The Council's Game
The Council convened at dusk.
The chamber was cold stone and colder politics—seven elders seated in a crescent beneath the carved wolf sigil of House Thorne. Candles flickered in sconces, casting long, trembling shadows across scrolls, ledgers, and war maps.
Lyra wasn't invited.
But she arrived anyway.
Not through the doors.
Through the shadows.
Hidden by a veil spell that wrapped her scent, sound, and magic in silence. She stood behind the outer column—just beyond the Elder Circle's line of sight—and listened.
"The king grows too fond of her," said Elder Varick. "It's clouding his judgment."
"Both kings," corrected Elder Mora, her expression unreadable. "And perhaps we should consider what that means. Twin-bonded mates haven't occurred since—"
"Since the bloodline was cursed," Varick snapped.
"Which doesn't mean it can't happen again," Mora said.
Another voice joined in—Elder Calden, younger and bolder.
"If she is the girl from the rebellion, we must act. The child she carried—"
"Was never found."
"No," Varick said darkly. "But the prophecy is clear. If she lives, the child lives. And if that child is hidden, she is a threat. Not just to the throne—but to every bloodline tied to the curse."
Lyra's grip on the stone column tightened.
They didn't just want her exposed.
They wanted her child dead.
That night, Lyra sat alone in her chamber, her back pressed against the window ledge, the moonlight silvering her skin. She had kept still. Silent. Strategic.
But tonight, she shook.
Not from fear.
From fury.
She had expected suspicion. Resistance. Even danger.
But she hadn't known how deeply the Council feared her daughter. How eagerly they'd spill blood to keep their precious legacy untainted.
Even Kade—especially Kade—had no idea how far the rot ran beneath his throne.
There was no more time for subtle games.
A knock at the door.
She didn't answer.
The door opened anyway.
And there was Cassian, framed in torchlight.
"You're either brave or foolish," she said without turning.
"Or both," he replied, closing the door behind him.
She rose, slow and deliberate, her robe falling open just enough to bare the mark etched above her heart—a shimmering crescent surrounded by runes. A witch's brand. A survivor's seal.
His eyes locked on it.
"What is that?"
"The cost of living through the fire you started."
He flinched.
Then: "Tell me who you are."
Lyra stepped forward, until only inches separated them.
"You already know," she whispered. "You just don't want to admit it."
He reached up like he might touch her—then dropped his hand.
"I searched the ruins myself," he said. "There was nothing left. No body. No scent."
"You wanted me gone," she said. "So you saw what you needed to see."
Cassian's voice cracked. "I didn't want you gone."
"You sold me."
"To protect you."
That stopped her cold.
But only for a heartbeat.
"Don't lie," she spat. "You branded me a breeder. Stripped my name. Watched them chain me like an animal."
"I tried to stop it," he growled. "But the Council had already marked you. Said you were a threat to the bloodlines. Said the curse would spread—"
She shoved him.
Hard.
"You let them take me."
"I had no choice—"
"There's always a choice."
He caught her wrists as she struck again, held them tight between them.
And the bond snapped.
A surge of heat rolled between them—raw, ancient, undeniable. The same magic that once burned like wildfire beneath their skin now roared back to life.
Cassian froze.
Lyra gasped.
Because his wolf had fully awakened.
And it recognized her.
Mate.
He let go like she'd burned him. "It's you."
She stepped back, trembling.
"I buried you."
"You tried," she whispered. "But I wasn't done bleeding."
That night, someone slipped into the records vault.
A parchment was burned. A signature erased. A birthmark duplicated.
By morning, the whispers began:
"The girl with silver hair…"
"She looks like the cursed one…"
"What if the child didn't die?"
"What if she came back with teeth?"
*********
By dawn, the palace buzzed with unease.
Servants whispered behind gloved hands. Guards watched the halls with sharpened focus. Courtiers exchanged glances, tight-lipped and pale.
The story had spread like wildfire—someone had seen the silver-haired courtesan enter the forbidden tower. Someone had found an old bloodline record… missing. Someone else had spoken the name Lyra.
And in a palace built on secrets, that name was a ghost.
Lyra stood at the eastern terrace, sipping tea like the world wasn't cracking open beneath her feet.
She wore white today.
A wolf's mourning color.
Let them talk. Let them wonder.
Because if she had to, she would burn this kingdom again—this time with no one left to rewrite the history.
But the moment she turned from the railing, Kade was there.
Blocking the path. Tension in every line of his body.
"You weren't born in the Eastern Courts."
A statement. Not a question.
Lyra didn't blink. "No."
"You're not a courtesan."
"No."
He stepped closer. "Then who are you?"
She didn't speak.
Not yet.
Not until she knew what kind of man he really was.
Kade exhaled sharply. "Cassian's wolf has been restless. And you…" His voice dipped. "You look at me like you know my soul."
She held his gaze. "Because I do."
A heartbeat passed.
Then another.
And then he asked, voice hushed and full of something almost—reverent:
"Are you her?"
She nodded once.
Kade didn't speak.
He stared.
And something in his expression shattered—like glass cracking from the inside out.
He stepped back, breath ragged.
"You died," he whispered. "They said the child died too."
"They lied."
"Why?"
"To protect power. To bury the prophecy. To keep the curse from waking."
"Is it awake now?" he asked.
Lyra's voice turned cold. "She is."
That evening, the Council gathered again—but this time in secret.
In the dark chamber beneath the Great Hall, lit only by moonstone and witchlight, Elder Varick laid a blade across the altar.
Forged in silver. Dipped in venom. Meant for only one purpose.
"Tonight," he said, "we end the cursed line. Before it's too late."
"Cassian and Kade will stop you," Mora warned.
"They won't get the chance."
Back in her chambers, Lyra opened a hidden compartment in her mirror frame. Inside, a folded letter. One she hadn't dared read in years.
It was smudged with soot. The edges burned.
"She has your eyes, Lyra. She's already changing. Already stronger than me. I'll hide her as long as I can—but the Hollow Ones are stirring. They smell her. They know she's the key. I fear we don't have long."
— Mira.
Mira. Her old friend. The only one who helped her escape that night. The woman who had taken her child into hiding.
Her hands trembled as she folded the letter back.
They were running out of time.
And the Hollow Ones weren't the only ones closing in.
That night, someone slipped into Lyra's room with a dagger.
Silent.
Trained.
Deadly.
But Lyra was no longer the girl they'd sold in chains.
She was waiting.
The assassin never made it to the bed.
With a flick of her fingers and a whispered word in Old Tongue, the shadows surged—and swallowed him whole.