King Theron’s fist cracked against the ancient oak table, silencing the great hall. Torchlight played across the faces of stunned courtiers, creating long shadows that leapt like demons on the stone walls. Princess Lyra stood frozen, her spine like a steel rod, her golden eyes—the mark of royal Oak wolf blood—locked unwaveringly on her father.
"You are betrothed to Alpha Carlus of the Silver Veil Pack," King Theron growled, flames of rage burning underneath his voice, echoing in the hall. “The alliance has been consecrated through blood oaths. The ceremony will be three weeks hence when the moon is full.”
Lyra curled her fingers in the palms of her hands, digging her nails into her flesh — the sharp bite one of the most welcome distractions from the fury heating her chest. When she finally did speak, her voice was soft but reached every corner of the hall.
“Well what about my wishes, Father? What of my right to choose?"
A wicked grin curled the lion’s lips. The scar that split his left cheek—a souvenir of the Great Pack War—widened as his expression hardened. "Your wishes? Your right?" He almost spat the words. Duty to the Oak wolf pack, Votre duci. Your right is to serve your kingdom as I ordain.”
Lyra could feel the eyes of the court on her — some sympathetic, some calculating. It was like a heavy burden that lay upon her shoulders. She knew this day would come, she’d been preparing for it, but the real thing was so much more overwhelming.
“I have heard tales of Alpha Carlus,” she said, picking her words carefully. “They say he’s killed three wives already.”
The laugh of King Theron was brittle, humorless. “Just rumors and gossip, nothing else. Carlus is powerful. His bloodline is pure. Their territory, the Silver Veil, lies north of ours, and their warriors are the most savage in all the land we know.” He leaned forward, his broad shoulders and large frame looming over his daughter. “Through this marriage we strengthen our northern borders, and have access to their silver mines. Our pack will be untouchable.'
“Oh, so I am to be traded like cattle,” said Lyra, her voice steady though her hands trembled. “My flesh and blood traded for soldiers and silver.
A gasp rang out through the hall. Nobody talked to the king like this, not even his only daughter.
King Theron’s eyes flickered amber — a warning that his wolf was near the surface. “From goodness comes gratitude, daughter. You are a member of the royal Oak wolf pack, not some common she-wolf whose matings can be based on nothing more than passing lust.” He stood from his throne, towering above the crowd. "The match is made. The blood oaths are sworn. You will wed Alpha Carlus when the moon pleases full, or you will bring shame on this pack, and disgrace on the memory of your mother.”
The reference to her mother — dead these ten years — was a deliberate blow. Lyra felt it like a physical hurt in her chest. Queen Elysia had always been her better half, her only barrier to her father's obstinate character. A prison of expectation and duty in the palace without her.
“Mother would never throw me into the bed of a monster,” said Lyra, and she knew that she was saying something that had been crossed even before she allowed herself to speak.
The king moved with the otherworldly speed of their kind. Suddenly he was in front of Lyra, with one colossal hand gripping her chin to tilt her face up to his eyes. His fingers dug into her skin hard enough to bruise.
“You will not mention your mother as an excuse for your disobedience,” he growled so low that only Lyra would have heard. “She knew what sacrifice for the pack looked like. You need to learn the same lesson.”
He let her go with a little shove, sending her stumbling back a step. As if wind through summer leaves, whispers rippled through the court.
“The Silver Veil delegation arrives tomorrow,” the king declared, his focus returning to the court. “They deliver Alpha Carlus’s formal offer. “I expect every member of this court to treat them with the respect that they are owed, as your future allies.” His eyes scanned the hall then rested back on Lyra. “And my daughter is expected to act with the dignity appropriate for her rank.”
Lyra sensed a presence beside her. Her father’s sister, Lady Gwendolyn, strung a steadying hand on her arm. "Come, niece," she murmured. “This is not a fight you will win today.”
Pride told Lyra to hold her ground, but wisdom advised retreat. With a stiff curtsy to her father that was just shallow enough to verge on disrespect, she let her aunt lead her out of the hall.
The heavy doors swung shut on them silencing the resumed murmur of court conversation, remaining only in the privacy of the antechamber. Though, Lyra's composure at last broke. Her cheek glistened with a single tear.
“He can’t do this,” she said, breaking down. "Carlus is cruel, Aunt. The stories that reach us—"
"Hush, child." Lady Gwendolyn's eyes--the same golden color as Lyra's!--restlessly flicked to the Guardsmen stationed at intervals along the corridor. “Your father’s patience is growing thinner by the day, and these walls have ears.”
Her footsteps echoed on the stone floor as she guided Lyra through the maze of passageways that made up the palace. Servants bowed as they passed, their faces neutral, though Lyra could sense their curiosity. Word of her confrontation with the king would race through the palace like wildfire.
At Lyra's chambers, Lady Gwendolyn waved off the handmaidens who waited like startled birds, with a quick flick of her wrist. The moment the door closed, she turned to her niece, her expression serious.
"You will not make a fool of your father, Lyra. His alliance with Silver Veil is too precious to him.”
Lyra walked up and down the room with her silk skirts whispering against the stone floor. “Important enough for him to sacrifice his only daughter? To be sent to a man who treats wives as objects to be used and discarded?”
“The gossip about Carlus’s former wives is … complicated,” Lady Gwendolyn said carefully. “His first born in the field—tragic, though not so uncommon. The second was killed over a territorial dispute with the Mountain Ridge Pack. And the third..." She hesitated. “The details surrounding her death are unknown.”
“Three wives, three deaths,” Lyra said bitterly. “A pattern that even a blind wolf could see.”