A knock shattered the quietness of Lyra's room. Not the hesitant ring of a servant, nor the commanding call of a warrior—this was gentler, deliberate, with a seriousness not of the hour.
Selene tightened in her seat at Lyra's desk, the charred journal still lying open before her. She wanted to shove it beneath the furs, but the knock came again—three rapid taps, almost as quick as a heartbeat.
She was unable to rise before a crumpled piece of parchment slid under the door. No voice went with it. No footsteps retreated from down the hall. Only silence, weighing on her chest like a hand.
Selene faltered, staring at the parchment as if it might combust. At last, she rose, her toes tapping gently upon the chill stone, and knelt to pick it up.
The seal had no imprint. No Blackthorn crest, no familiar wax colour, only plain black—lackluster, coarse, like solid ash.
Her hand trembled to open it. Inside, the script was wobbly and careless. Four words seared themselves into her brain:
If you speak the truth, the pack dies.
Selene's vision faded as her ears drummed with the beat of her heart. She read it again and again, as if words could change under the fluttering of the lamplight.
No signature, no explanation, just the chilling promise.
Her thoughts spun, who knew her secret? Who had delivered this letter without being seen? She held on to it tightly as if folding it up would erase the threat written on it.
A floorboard creaked outside her door. Selene shoved the note into folds of her cloak and slammed the journal shut, heart racing with terror. The person who sent the warning was close—too close.
The door handle twitched.
The handle rattled once, then stopped. The breath caught in Selene's throat as every muscle coiled, ready to bolt for the window if the door swung open.
But it didn't.
Rather, a shadow slid along the crevice, and then slunk off. The quiet thud of footfalls echoed down the hall. Not panicked but measured, patient, as though the trespasser wanted her to know they'd been there. Her skin crawled. Whoever it was, was bold enough to linger outside Lyra's door, bold enough to leave a threat. That told her they were not afraid of being caught.
She forced herself to wait. One breath, two…Ten. When silence settled again, Selene crept forward and pressed her ear against the door. Nothing. Only the distant hum of the keep.
She opened a fraction of the door. The corridor stretched empty in both directions, torches flickering against the stone.
Her hand tightened around the letter hidden in her cloak.
Not safe, not here.
She slipped out, her steps soft but urgent, not to her bed but to the eastern wing—toward the one direction she knew snooping eyes avoided: the burned library. Half charred, dusty, and abandoned after a fire years ago.
As she shoved the distorted doors apart, the air inside greeted her with the mild scent of ash and discarded parchment. The shelves had slanted like broken teeth, their contents burnt. She crept into the rear corner, behind a collapsed bookcase.
Her hands smoothed the parchment once more, tracing out the words.
If you speak the truth, the pack dies.
The phrasing gnawed at her. Speak—not reveal, not betray. Whoever wrote it feared her words, not her presence. As though her voice alone could unravel something they wanted buried.
A gust of cold air seeped through the cracked windows, stirring the ashes across the floor. Selene's eyes lifted, and her breath stilled.
Someone had carved into the far wall, long ago, hidden beneath soot. She brushed the black dust away with trembling fingers until the letters emerged, faint but legible:
The crown demands blood.
The same jagged hand.
Her chest constricted. Whoever wrote the letter had been here before—left their warning long before tonight.
The scrape of boots on stone snapped her upright. Not outside but inside.
Someone else was in the library.
Despite all of her instincts screaming at her to flee, Selene didn't budge, her legs locked. The scrape echoed again, closer this time, deliberate. Whatever it was, it wasn't taking the trouble to hide.
She crept lower behind the bookcase, supporting her back against the crumbling wood. Her breathing was shallow, barely risking a breath in the air. The ash on the floor betrayed every step—one misstep and they'd hear her.
"Curious," a voice murmured, deep and edged like a knife dragged across stone. "I thought the rat would scurry back to her nest. But instead, she comes here."
Selene's pulse spiked, the voice was male, confident and not Kael, but someone who carried authority all the same.
Boots crunched on the ash, moving steadily through the wreckage. She dared a glance through the crack between two fallen planks.
In the light of a partially shattered flame, a tall person in a hooded cloak stood. His gloved hand traced the edge of a burned shelf, fingers lingering over the blackened wood.
"You've found it, haven't you?" His tone shifted—amused, almost pleased. "The letter. The truth scratching at its cage."
Selene's heart slammed. Whoever he was, he knew.
She forced her trembling hands to clutch the folded letter tighter as she couldn't let him see it.
The man stopped suddenly, head tilting as though listening. "Do you think silence will save you? That shadows hide you?" A soft laugh broke the tension like shattering glass. "I can smell your fear."
Selene clamped a hand over her mouth, pressing hard to stifle the ragged breaths threatening to give her away.
The figure moved again, slow, deliberate steps weaving through the aisles. Closer and closer. Ash whispered under his boots, the sound crawling along her nerves.
When his steps stopped, Selene risked another glance.
He stood just feet away, head turned toward her hiding place, the hood shadowing his face. But his voice came clear, low and promising.
"You can't keep the truth buried forever, Lyra."
Her blood iced, he thought she was Lyra.
Before she could move, his hand shot out. Fingers slammed against the top of the bookcase and shoved. Wood splintered, crashing down in a cloud of ash. Selene stumbled backward, coughing, eyes wide as the hooded figure loomed over her.
The torchlight caught his face as he yanked back the hood.
Selene's breath shattered in her chest.
For the briefest heartbeat, she thought she recognized him—those sharp cheekbones, the cold, watchful eyes she'd seen before at Kael's side in the council chamber. Councilor… Veyron?
No, it couldn't be.
Her mind recoiled from the thought, clinging to the hope that the smoke and shadows had tricked her.
"You look surprised," the man said softly, tilting his head. "Did you really think all of Lyra's secrets burned with the old keep? No, girl. Some of us… made sure the most dangerous survived."
Selene scrambled backward on her hands, clutching the folded letter tighter against her chest. "Why—why are you here?"
He stepped closer, boots crushing ash, his smile never reaching his eyes. "To see who would come sniffing after the past. And here you are, pretending to be Lyra, wearing her skin but weaker and softer."
Her heart pounded. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You don't?" His voice turned mocking, almost playful. His eyes flicked toward the letter clutched in her hand. "If you speak the truth, the pack dies. That message wasn't written for nothing. It was written for her, for Lyra and now you're tangled in it."
Selene's stomach dropped. He knew about the letter.
He leaned down, so close she could smell the smoke in his cloak, the iron on his breath. His whisper crawled against her ear:
"Choose carefully, girl. Lies are flimsy shields and when yours shatter, I'll be the first to watch you burn."
With that, he straightened, pulled the hood back over his face, and stepped into the smoke. By the time Selene blinked the ash from her eyes, he was gone—leaving only silence, and the cursed weight of the letter searing against her palm.
But one thought refused to leave her.
If she had seen right—if it truly was him, then someone high in the council was watching her every move.