The ceremonial robes felt heavier than the iron chains Ryker had used on the northern assassin.
Lyra stood in front of the floor-length mirror in the dressing room, staring at the stranger looking back at her.
The servant’s tunic was gone, replaced by a deep crimson gown made of heavy, woven silk that fell in straight, severe lines to the floor.
The collar rose high against her neck, completely hiding the clean white bandage on her collarbone, while the wide, structured sleeves concealed the slight, nervous tremor in her fingers.
She didn’t look like a maid anymore.
She looked like an expensive, dangerous secret.
“Turn around,” a voice ordered from the doorway.
Cassian was leaning against the frame, a dark, heavy velvet cloak thrown over one shoulder.
He had traded his blood-stained combat gear for the formal uniform of the royal vanguard—black leather with silver embroidery running along the seams—but the long, serrated dagger was still tucked securely into his right boot.
He walked into the room, his movements slow and fluid, his gray eyes scanning her from her leather shoes to the simple silver pin holding her dark hair away from her face.
“Not bad,” he murmured, stopping just two feet behind her.
The moment he entered her space, the air grew instantly thick.
That phantom, electric heat erupted beneath Lyra’s skin, a heavy thrumming that vibrated right along her collarbone.
She watched his reflection in the glass; his jaw tightened, his chest expanding as his wolf fought the sudden, fierce urge to lean down and bury his face in the crook of her neck.
“I look like a target,” Lyra said, her voice even as she met his gaze through the mirror.
“You are a target,” Cassian corrected smoothly, reaching out to drape the heavy velvet cloak over her shoulders.
His fingers brushed against the back of her neck for a fraction of a second, and a sharp shudder ran straight through his broad frame.
He pulled his hand back, his eyes darkening to a near-black.
“But under that fabric, you look like a target that belongs to the future kings.
That’s enough to make the lords hesitate before they draw a blade.” “And if they don’t hesitate?” “Then Ryker kills them on the floor, Jaxon rewrites the law to make it legal, and I clean up the mess,” Cassian said, the lazy, dangerous smirk returning to his lips.
“Let’s go, little mouse.
The horns are already sounding in the courtyard.” The grand cathedral of the Lunar Palace was a cavern of white marble and stained glass that cast long, fractured streaks of violet and crimson light across the hundreds of noble houses gathered below.
The air was suffocating, thick with the conflicting scents of a hundred different alpha lines—cedar, ozone, wet earth, and sulfur.
The roar of voices was deafening, a low, vibrating hum of political posturing and nervous energy.
The old King’s funeral pyre was still burning in the outer courtyard, the black smoke visible through the high arched windows, but down here, nobody was mourning.
They were waiting to see if the heirs would break.
Lyra walked up the narrow stone steps leading to the royal gallery, her hand resting lightly on the cold stone balustrade.
Cassian walked a half-step ahead of her, his hand resting openly on the pommel of his sword, his gaze sweeping over the crowd on the main floor with a predatory alertness.
At the front of the dais, beneath the massive stone crest of the crescent moon, stood Jaxon and Ryker.
They wore matching ceremonial armor of blackened steel, their long velvet cloaks pooling around their heavy boots.
Jaxon stood perfectly still, his hands folded over the hilt of a massive broadsword rested against the marble floor.
His face was a completely unreadable mask, but even from the upper gallery, Lyra could see the tight, rigid lines of his shoulders.
Ryker looked even more lethal, his eyes scanning the northern delegation benches like a hawk looking for movement.
The crimson veins running up their forearms were hidden beneath their leather gauntlets, but Lyra could feel the pressure.
The bond was a heavy, vibrating wire stretched tight between her chest and the two men on the floor below.
Every time her heart took a frantic beat, she saw Jaxon’s fingers tighten against the hilt of his sword.
“Elowen didn’t leave the city,” Lyra whispered, her eyes tracking a movement near the eastern pillars.
Cassian paused, his gaze following hers.
Standing in the shadow of the structural columns, surrounded by six heavily armed northern guards, was Princess Elowen.
She had traded her traveling furs for a cold, silver-threaded gown that looked like chainmail.
She wasn’t looking at the altar or the Council elders.
Her frost-colored eyes were fixed directly on the upper gallery, tracking Lyra’s movement behind the velvet drapes.
“She’s looking for the seam,” Cassian said quietly, guiding Lyra into the deep shadow of the center pillar.
“She knows Jaxon bluffed.
She’s just waiting for one of us to stumble so she can call for the guards.” Elder Vance stepped onto the central dais, lifting his ancient wooden staff.
The iron rings at the top rattled sharply against the marble, and the deafening noise in the cathedral dropped into a sudden, tense silence.
“Lords of the Western Territories,” Vance’s voice echoed through the high vaults, old but steady.
“The bloodline has been verified.
The transition of the crown is absolute.
By the laws of the moon and the stone, the Triad will take the vow.” He turned toward Jaxon, extending a heavy, silver-plated chalice filled with dark ceremonial wine.
“Prince Jaxon.
Do you swear to hold the borders, to execute the law without favor, and to maintain the purity of the royal line until your pulse fails?” Jaxon lifted his hand, taking the chalice.
As his leather gauntlet shifted, Lyra felt a sudden, blinding spike of heat flare beneath her own skin.
Down on the floor, Jaxon’s eyes went fully black.
The crimson veins beneath his armor were burning, pumping that extra alpha energy through the link to keep the connection stable.
His hand shook—barely a millimeter—but to a room full of shifters with predatory vision, it was a tremor.
A low murmur started in the northern benches.
Elowen took a step forward from her pillar, a sharp, triumphant expression crossing her face.
“He’s losing the grip,” Cassian muttered, his body instantly going rigid beside Lyra.
“The ceremonial wine contains traces of silver nitrate to purify the vow.
It’s reacting with the pressure in his blood.” Lyra didn’t think.
She knew if Jaxon dropped that chalice, the lie was dead, the coronation was over, and the war would start before they could reach the exit.
She stepped out from behind the velvet drape, moving to the edge of the stone balustrade where she was fully visible to the entire cathedral.
She didn’t look at the lords, and she didn’t look at Elowen.
She fixed her eyes directly on Jaxon’s rigid profile down on the floor.
She took a slow, deep breath, forcing her own heart rate down, and closed her fingers tightly around the cold stone of the railing—just as Jaxon had told her to do in the safe house.
Use the iron in the foundation to ground the heat.
The moment her mind focused entirely on the bond, the invisible wire between them settled.
The frantic, erratic thrumming in her blood smoothed out into a low, heavy, rhythmic beat.
Down on the floor, Jaxon gasped—a silent, sharp intake of air that only those closest to him could hear.
His hand steadied instantly.
The blackness in his eyes receded just enough to show the sharp amber rings beneath, and his grip on the chalice became rock-solid.
He lifted the silver cup to his lips, draining it in a single, smooth movement before setting it back down on the altar with a heavy, deliberate thud.
The murmurs in the crowd died instantly.
Elowen’s jaw clenched, her fingers digging into the fabric of her gown as she realized the opportunity had slipped through her fingers.
“The vow is taken,” Elder Vance declared, lifting the heavy iron crown from the altar.
Lyra slowly backed away from the railing, returning to the shadows where Cassian was staring at her with an expression that was a mix of dark amusement and genuine shock.
“You’re a terrifying creature, Lyra Vance,” Cassian whispered, his voice dropping into a low, rich register that sent a strange thrill down her spine.
“You just saved his life without even touching him.” “I saved my own life,” Lyra said quietly, her chest heaving as the residual heat of the bond slowly cooled.
“If he falls, we all do.” Down below, the iron crown was placed on Jaxon’s head, then passed to Ryker, and finally brought up the stairs toward Cassian.
The transition was complete.
The Triad had their crown, but as Lyra watched Elowen’s delegation begin to slowly file out of the cathedral doors, she knew the twelve-day countdown to the new moon had just become a countdown to survival.
That connection between her and Jaxon is getting stronger, but using the bond like that is taking a massive toll on both of them.
Elowen is officially furious, and the new moon is still ticking down.
What do you think the triplets will do now that they are officially kings?