The Hidden Heir
The next morning dawned heavy with fog.
A perfect veil for secrets.
Lyra dressed in slate-gray silk—modest, flowing, nothing to draw attention. Today wasn't about seduction. It was about listening.
She moved through the palace halls like smoke. Smiling softly. Speaking rarely. Slipping through doorways without leaving footprints.
Every step brought her closer to the throne room. Not the grand hall where court was held—but the smaller one. The private chamber where politics bled, where power was wielded with whispers.
Where the Council met behind closed doors.
She paused at the corner, just out of sight. The door was cracked, and inside, she heard voices.
"…She's dangerous," said Elder Varick. Old. Sharp. The kind of wolf who used laws like claws.
"She's a courtesan, not a spy," said another—Calden, the youngest on the Council. Too eager to believe in pretty things.
"You didn't feel it?" Varick hissed. "When she walked into court, the bond stirred. Not just with Cassian. With both."
A silence fell.
Then—
"You think she's the one?" a third voice asked, lower. Uneasy. "The cursed omega from the rebellion?"
"She died," Calden said firmly. "Everyone knows that."
"Or so we were told," Varick replied. "But Cassian's wolf reacted last night. And the prophecy said the cursed child would survive—born under fire, carrying blood of three."
Lyra's blood ran cold.
They knew.
Or were close to it.
The cursed child. Her child.
Born of wolf, witch, and human. The only one of her kind. The heir with a fate bound to either redemption—or ruin.
Lyra turned away before they could say more.
Her heart pounded in her ears as she slipped down the corridor and into one of the side halls.
If the Council suspected, she had to act faster.
She found Kade in the southern training court, shirtless, sparring with a warrior twice his size—and still winning. His body moved like a storm given shape, all honed violence and predator grace.
When he saw her watching, he didn't stop.
If anything, he moved faster.
Harder.
Until he landed a brutal finishing strike that sent his opponent sprawling.
Then he turned to her, sweat glistening on his chest, eyes burning.
"Enjoy the show?" he asked.
"Are you offering more?" she replied, voice smooth as wine.
He tossed the training blade aside and strode toward her.
Lyra didn't back away.
But her pulse did skip when he reached her—close enough that their bond hummed again, pulling tight.
He searched her face. "You were listening earlier."
"I was walking," she lied. "Eavesdropping was a bonus."
He smirked. "They're afraid of you."
"They should be."
"I'm not."
"You should be."
A beat passed between them.
Then he said, quietly, "Cassian's investigating you. He doesn't trust what he can't control."
Lyra's eyes narrowed. "And you?"
"I trust what I can see with my own eyes."
"And what do you see when you look at me?"
Kade stepped even closer, voice a low growl. "Someone trying very hard not to fall apart."
She inhaled sharply. "Then you're not looking close enough."
But the bond pulsed.
Raw.
Real.
Dangerous.
He reached up, slowly, brushing a lock of silver hair from her cheek.
"Let me in," he said.
"I can't."
"Won't," he corrected. "You won't."
Then he turned and left her there—heart hammering, magic thrumming, walls cracking.
That night, she opened the locket around her neck and whispered to the flame again.
"Let her feel me."
In a quiet glade, miles from the Citadel, a little girl with silver hair stirred in her sleep.
And smiled.
Absolutely. Let's continue Chapter Three of Cursed Bonds, diving deeper into the rising tension between Lyra and the twin kings, the first magical stirrings of her daughter, and Cassian's unraveling as pieces of the past start bleeding into his present. This continuation builds tension and foreshadows the storm that's coming for everyone.
The locket's glow faded, but the warmth remained.
A tether. A heartbeat. A whisper across the blood-bond only a cursed mother and child could share.
Lyra let her fingers linger on the charm, then tucked it back beneath her gown. The spell was working. Her daughter still felt her. Still knew her. Even after years in hiding, protected by witches who owed blood-debts to Lyra's lineage.
But the bond was thinning.
And the moment her daughter began manifesting power—real power—the hiding would no longer be enough.
They'd come hunting again.
And this time, they wouldn't leave survivors.
Later that evening, Lyra found herself summoned to the west wing—Cassian's domain.
The summons wasn't formal. No guards. No titles. Just a parchment folded three times and left in her chamber, marked with a single symbol:
The crest of House Thorne.
She almost burned it.
But instead, she went.
Cassian stood alone in his study, the firelight casting long shadows across the black marble floor. He didn't look at her right away.
Just poured two glasses of dark wine.
"You came."
"I was curious." Her voice was calm, despite the war behind her ribs.
He handed her a glass, but she didn't drink.
Instead, she met his eyes—and watched.
The flicker in his expression was brief but telling.
Regret?
Recognition?
His wolf was stirring again. It knew her. But Cassian, the man—the prince—still resisted what his soul screamed.
"You lied to me," he said.
She raised a brow. "About?"
"Your name. Your past. Why you're really here."
"And what is your theory, Alpha Thorne?" she said, letting the title bite.
Cassian stepped closer. "I think you're not here for Kade. Or for court. Or even for Ravik."
"Then why am I here?"
"You're here for revenge."
Lyra smiled.
A slow, dangerous curve.
"Would that scare you?" she asked.
"No," he said. "But it should."
She didn't blink. "Because you have something to hide?"
"Because I have something left to lose."
That made her falter. Just a fraction.
Then he added, almost a whisper, "I dream of fire sometimes. Of chains. Of silver hair in my hands."
Her blood froze.
"I don't know your face," he went on. "But my wolf does. He howls when you're near. He remembers something I buried."
Her voice was soft now. Cold. "Then maybe you buried the wrong thing."
Cassian's eyes burned. "Who are you?"
She stepped forward slowly. Until there was almost nothing between them.
"I'm the reckoning you thought you killed," she said.
Then she turned and left—her pulse hammering, her magic flaring beneath her skin.
That night, Cassian sat by the fire long after she'd gone.
He opened the old scroll again—the one with the prophecy. The one he'd spent years denying.
"The cursed womb shall rise from fire, bearing the blood of three.
One daughter to bind.
One heir to destroy.
One mate split in two."
He clenched his fists.
Because now, when he read the words, he didn't think of the dead omega from the rebellion anymore.
He thought of her.
Far from the palace, in a hidden grove cloaked in runes, a little girl with eyes like twilight sat up in bed.
"Mama's close," she whispered to the wind.
And the shadows stirred.