The Northern Palace was nothing like Lyra expected.

She'd imagined something cold and brutal, all stone and ice. Instead, the castle sprawled across a mountain peak, its towers reaching toward gray clouds. Snow covered everything, but the palace itself felt alive. Warm lights glowed in the windows. Smoke curled from chimneys. Guards patrolled the walls with sharp eyes and sharper weapons.

Lyra's carriage stopped at the main entrance. Her hands were numb from the cold despite the fur blanket someone had thrown over her lap three hours ago. The journey north had taken two and a half days. Two and a half days to think about what waited for her.

A broken prince.

A forced marriage.

A new life she didn't choose.

The carriage door opened. A tall woman with braided white hair stood there, her expression stern. "Lyra Hale?"

"Yes."

"I'm Commander Thea. Head of the prince's personal guard." She didn't offer her hand. Just stepped back and waited for Lyra to climb down. "Follow me."

No welcome, no pleasantries, Just orders.

Lyra followed.

They walked through corridors lined with tapestries showing wolves in battle, wolves in moonlight and wolves running free. Servants hurried past without looking at her. The air smelled something wild that made her wolf stir restlessly.

"The prince is waiting," Thea said without turning around. "You'll meet him now."

"Now? But I just arrived. Shouldn't I..."

"The prince wants to see you. That's all that matters."

They stopped in front of massive wooden doors. Two guards stood on either side, both watching Lyra like she might be a threat. Thea pushed the doors open.

The room beyond was huge. A fireplace large enough to stand in dominated one wall, flames crackling and throwing dancing shadows across the floor. Bookshelves lined another wall, packed with leather-bound volumes. Windows showed the mountains beyond and peaks sharp against the darkening sky.

And in the center of it all, near the fire, sat a man in a wheelchair.

Prince Rowan Nightborn.

Lyra's breath stopped for a moment.

She'd expected scars. Expected something monstrous based on the rumors. But the man watching her was... beautiful in a harsh, brutal way. Dark hair fell past his shoulders, his face was all sharp angles and hard lines. His eyes were the color of storm clouds, cold and assessing.

He wore simple clothes. Dark shirt and dark pants. His hands rested on the arms of the wheelchair, relaxed but ready.

And he was staring at her like she was an inconvenience.

"This is her?" His voice was low and rough, like he didn't use it often.

"Yes, Your Highness," Thea said. "Lyra Hale. The substitute bride from the South."

Substitute. The word hung in the air like an insult.

Rowan's gaze traveled over Lyra slowly. Her travel-stained clothes, her messy braid and her pale face. She lifted her chin and stared back, refusing to look away first.

His mouth twitched. Almost a smile.

Then he looked away.

Just like that. Dismissing her the same way Damon had.

"Send her back," Rowan said.

Lyra felt a sudden shock. "What?"

"You heard me." He didn't look at her again. Just stared into the fire like she'd already disappeared. "Put her on a carriage and send her south. The treaty is void."

Thea shifted uncomfortably. "Your Highness, the king expects..."

"I don't care what my father expects." Rowan's voice went cold. "I didn't agree to this marriage. I won't be paraded around like some prize to be claimed. And I certainly won't tie myself to a woman who was rejected by her own mate."

Heat flooded Lyra's face. Of course he knew. Everyone probably knew. Her humiliation had traveled faster than she had.

"I never asked for this either," she said quietly.

Rowan finally looked at her again. His eyes were sharp, intelligent and seeing too much. "Then we agree. You don't want to be here. I don't want you here. Problem solved."

"It's not that simple," Thea cut in. "The treaty binds both kingdoms. If you reject her, the South will see it as an insult. There could be war."

"Let them come."

"Your Highness..."

"Enough." Rowan's hands tightened on the wheelchair arms. Just enough for Lyra to notice. "I've made my decision. She goes back."

Lyra should have felt relieved. She'd been given an escape. A way out of this nightmare. But instead, she felt hot and bitter anger rising in her chest.

"You think you're the only one suffering?" The words came out before she could stop them. "You think you're the only one who got dealt a bad hand?"

Rowan gave her a sharp look

She should have stopped. Should have backed down. But something in her had broken in that Royal Matching Hall three days ago, and the pieces hadn't fit back together right.

"I was rejected in front of hundreds of people," Lyra continued. "My own father traded me away without blinking. My stepsister gets to live her perfect life while I get shipped north to marry a stranger. And now you're rejecting me too because what? Because your pride can't handle a substitute?"

"Lyra," Thea warned.

But Rowan held up one hand. His expression hadn't changed. Still cold and unreadable. "Are you finished?"

"No." Lyra stepped closer. Her wolf pushed at her, urging her forward. "You want to send me back? Fine. But at least have the decency to reject me to my face. Not while staring at the fire like I'm not even worth your attention."

For a long moment, nobody moved.

Then Rowan's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You have spirit. I'll give you that." He rolled his wheelchair forward slightly. The wheels made no sound on the stone floor. "But spirit won't keep you safe here. This palace is full of people who would love nothing more than to see me fail. And anyone close to me becomes a target."

He stopped right in front of her. Close enough that she could see the faint scars on his hands. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from him despite the wheelchair and despite the rumors of him being broken.

"Do not try to get close to me," Rowan said quietly and dangerously. "For your own sake."

Then he turned the wheelchair and rolled toward the door on the far side of the room. Thea moved to follow him, but he waved her off. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Lyra stood there, shaking from cold or anger or fear, she couldn't tell.

Thea sighed. "Come. I'll show you to your rooms."

They walked in silence until they reached a guest wing. Thea stopped outside a heavy door, then glanced around to make sure no one was listening.

"A word of advice," she said in a low tone "The prince you just met? He's not what he seems."

Lyra frowned. "What do you mean?"

Thea leaned closer. "He's pretending. The wheelchair, the weakness and the brokenness. Almost no one knows. But I've served him for five years, and I've seen things." Her eyes were serious. "Whatever you do, don't underestimate him. And don't trust anyone in this palace except yourself."

She walked away before Lyra could ask anything else.

Lyra pushed open the door to her room and stepped inside. It was beautiful, warm and comfortable.

And it felt like a trap.

Lyra didn't sleep that night.

She lay in the too-soft bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything. The rejection, the warning and thea's whispered words about Rowan pretending.

Pretending what exactly?

When dawn broke, Lyra made a decision. She wasn't going to hide in this room. Wasn't going to wait for someone to tell her what to do. If she was stuck here, she'd carve out her own place.

She dressed in the simplest clothes she could find in the wardrobe someone had stocked. Dark pants, plain tunic and boots that actually fit. Then she walked out.

The palace was already awake. Servants hurried through corridors. Guards changed shifts. The smell of bread baking drifted from somewhere below. Lyra followed it until she found the kitchens.

A plump woman with flour on her hands looked up, "Miss? You shouldn't be down here."

"Why not?"

"Well, because... you're a lady. Ladies don't come to the kitchens."

Lyra pulled out a stool and sat at the large wooden table. "I'm not really a lady. Just someone who got sent here. And I'm hungry."

The woman blinked. Then, slowly, she smiled. "Alright then. I'm Marta. Head cook." She set a plate of warm bread and honey in front of Lyra. "Eat. You look half-starved."

For the first time in days, Lyra relaxed slightly. The bread was good. The kitchen was warm. Marta didn't ask questions or look at her with pity.

"Where's the library?" Lyra asked between bites.

"East wing. Third floor. But nobody uses it much anymore."

"Why not?"

Marta's smile faded. "The prince used to spend hours there. Before the accident. Now he keeps to his rooms mostly."

There it was again. The accident. Everyone mentioned it but nobody explained it.

Lyra finished eating and headed for the east wing. The library was exactly where Marta said it would be. Huge windows, rows and rows of books, and dust motes floating in the pale sunlight.

And Rowan, sitting in his wheelchair near the window, reading.

He looked up when she entered. His expression didn't change. "You're still here."

"Apparently." Lyra walked to the shelves and started scanning titles, history, battle strategy and herb lore. Everything was organized perfectly.

"I told you to leave."

"You suggested it. I didn't agree." She pulled out a book on Northern pack traditions. "If I'm stuck here, I might as well learn about this place."

"You're not stuck. I can arrange a carriage."

"And start a war?" Lyra turned to face him. "Thea made it clear yesterday. The treaty matters. If you send me back, the South takes it as an insult."

Rowan closed his book slowly. "You care about politics now?"

"I care about not causing more problems." She sat in a chair across from him, "I also care about not being useless. So here's what I want."

His eyebrows rose slightly. "You're making demands?"

"Requests." Lyra met his cold stare without flinching. "I want access to the library, I want to be able to walk the palace grounds without guards following me everywhere. And I want something to do. Work, training. Anything but sitting in that room waiting to be decorative."

Rowan studied her for a long moment. "Most women in your position would be planning their wedding dress."

"I'm not most women."

"Clearly." He leaned back in the wheelchair. "Fine. Use the library. Walk where you want. But stay away from the king's wing. And don't expect me to entertain you."

"I'm not asking you to."

Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement maybe. Or respect. Hard to tell. "Anything else?"

"Yes. Stop looking at me like I'm an inconvenience. I didn't ask to be your substitute bride. But I'm here. So we might as well make the best of it."

Rowan's jaw tightened. For a second, Lyra thought she'd pushed too far. Then he simply picked up his book again. "The training grounds are behind the east tower. If you want work, start there. Commander Thea runs morning drills."

Dismissal. But also permission.

Lyra stood. "Thank you."

He didn't respond. Just kept reading like she'd already left.

Over the next three days, Lyra fell into a routine. Mornings in the training yard, watching the guards run drills. Afternoons in the library, reading everything she could about the North. Evenings in her room, exhausted but feeling more alive than she had in months.

And everywhere she went, she felt Rowan watching her.

Not obviously. He never stared. But she'd catch glimpses of him near windows, in doorways, his wheelchair positioned where he had a clear view of wherever she was. His expression never changed. Cold, distant and calculating.

It should have bothered her. Instead, it made her curious.

On the fourth night, Lyra couldn't sleep again. She left her room and wandered the corridors, not really going anywhere. Just moving.

Voices stopped her.

Low and Angry. Coming from behind a partially open door.

She knew she shouldn't listen. Knew it was wrong. But something in the tone made her pause.

"You can't keep hiding." That was Thea's voice. "The council is getting suspicious. They think you're weak."

"Good." Rowan Said. "Let them think about it."

"For how long? Your uncle sits on the throne that should be yours. Every day you wait, he gets stronger."

"And every day I wait, I learn who's loyal and who's not."

Silence. Then Thea again, softer. "The girl. She's not part of this."

"I know."

"Then why keep her here? Send her back before she gets caught in the middle."

"I tried. She refused."

"So force her."

"No." Rowan's voice went hard. "I won't become my uncle. I won't use people like pieces on a board. She stays or goes by her own choice."

Footsteps. Coming toward the door.

Lyra ducked into an alcove, pressing herself against the wall. Thea emerged first, her face looked troubled. She walked past without seeing Lyra.

Then came the sound of wheels on stone.

But when Rowan appeared in the doorway, he wasn't in the wheelchair.

He was standing,

Walking,

Moving like a predator, smooth and powerful and completely whole.

Lyra's breath stopped for a moment.

He froze mid-step. His head turned slowly toward the alcove where she hid. Their eyes met.

For a long, terrible moment, neither of them moved.

Then Rowan's expression went cold and dangerous. "How much did you hear?"

Lyra stepped out of the shadows. Her heart pounded but she kept her voice steady. "Enough."

"Then you know why you can't stay." He moved closer. Not threatening exactly, but making it clear she had no escape route. "You heard things you shouldn't have. Things that could get you killed."

"Your uncle," Lyra said quietly. "He's the king. But you said the throne should be yours."

Rowan's jaw clenched. "This conversation is over."

"You're not broken. You're hiding. Pretending to be useless while you..." What? Plan a coup? Wait for the right moment? "While you figure out how to take back what's yours."

"You don't know anything."

"I know enough." Lyra lifted her chin. "And I know you can't send me away now. Not when I know the truth."

Rowan stared at Lyra for what felt like forever.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken threats. Finally, he stepped back. Giving her space to breathe.

"You're right," he said quietly. "I can't send you away now. But understand this. What you saw, what you heard, it stays between us. Tell anyone and I won't be able to protect you."

"Protect me from what?"

"From the people who want me dead." He turned and walked back into the room, every movement fluid and strong. Nothing like the broken prince everyone believed him to be. "Go back to your room. Lock your door. And for once, listen to me."

Lyra opened her mouth to argue, but he'd already disappeared into the shadows.

She made her way back to her chambers, her mind spinning. The king was Rowan's uncle. Which meant Rowan's father, the true king, was gone. Dead? Overthrown? And Rowan was hiding his strength, biding his time.

For what?

Sleep didn't come easy. When it finally did, it was restless and full of half-formed dreams about thrones and wolves and cold gray eyes watching her.

Morning arrived too soon.

A knock on the door woke her. A young servant girl entered, carrying a breakfast tray. She had dark hair pulled into a tight bun and nervous eyes that wouldn't quite meet Lyra's.

"Good morning, miss. I'm Clara. I'll be attending to you during your stay."

Stay. Not marriage. Not a permanent arrangement. Like everyone expected Lyra to leave soon.

"Thank you." Lyra sat up. "You don't have to do that. I can get my own breakfast."

Clara looked shocked. "Oh no, miss. It wouldn't be proper. Besides, the head housekeeper assigned me specifically." She set the tray down, "Miss, if I may ask... is it true you're marrying Prince Rowan?"

"That's what the treaty says."

Clara's hands twisted in her apron. "The king won't like it. He's been trying to match the prince with Lady Morgana for years. A southern bride... it complicates things."

"Who is Lady Morgana?"

"The king's niece. Beautiful, powerful and connected to all the right families." Clara lowered her voice. "There are those in the palace who think she should be the one wearing a crown, not a stranger from the South."

Warning received.

After Clara left, Lyra picked at her breakfast. The eggs tasted off and bitter. She pushed the plate away and dressed herself instead of waiting for Clara to return.

The day passed slowly. Lyra tried to go to the library but found the door locked. She walked the gardens, but everywhere she went, servants stopped talking when she approached. Guards watched her with suspicious eyes.

By evening, the isolation pressed down on her like a weight.

She returned to her room to find Clara laying out a gown for dinner. Deep blue silk, beautiful and expensive.

"The prince requested you join him for the evening meal," Clara said. "It's formal. You'll need to wear this."

Lyra touched the fabric. Soft and Perfect.

"When did this arrive?"

"This afternoon, miss. From the royal seamstress."

After Clara left, Lyra examined the gown more carefully. At first, everything seemed fine. Then she turned it over and saw the damage. Long tears in the lining. Deliberate cuts that would show through the silk the moment she moved. If she wore this to dinner, she'd be humiliated in front of everyone.

Her hands shook. Not from fear, but from anger.

Someone had done this on purpose.

She left the ruined gown on the bed and pulled out the simple dress she'd worn earlier. It wasn't fancy, but it was whole. That would have to be enough.

The dining hall was massive. Long tables, crystal glasses, candles everywhere. And seated at the head, in his wheelchair, was Rowan. He'd changed into formal clothes and a dark jacket. His hair tied back. He looked every bit the prince.

Beside him sat an older man with sharp features and a cold smile. The king.

Lyra felt a sudden shock.

"Ah, the southern bride." The king's voice carried across the hall. "How kind of you to finally join us. Though I see you didn't think our dinner worthy of proper attire."

Heat flooded Lyra's face. Several other nobles sat along the table, all watching her with barely concealed amusement.

"My apologies, Your Majesty." She kept her voice steady. "There was an issue with the gown provided."

"An issue?" The king raised an eyebrow. "How unfortunate."

Rowan's expression hadn't changed, but his fingers tightened slightly on the wheelchair arms. He saw the trap and understood someone had set her up.

"Please, sit." The king gestured to a chair far down the table. Away from Rowan. Isolated among strangers.

The meal was torture. Course after course of rich food that Lyra barely touched, remembering the bitter taste from breakfast. Conversation flowed around her but never included her. The nobles spoke of politics, pack alliances and hunting trips. Nothing she could contribute to.

Across from her sat a stunning woman with black hair and green eyes. Lady Morgana, Lyra guessed. She smiled at Lyra once. Cold and Calculating.

"Tell me," Morgana said sweetly. "Is it true you were rejected by your fated mate before coming here?"

The table went silent.

Lyra met her eyes. "Yes."

"How terrible for you." Morgana's smile widened. "And now you're here, trying to claim a prince who doesn't want you either. That must be difficult."

"Morgana." Rowan's voice cut through the tension. "That's enough."

"I'm simply making conversation."

"Make it elsewhere."

The king laughed. "Come now, nephew. The girl must learn how things work here. We're not soft southerners who coddle feelings."

Nephew. He said it like an insult.

The dinner finally ended. Lyra escaped back to her room, exhausted and humiliated. She wanted to scream. To break something. To run.

Instead, she closed her door and leaned against it, breathing hard.

That's when she noticed it.

A piece of paper on her pillow.

Her heart pounded as she crossed the room and picked it up. The handwriting was neat and careful.

"He did not reject you by choice."

Lyra read it three times. Four. The words didn't change.

He did not reject you by choice.

Who left this? What did it mean? Was someone helping her or playing another cruel game?

She crumpled the note in her fist, then smoothed it out again. Evidence. Or warning. She wasn't sure which.

Outside her window, the moon rose over the mountains. Cold, distant and beautiful.

Somewhere in this palace, someone wanted her gone badly enough to sabotage her clothes and poison her food.

And someone else knew secrets about Rowan they thought she knew too.

Lyra put the note into her pocket and locked her door.

Tomorrow, she will find the answers.

Tonight, she would sleep with a chair wedged under the doorknob.