Chapter 15
Lyanna
The Lodge hums with late-afternoon activity. Half the pack has gathered in the common room—some playing cards by the window, others reading or talking in small clusters. I’ve claimed a corner table near the hearth with Evie, who’s helping me inventory what I need restocked at the infirmary.
“I think that covers everything,” I tell her, closing my notebook with a satisfied snap. “I’ll get this list to Harper in the morning, and then—“
The temperature drops ten degrees in an instant.
My pen rolls off the table, clattering to the floor. The fire in the massive stone hearth gutters and dims as though something is sucking the warmth from the air itself. Evie’s head snaps up, her entire body going still in that predatory way dragons have when sensing a threat.
The space near the entrance begins to shimmer—not like heat haze, but like reality itself is bending, warping, folding in on itself.
The shimmer splits open with a sound like tearing silk, revealing a vertical slash of brilliant silver light that makes my eyes water.
Through it, I glimpse another place—soaring crystal spires, eternal twilight, the unmistakable architecture of the High Court of Doria.
My stomach plummets. No.
Four fae guards step through the portal in perfect unison, their ceremonial silver armor so bright it seems to glow with its own light.
Ancient runes of authority spiral across breastplates and vambraces, pulsing with contained magic that makes the air crackle.
Their faces are impassive, inhuman in their stillness.
Each carries a ceremonial spear that hums with barely leashed power.
Behind them comes the herald—robed in midnight blue silk that seems to shift and flow like water, a silver circlet gleaming at his brow.
His presence fills the room, pressing against my skin like a physical weight.
Court magic, ancient and absolute, radiates from him in waves that make my fae heritage sing in reluctant recognition.
The portal collapses behind them with a thunderclap that rattles the windows—deliberate theatrics, designed to intimidate. The fae courts do nothing without calculated effect.
Around the main room, wolves surge to their feet.
The movement is instantaneous, coordinated without a single word spoken—pack instinct recognizing a threat to their own.
Ben moves to the left, Dane to the right, both positioning themselves between the fae delegation and the rest of the room.
Rhonan’s hand drops to his side where I know he keeps a blade.
Kari shifts her weight, balanced and ready.
Nova’s eyes flash gold as her wolf rises to the surface.
Harper crosses the space toward me in three swift strides, her body angling to put herself between the guards and me.
Evie rises beside me, and though she hasn’t been trained as a warrior yet—the pack has barely begun to understand what her dragon heritage means—that power is right there beneath her skin.
I can feel the heat radiating from her, see the faint shimmer in the air as something ancient and fierce responds to the perceived threat.
Through the bond, Callum’s awareness explodes toward me—sharp, fierce, mine—his protective instinct roaring to life. I sense him moving before I see him, crossing the Lodge from wherever he was with predatory speed.
The fae guards don’t react to the wolves’ defensive positions. They simply stand, perfectly still, their spears held at precisely identical angles. But I see their eyes tracking every movement, calculating, assessing.
The herald’s gaze sweeps the room with cold indifference, as though the bristling pack of territorial wolves and the barely-contained dragon mean nothing. His silver eyes lock onto mine.
“Healer Lyanna Silverthorne of House Silverthorne.” His voice rings through the space with magical compulsion woven through every syllable—not loud, but impossible to ignore, resonating in my bones. “I bring urgent communication from the High Court of Doria.”
The room falls into suffocating silence.
Every wolf remains poised on the knife’s edge between stillness and violence.
Callum moves to my side, his presence a solid wall of heat and barely contained fury.
His hand doesn’t touch me, but he’s close enough that I can feel the tremor of restraint running through him.
The herald extends an ornate scroll, the parchment gleaming with preservation spells. The seal pressed into silver wax makes my breath catch—the Silverthorne stag intertwined with the royal crest of Doria. That combination has appeared on only one type of document in the last century.
Marriage contracts.
My fingers tremble as I accept it, the parchment cold against my skin despite the magic warming its surface.
“We regret to inform you of the tragic passing of Lady Caelynn Silverthorne during diplomatic negotiations.” The herald’s voice remains flat, emotionless, each word precisely enunciated and empty of sympathy.
“The High Court requires your presence in Doria within ten days to fulfill the marriage alliance contract with House Drakorian.”
The words hit me like physical blows.
Caelynn.
My sister’s face flashes through my mind—her laugh, her eyeroll when I worried too much, the way she’d braid flowers into my hair when we were children.
Gone. Reduced to a single sentence in a herald’s announcement.
Something inside me cracks, a grief I can’t afford to show, not here, not with court eyes watching for weakness.
I force my expression to remain neutral even as my heart splinters.
The scroll responds to my touch, ancient magic recognizing Silverthorne blood.
It unfurls on its own, parchment glowing faintly as silver script rises from the surface like mist taking form.
For a split second, something else flickers beneath the text—intricate silver knotwork, patterns that catch the light wrong.
But it vanishes before I can focus, lost beneath the weight of what I’m reading.
Two documents materialize, bound by threads of light. The first bears a border of deep black that seems to absorb the light around it—the formal mark of death notification. My sister’s name shimmers in silver script that pulses once, twice, then steadies.
The cause of death is listed in detached administrative language: “diplomatic incident.” No details. No explanation. Just two words that erase her existence and reduce her death to bureaucratic notation.
The second document makes my vision blur. A formal marriage contract, every clause identical to the one Caelynn signed—except where my name now sits in silver ink where hers should be.
Callum’s fury and anguish roll off him in waves. His protective surge crashes against my awareness like a tidal wave, desperate and fierce and helpless. I can’t look at him. If I do, if I meet his eyes, the herald will see everything written on both our faces.
“The Silverthorne-Drakorian alliance must proceed without delay.” The herald continues as though he hasn’t just shattered my entire world.
His tone remains cold, clinical, a pronouncement of facts rather than a conversation.
“War between realms cannot be risked. You have ten days to complete transition arrangements and return to Doria for the binding ceremony.”
The parchment trembles in my grip. Around me, I hear the low rumble beginning in several wolves’ chests—not quite growls, but close. Harper’s hand finds my shoulder, squeezing once. Evie’s heat intensifies, her dragon pushing closer to the surface with each passing second.
My sister is dead.
My freedom is gone.
My mate bond—this precious, impossible thing I’ve only just discovered—is being ripped away before we’ve had any chance at all.
Everything Nyxiana warned me about has materialized, worse than I’d feared, delivered in a cold declaration by a herald who couldn’t care less that he’s destroying lives with his pronouncements.
“The contract is binding,” the herald continues. “House Silverthorne has already agreed to the substitution.”
Beside me, Callum hasn’t moved—but I can feel the effort it costs him. Every muscle rigid, jaw locked, hands fisted at his sides. His restraint vibrates like a wire about to snap.
I raise my hand subtly, palm down—a silent command to the bristling wolves around us. Hold.
“I acknowledge receipt of this notification,” I say, forcing my voice to remain steady and cool—the perfect fae court tone. “The Inter-Realm Accord grants me ten days for consideration of the terms.”
The herald’s silver eyes narrow slightly. “There is nothing to consider. The substitution has been approved by both courts.”
“And yet the Accord grants me ten days.” I meet his gaze unflinchingly. “Unless you wish to formally challenge established supernatural law before witnesses?”
Harper moves closer, her presence solid and reassuring at my shoulder. Ben shifts his weight, creating a subtle barrier between the delegation and the pack’s most vulnerable members. Nova’s eyes gleam with dangerous intelligence as she assesses the fae guards.
“Ten days,” the herald concedes with cold precision. “At the end of which your presence is required in Doria.”
He gestures, and the air tears open again, the portal’s silver light casting eerie shadows across the Lodge. The guards step backward in perfect unison, spears held at identical angles. The herald gives me one last penetrating look before following them.
The portal collapses with another thunderclap. In the reverberating silence that follows, I feel everything we’d just begun to build shatter like glass.
For three heartbeats, nobody moves. Then the pack erupts—voices overlapping in outrage and disbelief. Dane steps forward, his Alpha authority cutting through the chaos.
“Everyone, calm down,” he commands, his voice level but brooking no argument. “We need to think, not react.”
Callum’s control snaps. His hand finds mine, gripping with desperate intensity.
The bond between us flares with raw anguish, fury, and helplessness.
The touch is brief—mere seconds—before he forces himself to release me, knowing any prolonged contact could be detected by lingering court surveillance.
“They can’t do this,” he growls, the words rough with barely contained rage.
“They already have,” I say quietly, staring at the scroll in my hands. “My sister is dead, and I’m the replacement piece on their political chessboard.”
The reality crashes over me. Less than two weeks until I must choose between my mate and preventing a war.