Chapter 30
Lyanna
Istand perfectly still as three silent attendants work around me. Their faces are blank, eyes averted, as though I’m not a person but a doll to be dressed. One tightens the laces at my back while another arranges my hair in an intricate upswept style adorned with tiny silver stars.
The silver-blue silk settles heavily across my shoulders.
The gown is exquisite—of course it is—with flowing sleeves and a modest neckline adorned with platinum threading that catches the late afternoon light streaming through the warded windows.
House Silverthorne’s status woven into every thread.
Not quite a wedding gown, but a statement of who I am. Who I’m expected to be.
I catalog every detail of my surroundings while appearing compliant. The guards below my window follow a predictable pattern—three-hour shifts with a noticeable gap during changeover near the eastern gardens.
The attendant working on my hair steps back, revealing my reflection. I barely recognize the court-perfect fae noble staring back at me.
The reflection stirs memories I’ve spent years trying to bury—endless formal functions where smiles were weapons and every word carried hidden meaning.
I’d escaped this world deliberately, trading silk for practical healer’s robes, choosing Lachlan’s progressive enclave over the suffocating politics of Gleann na Sidhe.
My mother’s death had been the excuse I needed to leave; my father’s grief made him too distracted to stop me.
Now here I am again, dressed in expectations I fled a decade ago.
This dressing chamber is different from my sleeping quarters—more formal, with higher ceilings and mirrors on three walls.
I study the ward patterns etched into the doorframes while pretending to admire my appearance.
Seven-point binding structure here, compared to the five-point in my bedroom.
Reinforced at the corners with what looks like newer enchantment work.
They’ve upgraded security since my arrival.
They’re not just keeping me in—they’re watching more closely than before.
As the attendants move around the room collecting discarded items, I map the visible portion of the palace through the window.
The ceremonial hall is three buildings east. The portal chamber would be northwest, beyond the fountain courtyard.
If Callum comes—when Callum comes—he’ll need to know these paths.
Suddenly, the connection to Callum flares in my chest—a burning, yearning pull across realms that makes me gasp. My hand presses against my sternum where the sensation is strongest.
One attendant glances up, quickly averting her eyes when she notices me watching. I let my hand fall casually, as if adjusting a fold in the fabric. The burning doesn’t fade. Callum is there, across dimensions, his determination pulsing through whatever fragile thread still connects us.
I memorize the guard rotation once more, noting how the eastern garden gap coincides with the evening meal service. The windows are warded, but the service passages between chambers might not be as well protected. Information that could mean the difference between escape and captivity.
The platinum threads at my collarbone feel like a collar. Not ornamental; ownership. House Silverthorne’s claim made visible.
The lead attendant steps forward, inclining her head slightly. The other two move to the chamber doors, opening them to reveal four guards waiting in the corridor.
It’s time.
I stand in the center of the great reception hall as the doors part to admit the royal dragon delegation.
Fae courtiers line the walls, their faces plastered with practiced smiles that don’t reach their eyes.
Guards position themselves at every exit—not the ceremonial kind who stand at attention and look decorative, but trained warriors whose eyes never stop moving.
They’re watching me specifically, I realize.
Tracking my position even as they pretend to scan the room.
The crystal chandeliers above refract light into thousands of rainbow patterns that dance across marble floors. In the corners, dark shadows linger—corruption traces that most wouldn’t notice, but my healer’s senses detect immediately.
Prince Korren enters with measured steps. Tall, broad-shouldered, with scales shimmering subtly beneath his formal attire where his neck meets his collar. His amber eyes meet mine briefly before sliding away, his bow precise to the exact degree protocol demands—no more, no less.
I curtsy in return, matching his formality while cataloging every detail. His shoulders remain too rigid beneath his ceremonial armor. His jaw tightens when my father steps forward. His fingers drum once against his thigh before he catches himself.
"Lady Silverthorne.“ The prince’s voice carries the natural resonance of dragon. “Your father speaks highly of your healing gifts.”
I incline my head. “I’ve been fortunate in my training, Your Highness.”
Something shifts in his amber eyes. “Before we proceed further—I must express my condolences for Lady Caelynn. I knew her only briefly during the initial negotiations, but she struck me as formidable.” He pauses, and I catch genuine regret in his voice. “Her loss was a tragedy for both our realms.”
The words hit like a blade between my ribs. He doesn’t know. The genuine regret in his voice—he truly believes it was an accident.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” I manage, my voice carefully controlled. “She was irreplaceable.”
The delegation forms a semicircle behind him—five dragons in human form, each watching with careful neutrality.
Prince Korren gestures toward the refreshment table. “Would you honor me with a moment of conversation?”
As we move across the floor, I note how the guards track our movements, how the courtiers lean closer to catch our words. I accept a crystal goblet from a server while studying the prince’s face.
“I understand your practice specializes in cross-species healing,” he says, voice lowered. “That’s quite rare.”
“All beings deserve care,” I respond, watching his expression. “Dragon physiology particularly interests me—the regenerative properties are fascinating.”
His eyes brighten briefly. “Few outside our realm appreciate such details.”
I mention a specific draconic healing technique I’ve studied. His posture relaxes slightly as we discuss healing practices—this interest is genuine beneath the duty performance.
“The ceremony will begin at midday tomorrow,” he says, gaze shifting to the crystalline throne room visible through archways beyond. “In the throne room. The tribunal expects precise timing for the binding elements.”
He pauses as a group of fae pass by, laughing as if there aren’t two people being forced into marriage standing by.
“The timeline acceleration was ... unusual,” Prince Korren continues, voice dropping to barely above a whisper when we’re relatively alone near the towering crystal columns.
“Dragon courts typically allow proper courtship periods—sometimes years to establish compatibility.” His fingers trace the rim of his goblet in slow, deliberate circles, and I catch the brief shimmer as scales emerge along his knuckles, catching the ethereal light before he consciously suppresses them.
“What changed?” I ask, keeping my tone carefully modulated.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, those same fingers flexing around his goblet before he forces his grip to relax—a tell I recognize from treating anxious patients.
“Political necessities have ... intensified. War casualties mount daily in ways that threaten both our realms’ survival.
” He takes a measured sip, amber eyes distant with the weight of information I suspect he shouldn’t be sharing.
“The eastern provinces suffered catastrophic losses last month—entire settlements reduced to ash. The council believes this alliance represents our last hope to stabilize the conflict before it consumes everything.”
I extend my healer senses toward him while nodding sympathetically; subtle, the way I’d check a patient’s vitals without them noticing. His energy signature reads clean. Stressed, grieving even, but no corruption threading through his aura. No magical manipulation twisting his emotions.
He’s nothing like my father. Korren is being pressured through politics, duty, and genuine fear for his people—not Faelan’s insidious magic.
“That must put immense pressure on both our houses to perform miracles through marriage,” I say, allowing genuine understanding to color my expression.
“Four hundred years of bloodshed could end with our union,” he says, and the raw weight behind his words settles between us like a physical presence.
“Sometimes the greater good demands we sacrifice our personal desires for the survival of our people. My advisors remind me daily that thousands live or die based on our success.”
“And you’ve always known marriage would serve political ends rather than personal choice?”
His amber gaze flickers with something vulnerable before he carefully schools his expression.
“This isn’t how I imagined bonding when I was young.
” The admission comes quietly, almost resigned, tinged with a melancholy that makes my healer’s instincts ache in recognition.
“I used to dream of choosing my mate based on connection, compatibility ... but duty requires different sacrifices than childhood fantasies.” He stops himself abruptly, amber eyes darting to mine with alarm before looking away toward the safely neutral crystalline walls.
The connection with Callum suddenly flares white-hot through my consciousness—a warning that makes my breath catch in my throat and sets every nerve ending ablaze with alarm.
I maintain my composed exterior while discreetly scanning the glittering reception, my magical senses extending outward like searching tendrils until they lock onto the shadowed gallery overlooking the main floor.
There—nestled in the darkness above the celebration—the unmistakable corrupted magical signature I recognize from treating the pack’s contamination victims. Faelan’s presence radiates from those shadows like a poisonous bloom, watching our every movement with predatory intensity.
But what makes ice crystallize in my veins is the realization that the same corrupt signature emanates from somewhere else entirely.
It’s closer, more immediate, infiltrating the very heart of the celebration meant to seal my fate forever.
The reception drags on for another hour—an eternity of careful smiles and political pleasantries.
I circulate as expected, exchanging meaningless words with fae nobles who assess me like livestock at auction.
One elderly lord comments on my “breeding potential” within earshot.
I smile and thank him for his interest in House Silverthorne’s future.
Prince Korren and I are kept carefully separate after our initial conversation—handlers on both sides ensuring we don’t have another private moment.
I catch my father watching me from across the room at one point, his expression unreadable. When our eyes meet, he looks away first. The grief manipulation wrapped around his aura pulses visibly to my healer senses, tightening its hold whenever he seems close to approaching me.
The corruption signature I sensed earlier moves through the crowd—I track it without looking directly, mapping its path. Whoever wears Faelan’s magic mingles freely with the highest-ranking nobles, comfortable and confident. They’ve done this before.
Finally, mercifully, the reception concludes with formal farewells that take another twenty minutes of bowing and empty words.
I’m escorted back to my chambers afterward, my mind racing with everything I’ve learned. The guards lock the door behind me. an audible click echoing in the silence.
A single lamp burns on a side table, casting long shadows across the luxurious prison they’ve prepared for me. Candles flicker in wall sconces—real flame, not magical light. The fae prefer the old ways in their private spaces.
I wait, counting breaths until I’m certain the guards have taken up their positions outside rather than lingering to observe.
The wards have changed since this morning. I feel it immediately as I move through the chamber—someone strengthened them while I was at the reception. The eastern window that showed weakness earlier now pulses with reinforced magic.
But they made a mistake. In strengthening the windows, they’ve drawn power from somewhere else.
I trace my fingers along the wall, searching .
.. there. The corner nearest the bathing chamber.
The ward structure thins where it meets the older stonework, ancient architecture resisting the newer enchantments.
Faelan’s corruption signature pulses through the walls, stronger than before. He’s watching more closely now. Waiting for something.
My palm presses flat against the weak point, the magic responding to my touch. Not enough to break through. But perhaps enough to create a distraction when the moment comes.
Footsteps pass in the corridor, and I move away from the wall, schooling my expression to neutral in case anyone checks on me.
The burning in my chest intensifies suddenly, flaring with such force I have to steady myself against the bedpost.
Keeping my eyes closed, I focus on that connection.
I’m ready. Come get me.
With practiced efficiency, I continue testing ward structures, mapping every weakness in the magical containment.
When I’ve gathered all possible information, I lie down on the luxurious bed, leaving the lamp burning.
My eyes remain open, counting the hours until the ceremony and calculating exactly how long Callum has to reach me.
Fifteen hours until midday. Fifteen hours until I’m expected to bind myself to Prince Korren forever.
I’m not waiting to be rescued. I’m preparing to fight from inside while Callum fights from outside. When the moment comes, I’ll be ready.