The healer told me my voice might return within seven days.

He was not one of Alpha Elyon’s healers.

In three years, he was the first healer I had visited without the Vesper Pack knowing.

The old wolf studied the records spread across his oak table while moonlight spilled through the narrow windows of his den. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling beams, filling the room with the bitter scent of silverleaf and winter root. After a long silence, he finally lifted his eyes to me.

“Your throat was injured,” he said carefully, “but the damage was never permanent. Your healing should have begun years ago.”

My fingers tightened around the piece of chalk in my hand.

For three years, Elyon’s healers had told me the same thing: that the rogue attack had destroyed my voice forever. That the Moon Goddess had spared my life but taken my song in exchange.

Now this old healer was telling me someone had stopped my recovery.

“If proper treatment continues,” he murmured, “you may speak again before the next full moon.”

A week.

In seven days, I might hear my own voice again.

In seven days, I was supposed to stand beside Alpha Elyon Vesper before the Moonstone altar and become his Luna.

Once, the thought would have filled me with happiness.

Elyon was the one who had carried me from the forest after the rogue ambush that killed my father and nearly tore my wolf bond apart. He sheltered my mother within Vesper territory after our pack collapsed, placed his own guards outside her chambers, and vowed before the elders that no harm would ever touch me again.

The entire pack believed he loved me.

I believed it too because I wanted something to survive after losing everything else.

When I left the healer’s den, rain drifted softly through the pine forest. My escort wolves waited beside the trail, but instead of returning to the pack manor, I signed for them to take me to the Moon Chapel.

The pack servants had informed me that morning about the mating ceremony rehearsal. Elyon claimed he would be occupied with border matters, yet I still wanted to see the chapel once before the ceremony.

I wanted to imagine walking toward him beneath the blessing of the Moon Goddess.

That was my first mistake.

Adrielle Vale stood at the center of the chapel in white ceremonial silks, singing my song beneath the glow of the moonstones.

The sacred melody drifted through the hall like smoke, soft enough to make my chest ache.

I knew every word.

I had written them alone during sleepless nights as my private mating vow to Elyon.

Alpha Elyon sat in the front row watching her with quiet warmth in his eyes.

Beside him lounged his twin brother, Lucien Vesper, the pack’s Beta. Though they shared the same face, Lucien carried none of Elyon’s gentleness. Darkness clung to him like shadowfire, dangerous and strangely watchful.

Adrielle finished the final note and smiled.

“Was it worthy of the ceremony?” she asked.

Elyon rose from his seat and crossed the chapel slowly. “Perfect.”

Her cheeks flushed softly beneath the moonlight. “Then I will sing it during the mating rites?”

“At the rites,” Elyon answered. “And during your presentation as Nyxaria.”

My breath caught.

Nyxaria.

That name belonged to me.

Before the rogue attack stole my voice, I had composed ancient lunar songs under that name. My music traveled from pack to pack across the territories, sung during moon festivals and sacred ceremonies, though no one knew the identity of the she-wolf behind them.

After I lost my voice, Elyon convinced me to let Adrielle sing some of my compositions. He promised it would only be temporary. He said Adrielle merely needed guidance.

I agreed because I loved him.

But I had never given her Nyxaria.

Adrielle lowered her gaze to the ceremonial parchment in her hands. “Will the High Alphas accept me standing beside you?”

Elyon took the parchment from her. “The packs will accept whatever I command.”

One of the servants approached carrying the official ceremony scrolls. As she passed, one slipped from the stack and landed near the chapel doors.

I bent to pick it up.

At the top, written in silver ink beneath the Moon Goddess’s crest, were the words:

Sacred Union of the Vesper and Vale Bloodlines

Below them were two names.

Alpha Elyon Vesper.

Adrielle Vale.

My own name appeared farther beneath.

Lyra Corvayne, witness to the territorial transfer.

Not bride.

Not Luna.

Only a witness.

My throat burned beneath the old scar.

Then an elder priest spoke quietly from the altar.

“And the Corvayne heir?” he asked.

Elyon’s voice turned cold enough to freeze the air.

“Once Lyra transfers her birthright and the Moonstone territory passes to the Vesper Pack, she is no longer necessary.”

Adrielle hesitated. “She will be heartbroken.”

“She will survive,” Elyon replied without emotion. “She always does.”

At that exact moment, my pocket vibrated.

A mindstone.

I pulled the small enchanted stone into my palm, and glowing words slowly surfaced across its surface.

Do not return to the healer.

Your mother has been moved under Vesper guard.

Alpha’s orders.

For a moment, the chapel blurred before my eyes.

My mother.

The only family I had left.

Elyon had moved her without telling me.

I looked again at Adrielle standing before my altar, wearing white robes beneath the moonlight while singing my vows with my name already waiting for her.

Seven days.

The healer said my voice would return in seven days.

Alpha Elyon Vesper had seven days left to enjoy my silence.

Elyon returned to the pack manor before midnight with rain clinging to his dark cloak and blood staining the edge of his sleeve.

Violence had always suited him best.

After bloodshed, Alpha Elyon Vesper became frighteningly calm, every movement graceful and controlled, as though nothing in this world could truly touch him. He could order a wolf flogged before the council fire and still come home gentle enough to ask whether I had eaten supper.

When he entered my chambers, I sat beside the window with a wool blanket wrapped around my shoulders. The ceremonial parchment from the chapel remained hidden beneath the cushion beside me.

He paused at the doorway, silver eyes settling on me.

“You are still awake.”

I reached for the small slate resting on my lap and wrote carefully across its surface.

I could not sleep.

Something softened in his expression.

Elyon crossed the room and knelt beside my chair, his fingers brushing my cheek with familiar tenderness. His touch was warm despite the rain.

“Nervous about the mating rites?” he asked quietly.

I looked at him in silence.

He was so skilled at pretending.

For three years, he had looked at me as though I were something precious to him, something untouched by the cruelty of the world he ruled. Sometimes I believed it so completely that I forgot Alpha Elyon Vesper had built his power upon fear long before he ever placed a crown of protection over my head.

I lowered my gaze and wrote another question.

May we visit my mother tomorrow?

His hand stilled against my face.

Only briefly.

But I saw it.

“The capital healers are better suited to her condition,” he said smoothly. “They advised against visitors until her spirit stabilizes.”

You moved her without telling me.

“I intended to tell you.” His voice remained calm. “The northern roads flooded after the storm. It was safer this way.”

Then let me speak with her healer.

Something colder flickered behind his eyes.

“Lyra,” he murmured softly, “do not make this difficult.”

There he was.

Not the man who held me gently at night.

The Alpha beneath him.

Before I could answer, the chamber doors opened again.

Adrielle entered without permission, wrapped in pale cream silks with black pearls woven through her silver hair.

My breath caught instantly.

The pearls belonged to my mother.

It was the mourning veil recovered after the rogue massacre — the only piece of my family Elyon had ever returned to me.

Adrielle touched the veil lightly and smiled with practiced innocence.

“I hope you do not mind,” she said sweetly. “Elyon thought it would suit the ceremony song.”

My fingers tightened around the slate hard enough to ache.

Elyon barely glanced at me. “It is only for the rites, Lyra. Do not be childish.”

Childish.

My mother’s veil rested on another woman’s head, and I was childish for grieving it.

Adrielle drifted closer like soft smoke. “You have always been generous with me,” she said. “Your songs, your guidance… even your name. Surely one little veil means nothing.”

My name.

She spoke the words gently, yet they struck deeper than claws.

Elyon turned toward her. “Go downstairs. I will join you shortly.”

Adrielle pouted faintly. “But you promised to review the Nyxaria inheritance scroll with me.”

Silence filled the room.

Elyon’s gaze sharpened at once.

I lowered my eyes before he could read the shock on my face.

Adrielle realized her mistake immediately. A nervous laugh escaped her lips.

“I misspoke,” she said quickly. “The performance scroll. I am anxious about the ceremony.”

She slipped from the room moments later.

Elyon watched the doors close before turning back to me once more.

“Rest tonight,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow will be long.”

Then he left.

I waited until the sounds of his footsteps faded completely before rising from the bed.

Alpha Elyon’s private study rested on the second floor behind an ironwood door marked with old lunar wards. Years ago, he trusted me enough to allow me inside whenever he needed council records or treaty scrolls brought to him.

Or perhaps he had simply believed a voiceless she-wolf without allies would never dare betray him.

The ward accepted my touch and clicked open.

Inside, moonfire candles burned low across shelves lined with ancient scrolls and territorial maps. I searched the great desk quickly until I found the parchment hidden within the second drawer.

The moment I unrolled it, cold spread through my body.

It was not a ceremony contract.

It was a bloodright transfer.

Every composition tied to the name Nyxaria — every moon hymn, every sacred melody, every future song I would ever create — would legally belong to Adrielle Vale after the mating ceremony.

My signature line already waited at the bottom.

Beside it lay another document bearing my mother’s healer seal.

Security collateral.

If I signed the transfer, Adrielle gained Nyxaria.

If I refused, my mother lost protection.

My hands trembled.

Then voices sounded beyond the hallway.

I barely managed to hide behind the towering bookcase before the study doors opened.

Elyon entered first.

Lucien followed behind him.

The Beta’s voice carried quiet irritation. “You are moving too quickly. Lyra is not foolish.”

“She is loyal,” Elyon answered. “That is different.”

“She will notice the Nyxaria transfer.”

“She will sign if her mother’s survival depends upon it.”

Silence followed for a moment.

Then Lucien spoke again, quieter this time.

“And after the mating ceremony?”

“Adrielle will inherit Nyxaria publicly,” Elyon said without hesitation. “Lyra remains hidden until the Corvayne moonstone territory is fully absorbed into Vesper lands.”

Lucien’s tone darkened. “And if she refuses?”

Elyon answered calmly.

“Then she disappears.”

Something inside me cracked soundlessly.

I pressed my hand over my mouth to stop the trembling breath that nearly escaped me.

After they left, I remained hidden for several minutes before forcing myself to move.

Back in my chambers, I opened the small mindstone hidden beneath my pillow — the enchanted communication stone that had sent warnings throughout the evening.

Before I could carve a reply across its glowing surface, new words appeared.

If you wish your mother to live, stop trusting the Alpha who calls you his future Luna.

My pulse quickened.

Who are you?

The answer surfaced slowly beneath my trembling fingers.

Draven Nightbane.

My breath caught sharply in my throat.

Alpha Draven Nightbane ruled the western territories beyond the blackwater forests. His pack controlled the trade routes, the silver mines, and half the moonstone markets in the realm. The Vesper Pack called him dangerous, ruthless, impossible to control.

I stared at the glowing words before writing one final question.

Why are you watching me?

This time, the answer came immediately.

Because I know who Nyxaria truly is, Lyra Corvayne.

A long pause followed.

Then one final line appeared beneath it.

And unlike Elyon Vesper, I have been waiting for you to remember your own voice.

Jasper came to my chamber the following morning with a covered tray of coffee and warm pastries wrapped in linen from the village bakery I had once frequented in quieter days.

He did not knock, as he never did, moving through doors as though the walls of the Falcrest manor had long since ceased to recognize him as an intruder.

Elyon entered a room like a sovereign claiming judgment over his court, but Jasper entered as though he had always belonged within the silence itself, already aware of what he would find, already unbothered by whatever awaited him.

“You did not take supper,” he said, setting the tray upon my desk beneath the window where pale morning light filtered through the high glass.

I lowered my gaze and wrote upon my slate with slow, careful strokes.

Elyon told you?

Jasper’s attention did not go to the untouched food. Instead, his eyes settled briefly on the water goblet beside my bed, still filled to the brim.

“No,” he replied, his voice even. “You always drink half a goblet before sleep. Last night, it remained untouched.”

My hand paused.

It was such a small observation that it should have meant nothing at all, something easily dismissed, something no one would bother to remember in a household ruled by power, blood, and shifting alliances. And yet Jasper spoke of it with such certainty that it felt as though he had been collecting these details of me for years without my knowledge.

The way I turned toward the window when storms gathered beyond the mountains, as though I could hear something in the thunder that others could not.

The way my fingers curled inward when my wolf grew restless beneath my skin during the full moon.

The way I could not sleep unless the fire burned low and steady rather than bright and consuming.

I had once believed such familiarity was only the consequence of the Falcrest twins having grown up sharing everything, even instincts that did not belong to them.

Now, that belief felt thin, fragile, and disturbingly insufficient.

Jasper sat across from me with the ease of someone who had long ago stopped asking permission for presence. His gaze remained fixed upon my face, steady and unblinking, not invasive in the way of curiosity but deliberate in the way of recognition.

“You have been different since yesterday,” he said at last.

I wrote slowly, as though the steadiness of my hand might convince both of us that nothing had changed.

I am to be wed in six days. Brides are allowed unease.

A faint curve touched his mouth, though it carried no warmth.

“Are you?” he asked.

I looked up at him then.

The air between us shifted, not dramatically, but in a way that felt like something quietly turning its head.

He leaned forward slightly, voice lowering as though the walls themselves might remember what he said.

“Are you truly going to be wed, Lysandra?”

The question struck deeper than it should have, pressing against something unspoken that had already begun to fracture.

Before I could answer, sunlight caught upon his right hand where it rested loosely against his knee, and the sight of the ring made my breath catch without warning.

Black onyx set in silver, carved in an old wolf-mark design used in northern territories to signify oath-bound secrecy.

I knew that ring.

Not from council halls or Falcrest ceremonies beneath torchlight, but from a place far quieter and far more intimate, a lakeside manor hidden beyond the western pines where I had once been kept during a fever that blurred memory and reality until they became indistinguishable.

I remembered rain against stone.

I remembered a voice speaking low beside me through the night.

I remembered being held as though my body mattered more than the illness consuming it.

I remembered my fingers curling weakly around cold metal pressed against my palm, as though I had been anchoring myself to something I could not name.

At the time, I had believed it was Elyon.

But Elyon wore gold.

Jasper wore black onyx.

His gaze followed mine almost imperceptibly, and for the briefest moment his hand closed, as though instinct alone told him to hide what could no longer be hidden.

It was already too late.

The door opened again before anything could be said.

Adrielle entered without announcement, her presence filling the chamber as though she had been invited by fate rather than courtesy. She wore pale rose silk that moved softly around her frame, and upon her hair lay a veil of black pearls that caught the morning light with a muted, mournful glow.

My breath caught.

I knew that veil.

It had been recovered from my mother’s belongings after the rogue attack, the last relic of her I had been allowed to keep, returned to me by Elyon as though it were a gesture of mercy rather than memory.

Adrielle touched the pearls with gentle reverence that felt practiced rather than sincere.

“I hope you do not mind,” she said lightly, her voice carrying the kind of softness that never needed to raise itself to command attention. “Elyon said I could borrow it for the rehearsal. He believes it complements my voice.”

My fingers tightened around the slate until the edges pressed into my skin.

Elyon glanced briefly at me. “It is only for the ceremony,” he said, his tone dismissive in the way one might soothe a passing complaint. “Do not be difficult.”

Difficult.

As though grief over my mother’s veil resting upon another woman’s head was an inconvenience rather than memory being stripped away in plain sight.

Adrielle stepped closer, her smile widening slightly as she spoke again, her voice soft enough that it might have been mistaken for kindness by anyone who did not know how carefully cruelty could be disguised.

“You have always been generous with me, Lysandra,” she said. “Your songs, your time, even your name when it suited me to borrow it. I trust you will not mind one small veil.”

The way she said my name was almost affectionate, but there was calculation beneath it, a deliberate touch against something she knew would not remain still.

Elyon turned away from both of us. “Go downstairs,” he instructed her. “I will join you shortly.”

Adrielle lingered for a moment longer. “You promised to go over the Nyxaria contract with me,” she added, as though the words had slipped out by accident.

The room shifted.

Silence fell in a way that felt almost physical.

Elyon’s gaze sharpened instantly.

Adrielle laughed lightly, quick and false. “The performance contract,” she corrected herself. “I am nervous. I keep mixing my words.”

She left soon after, though the air she left behind remained unsettled, as though something invisible had already begun to rot.

Elyon turned back to me once she was gone, his expression smoothing itself into something composed once more.

“Rest,” he said. “Tomorrow will require your presence.”

He left without waiting for my response.

Only when his footsteps faded completely did I rise.

The study was located on the upper floor behind a door of carved walnut reinforced with old lunar wards that responded only to bloodline resonance and inherited permission. Long ago, Elyon had allowed me access under the pretense of trust, though I had often wondered whether it had ever truly been trust at all, or simply certainty that I would never dare to betray him.

The wards parted beneath my touch.

Inside, the room was still, lined with scrolls of treaties, lineage records, and sealed contracts bearing the Falcrest crest. I moved quietly toward the desk, opening the second drawer with hands that refused to tremble despite the weight in my chest.

What I found inside was not a wedding agreement.

It was a transfer of name, voice, and inheritance.

Every composition tied to Nyxaria, every song I had ever created beneath that hidden identity, and every future work that might ever be born from it, was being legally bound to Adrielle Veyra after the mating ceremony.

My signature line was already prepared.

So was the authorization seal for my mother’s continued treatment, attached beneath it like a threat disguised as necessity.

If I signed, my voice would no longer belong to me.

If I refused, my mother would become leverage in ways no wolf should ever be forced to imagine.

My breath steadied by force alone.

Then footsteps echoed beyond the corridor.

I barely had time to move before the study door opened.

Elyon entered first, followed closely by Jasper.

Their conversation carried into the room before either of them noticed anything amiss.

“You are moving too quickly,” Jasper said quietly. “Lysandra is not unaware of patterns.”

“She is loyal,” Elyon replied without hesitation, “and loyalty is far easier to control than suspicion.”

“She will notice the Nyxaria transfer.”

“She will sign when she understands what is at stake.”

A pause settled between them.

“And afterward?” Jasper asked.

Elyon’s voice remained calm, almost indifferent.

“Adrielle will become Nyxaria in name before the packs. Lysandra will be kept out of sight until the Corvayne holdings are absorbed.”

Jasper’s tone lowered further. “And if she refuses to remain silent?”

Elyon did not hesitate.

“Then she will be removed.”

The word lingered longer than it should have, not because it was loud, but because it was final.

I pressed a hand over my mouth, forcing stillness into every part of me as I listened to the man I had once believed was my salvation reduce my existence to something disposable.

After they left, I remained hidden until the silence felt safe enough to breathe again.

Back in my chamber, I retrieved the mindstone that had been left beneath my pillow, its surface already faintly warmed as though it had been waiting.

Before I could speak through it, light formed across its surface.

If you wish your mother to remain among the living, stop trusting the Alpha who calls you his future Luna.

My heart tightened.

Who are you?

The reply arrived without delay.

Draven Nightbane.

The name alone carried weight enough to shift something in the air around me.

Alpha Draven Nightbane ruled the western borderlands where the pines grew dark and the rivers ran like iron, a territory spoken of in half-whispers even among elder wolves. The Falcrest house called him a rival. Others called him worse things when they thought the wind would not carry it.

I held the stone tighter.

Why are you watching me?

The answer came last, quieter than the rest, yet heavier than anything I had read before.

Because I know who Nyxaria is, Lysandra Corvayne.

A pause followed, long enough that I almost believed it was finished.

Then another line appeared.

And because I have been waiting for the moment you remember that your voice was never truly lost.