifying mask that Lyra was beginning to realize was far more dangerous than Ryker’s open rage.
“The Elder Council didn’t just authorize a sweep.
They actively cleared the path.” “Which means Elowen has them in her pocket,” Lyra said, her voice tight as she adjusted the torn collar of her tunic.
“The assassin in the dressing room said Elowen wants the throne, not a graveyard.
She knows if I die in this room, the bond shatters your minds.
She wanted you feral so the Council could declare you unfit to rule before sunrise.” Jaxon turned his head toward her, his amber eyes locked onto her face with an intensity that made the breath catch in her throat.
“You listen remarkably well for someone who was supposedly fighting for her life.” “When people are discussing how to end my existence, I tend to pay attention,” Lyra shot back coldly.
“What’s the plan, Jaxon?
Because right now, your royal court feels like a slaughterhouse, and I’m the one on the hook.” “We move,” Jaxon said, turning toward the heavy oak doors.
“The coronation rotunda is locked down by our own personal battalion, but the transition of power hasn’t been formalized.
If we stay hidden in this wing, we look like we’re hiding a wound.
We need to present a united front to the lords before the rumors spread that the heirs are compromised.” “And her?” Ryker asked, jerking his chin toward Lyra.
“We can’t exactly walk into the High Court with a human maid trailing behind us.
The northern lords will call for an immediate execution the second they smell the bond on her.” “She stays with Cassian,” Jaxon decided, his tone sharp and final.
“Ryker and I will take the center floor to handle the Council vote.
Cassian, you take the upper gallery.
Keep her in the shadows, out of sight, but close enough that the bond doesn’t drain our energy.
If anyone looks at her twice, remove them.” Cassian’s lips curved into a bloodless smirk, his hand dropping to the hilt of the dagger tucked into his boot.
“With pleasure.” The journey through the palace’s secondary corridors was a blur of stone and shadow.
Lyra walked between Cassian and Ryker, her head down, her heart rate finally settling into a low, steady thrum.
They didn’t use the grand, torch-lit hallways where the noble houses were gathering; instead, they moved through the narrow servant tunnels—passageways Lyra knew better than any of them.
Twice, she corrected Cassian’s direction with a silent gesture toward a hidden iron grate, earning a sharp, approving look from the younger triplet.
As they reached the heavy iron doors of the grand rotunda’s upper gallery, the muffled roar of a hundred voices washed over them.
The royal court was in full chaos.
The old King’s body hadn’t even been moved to the funeral pyre yet, but the vultures were already fighting over the carcass of the kingdom.
“This is as far as we go together,” Jaxon said, stopping at the base of the stone spiral staircase that led to the main floor.
He looked at Lyra, his hand hovering near her face for a fraction of a second before he dropped it back to his side.
“Stay behind the velvet drapes in the gallery.
Do not speak.
Do not breathe loudly.
If the bond acts up, press your hand against the stone wall—the iron in the palace foundation will help ground the heat.” “Just don’t die down there,” Lyra whispered, her eyes meeting his.
It wasn’t out of affection; it was pure survival.
If they fell, she was dead before her feet could touch the grass outside.
Jaxon gave her a tight, single nod before turning to Ryker.
The two older brothers pushed through the lower heavy doors, their massive frames instantly drawing the attention of the entire room as they stepped onto the marble floor of the rotunda.
Cassian gripped Lyra’s upper arm, his touch surprisingly light but unyielding, and guided her up the narrow stairs toward the shadows of the high gallery.
From behind the heavy crimson drapes, Lyra looked down at the spectacle below.
The rotunda was a massive, circular chamber of white stone, ringed by tiers of carved stone benches where the alphas of the western territories sat.
In the center, beneath a massive glass dome that showed the dark, rainy night sky, stood the empty throne of the Lunar King.
And standing right before the dais was Princess Elowen.
She was stunning in a way that felt predatory—tall, with silver-blonde hair braided tightly against her skull and eyes the color of winter frost.
She wore the heavy furs of the Northern Frost pack, her posture radiating the supreme confidence of a woman who believed she had already won.
“The heirs are late,” Elowen’s voice echoed through the chamber, clear and sharp as breaking ice.
She was addressing the three elderly wolves seated on the central Council bench.
“The King’s pulse stopped over two hours ago.
By ancient law, if the heirs do not claim the bloodline before the third bell, the lineage is open to challenge.
The northern borders cannot remain unguarded while the princes play games in their private wing.” “The lineage is not open, Elowen,” Jaxon’s calm, cutting voice cut through the noise as he and Ryker strode into the center of the ring.
The crowd parted for them instantly, a collective hush falling over the lords.
Even without their alpha auras flared, the two brothers looked lethal.
Ryker’s armor was still stained with blood, and Jaxon moved with the absolute authority of a apex predator walking into his own territory.
“The third bell hasn’t rung,” Jaxon continued, stopping five paces from Elowen.
He didn’t look at her; he looked directly at the head Council Elder, an old, gray-furred wolf named Vance.
“The succession is clear.
The Triad rules together.” Elder Vance narrowed his milky eyes, leaning forward over his wooden staff.
“There are rumors, Prince Jaxon.
Rumors from the third-floor corridor.
A minister was found dead, and blood was drawn near your private quarters.
The Council cannot hand the crown to men who are executing our own court members in the dark.” “The minister was a traitor carrying correspondence to the southern rebels,” Ryker growled, his voice vibrating through the stone floor.
“We didn’t execute a court member.
We eliminated a parasite.
If the Council has a problem with how we handle security during a transition of power, you are welcome to step onto the floor and challenge me directly.” A tense silence slammed into the room.
Nobody on the benches moved.
Challenging Ryker in open combat was a death sentence, and everyone in the room knew it.
Beside Lyra, in the dark gallery, Cassian let out a low, satisfied hum.
“Good boy, Ryker.
Keep them looking at the blood.” But Elowen didn’t flinch.
She stepped closer to Jaxon, her eyes narrowing as she sniffed the air openly.
Lyra felt a sudden, sharp spike of heat flare beneath her collarbone.
Down on the floor, Jaxon’s jaw clenched, his hands folding behind his back to hide the sudden tension in his muscles.
Elowen’s eyes widened slightly, a cruel, triumphant smile spreading across her sharp features.
“The scent,” Elowen whispered, her voice carrying across the quiet room.
She looked up toward the high gallery, her gaze scanning the darkness until it landed directly on the drape where Lyra stood hidden.
“You smell of frost and midnight flora, Jaxon.
A sacred pureblood bond…
but there is a sour, fragile weight to it.
A human weight.” The chamber erupted into a deafening roar of whispers and shouting lords.
“She knows,” Lyra whispered, her hand digging into the stone wall behind her as the heat of the bond threatened to pull her to her knees.
Cassian’s grip on her arm tightened until it was nearly bruising.
His dark smirk was completely gone, his eyes fixed on Elowen below.
“She’s pushing the issue in public.
She’s trying to force the Council to call for an inspection.” Down on the floor, Elder Vance slammed his staff against the stone three times, silencing the room.
“Princess Elowen, that is a massive accusation.
A pureblood fated bond cannot form with a human.
It defies the law of the moon.” “Then let the princes show their wrists,” Elowen demanded, pointing a silver-gloved finger at Jaxon.
“Let them bare their skin to the Council.
If the bond mark is pure, it will burn gold.
If it is tied to a human slave…
it will bleed black.” Lyra held her breath, her eyes locked on Jaxon.
The trap had closed.
If they refused, they lost the throne.
If they agreed, their secret was dead, and Lyra would become the most hunted creature in the kingdom.
Elowen just called them out in front of the entire High Court!
The stakes are officially sky-high, and the triplets are backed into a corner.
Will Jaxon bare his wrist, or will Cassian do something crazy from the gallery?