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.

The summons came at dawn.

Lyra had barely slept. Every creak of the floorboards and every whisper of wind against the window made her jump. The note lay under her pillow. "He did not reject you by choice." She'd memorized every curve of every letter, trying to understand who would risk leaving it.

Clara knocked softly. "Miss? The king wishes to see you in his private study. Immediately."

Lyra's blood went cold. "Now?"

"Yes, miss. I'm to escort you."

There was no refusing a king.

Lyra dressed quickly and followed Clara through corridors she hadn't seen before. These halls were richer, tapestries woven with gold thread and marble floors polished to mirrors. Everything designed to remind visitors of power and wealth.

They stopped outside a door carved with wolves mid-hunt. Clara knocked twice.

"Enter." King Aldric's voice was smooth and pleasant.

Lyra stepped inside.

The study was smaller than she expected but no less impressive. Shelves lined with books and scrolls. A massive desk covered in papers and maps. And behind it, the king himself. He looked different without the formal dinner clothes. More relaxed and more dangerous.

"Miss Hale. Thank you for coming so promptly." He gestured to a chair across from his desk. "Please, sit."

Lyra sat. Her hands folded in her lap to keep them from shaking.

King Aldric smiled. "I wanted to speak with you privately. Yesterday's dinner was hardly the place for a proper conversation." He poured two glasses of wine from a crystal decanter. "You must have questions. Concerns. It's only natural."

He slid one glass across the desk toward her.

Lyra didn't touch it. Not after the bitter eggs from yesterday.

The king noticed. His smile widened slightly. "Wise. Trust is a rare commodity in palaces, isn't it?" He took a sip from his own glass. "I'll be direct with you, Miss Hale. Your presence here complicates matters."

"The treaty-"

"The treaty." He waved his hand dismissively. "A dusty old agreement no one remembered until your family dragged it out of some archive. Convenient timing, wouldn't you say?"

Lyra said nothing.

"My nephew is... fragile," the king continued. His voice dripped with false concern. "The accident five years ago broke more than his body. His spirit, his will to lead. He can barely manage his own affairs, let alone a wife." He leaned forward. "I'm sure you've noticed. The wheelchair, the isolation and the way he withdraws from everything."

Every word was a lie. Lyra had seen Rowan walk. Had seen the strength in him. But she kept her face blank.

"I worry," King Aldric said softly, "that adding a marriage to his burdens will break him completely. Especially a marriage to someone who..." He trailed off delicately.

"Someone who was rejected by her own mate?" Lyra finished.

"I wouldn't have put it so bluntly. But yes." He sat back. "You understand then. This union benefits no one, It embarrasses my nephew, It puts you in an uncomfortable position. And it creates tension when the North needs stability."

"What are you asking me to do?"

"I'm asking you to be reasonable. To understand your place here." His voice hardened just slightly. "You are a guest, Miss Hale. A temporary complication. You will keep to your rooms, you will not interfere with palace business, you will not burden my nephew with demands or expectations." He paused. "And you will not spread foolish rumors or cause trouble."

There it was. The threat wrapped in silk.

"If you do these things," the king continued, his smile returning, "your stay here will be comfortable. Pleasant even. But if you prove difficult..." He let the sentence hang.

Lyra's nails dug into her palms. "And if I refuse?"

"Refuse?" King Aldric laughed. "My dear girl, you misunderstand. I'm not giving you a choice. I'm explaining reality. The North is not like your soft southern lands. Here, wolves who don't know their place don't survive long."

He stood, walking around the desk until he loomed over her chair. "Accidents happen in palaces, food spoils, stairs become slippery and fires start in locked rooms." His hand rested on the back of her chair. "It would be tragic if something happened to such a young, naive girl. So far from home. With no one to protect her."

Every muscle in Lyra's body screamed at her to run. But she forced herself to stay still and to meet his eyes without flinching.

"I understand, Your Majesty."

"Good." He patted her shoulder like a loving uncle. "I knew you were a smart girl. Clara will show you back to your rooms. I suggest you spend the day resting. You look tired."

Dismissed.

Lyra stood on shaking legs and walked to the door. Her hand was on the handle when the king spoke again.

"Oh, and Miss Hale? That note you found last night. I'd forget about it if I were you. People who ask too many questions tend to find answers they don't like."

Her blood turned to ice.

He knew about the note. Which meant someone reported it to him. Someone was watching her room. Someone going through her things.

She was being hunted.

Lyra nodded once and left.

Clara waited outside, She'd heard everything. Or enough. She led Lyra back through the corridors without speaking. When they reached Lyra's door, Clara whispered, "I'm sorry, miss."

Then she hurried away like staying too long might curse her.

Lyra pushed open her door and stopped.

Something was wrong.

The room looked the same. Bed made, curtains drawn. But the air felt different and disturbed.

She stepped inside slowly, every sense alert. Her wolf stirred and hackles rose.

Nothing seemed out of place.

Then she saw it.

On her door. The inside of her door.

Four deep gouges in the wood. Fresh splinters. The marks went from top to bottom in parallel lines.

Claw marks.

Someone had shifted. Had dragged their claws down her door while she was with the king. A message. A warning.

We can get to you anytime.

Lyra's hands shook as she traced the marks. They were deep and deliberate. Made by someone strong.

She thought of the king's words. Accidents happen. Fires start in locked rooms.

This wasn't about the treaty. Wasn't about her being a substitute bride.

This was about Rowan. About whatever game he and his uncle were playing. And she'd stumbled into the middle of it without understanding the rules.

Lyra locked her door and wedged the chair under the handle again. Then she sat on her bed and stared at those claw marks.

In the South, she'd been unwanted, rejected and pushed aside.

Here, she was a target.

And she had no idea who wanted her dead or why.