Chapter 32
Lyanna - Earlier that morning
The enchanted bath water stings against my skin. Not just heat—it’s magic, invasive and probing, seeping into my pores with intent. The purification elements burn like antiseptic on an open wound, designed to cleanse me of existing bonds.
Including Callum’s.
Callum. I reach down the bond instinctively, a pulse of warning and reassurance. I’m still here. They’re trying to sever us, but I’m still here.
I keep my face carefully neutral as the attendants work.
Six of them surround the marble bath, their movements impersonal and efficient as they perform a ritual, centuries older than any of us.
Their hands pour oils, scatter petals, murmur incantations—preparing me like a vessel to be filled with someone else’s claim.
“The blessing of Luminaeth upon this union,” one murmurs, sprinkling silver-flecked water across my shoulders.
I close my eyes, using the moment to extend my senses through the water itself.
The purification magic carries traces of every enchantment it’s meant to cleanse—I can feel it probing for the connection to Callum, seeking the threads of our bond like searching fingers.
It finds nothing substantial enough to sever.
The bond wasn’t complete when they took me, but what exists between us runs deeper than their ritual cleansing can reach.
Faelan’s corruption signature is stronger this morning—a sour note beneath the floral steam. The palace wards amplify his presence, his magical influence threaded through the very stone. He’s close.
“Lean back, Lady Silverthorne,” an attendant instructs. I comply mechanically, tilting my head as they wash my hair with scented oils meant to enhance fae glamour.
While they work, I count breaths between guard movements outside, memorizing the pattern. One hundred and twenty-three between position checks. Window wards shimmer with morning light—weakest at the edges where newer enchantments meet ancient stone.
“The union brings peace to the realms,” another attendant intones, her voice melodic and empty of true feeling.
I meet her eyes briefly, maintaining my diplomatic mask. She doesn’t believe the words any more than I do, but we both perform our assigned roles in this ancient dance of politics disguised as tradition.
The ritual bath concludes, and attendants help me rise from the water. As they dry me with enchanted cloths that tingle against my skin, I keep my breathing controlled, my expression serene.
The thrum in my chest remains quiet but steady. Callum is far away, but his determination reaches me like a distant heartbeat. The connection should have been severed by the enchanted bath, but it persists. That tells me something important about its true nature.
They move me to a smaller dressing chamber adjacent to the bath—a room of mirrors and marble pedestals displaying ceremonial accessories. Not the same room as my sleeping quarters. Different layout, different ward patterns. The jewelry cases on the far wall stand empty, waiting to be filled.
The first layer of silk slides over my damp skin, cool and impossibly light. I stand motionless as the attendants work in synchronized patterns around me—one adjusting clasps at my shoulders, another arranging the fall of fabric along my spine.
The magic woven into each layer presses against my skin like a second pulse—binding spells that feel like tiny hooks seeking purchase in my essence. I can sense their purpose: to make me receptive, malleable, connected to someone else’s claiming.
While they fold and pin and arrange, my mind races through every piece of this deadly puzzle. Caelynn’s face flashes in my memory—her confident smile the last time we spoke, her eyes bright with purpose. Dead now. Murdered specifically to create this vacancy I’m filling.
But why? The question burns through my thoughts. If Faelan wanted my healing abilities, why not simply abduct me? Why engineer this elaborate marriage to a dragon prince? What does binding me through ceremonial magic accomplish that direct control wouldn’t?
“The sleeves must hang precisely so,” murmurs an attendant, her focus on intricate beadwork that catches the light like captured stars.
The sour taste of Faelan’s magic taints every breath. He’s here somewhere. Watching, waiting. But wearing whose face?
Another layer goes on—heavier this time, the fabric stiff with embroidered silver thread that forms patterns I recognize from ancient texts. Binding sigils. Protection wards turned inward to contain rather than defend.
“The enchantment patterns are particularly complex today,” one attendant murmurs to another, securing a belt of woven moonstone at my waist. “Full binding rather than just symbolic alignment.”
Full binding. The words send ice through my veins. These aren’t just ceremonial symbols—they’re actual magical restraints, designed to channel and redirect my power once activated.
The magic presses deeper with each added layer, seeking connection with my core.
What happens to my healing abilities once these bindings activate?
Will my power be channeled elsewhere? Redirected?
The ceremony has seven key invocation moments—each must build upon the previous to complete the binding.
Two attendants discuss timing in hushed tones. “Three hours until the binding magic activates.”
I trace Callum through our tether—steady but distant. No proximity yet.
Whatever Faelan wants from this marriage, he orchestrated my sister’s murder, manipulated tribunal members—and my own father—and risked war between realms to achieve it.
And then, standing motionless while they drape me in binding magic, the answer finally surfaces.
If he’d kidnapped me, I’d be a victim. Ash Hollow would rally.
The pack bonds would tighten against a common enemy.
But watching me comply with the legal summons, honor the political obligation, walk away from Callum through my own choice?
That proves everything Faelan believes. That chosen bonds shatter under pressure.
That love loses to politics. That Ash Hollow’s philosophy is naive and unsustainable.
He’s not just taking me from Callum. He’s making me prove him right.
The final outer robe settles over my shoulders, the weight of it pressing down like a physical burden. Silver and moonstone blue, the colors of Gleann na Sidhe Court’s most sacred ceremonies. The fabric cascades in precise folds that took generations of seamstresses to perfect.
The attendants step back, their work complete for now. They exchange glances.
“The necklace and tiara still need preparation,” one murmurs. “We’ll return shortly.”
They file out with synchronized efficiency, leaving me briefly alone in the silent chamber. I exhale slowly, testing the weight of the enchanted layers against my skin.
I try, experimentally, to loosen the belt at my waist. The moonstone burns cold against my fingers, and the clasp refuses to budge. The fabric itself seems to tighten when I pull at it—not painful, but insistent. A warning.
These garments aren’t just ceremonial. They’re part of the binding magic, designed to be worn until the ceremony completes them. I couldn’t remove them now if I tried.
The hooks press against my core.
I move to the window, studying the guard rotations below with fresh urgency. Morning sun glints off armor as patrols shift positions. The pattern holds—predictable, routine. They don’t expect resistance from within.
I close my eyes, reaching out to Callum—distant but steady, a reminder that—
The bond EXPLODES.
Every nerve in my body ignites at once, my knees nearly buckling beneath the sudden onslaught. My hand flies to my chest as the connection blazes white-hot, no longer distant but immediate—vivid—present.
Callum.
He’s here. In the palace.
The dimensional distance has collapsed. The sensation is unmistakable; his energy signature burning through whatever connects us like wildfire. My breath catches, lungs refusing to work properly as emotions cascade through me faster than I can name them.
Relief washes through me in waves so powerful that my hands tremble against the dresser. He came. Of course, he came—I never doubted—but feeling him here, real and close and alive, steadies something in me that’s been unmoored since the moment I learned of Caelynn’s death.
Then fear crashes in, sharp and cold. He’s here. In the heart of Faelan’s trap, surrounded by guards who knew he was coming. The palace wards are designed to kill intruders. If he falls—if they capture him—
I force the fear down. Callum is a Guardian. A warrior. He didn’t come here to die.
Pride follows, fierce and hot behind my ribs. He crossed realms. Breached palace wards. Brought a rescue force through dimensional barriers that should have been impenetrable. My wolf surges, refusing to accept the impossible.
Love surges next—not the gentle warmth I’ve felt through our connection before, but something wild and all-consuming that makes my throat tight and my eyes burn. The kind of love that wages war against kingdoms. That burns through centuries-old political machinations like they’re made of paper.
And beneath it all, gratitude so fierce it nearly breaks me. He’s risking everything—his pack, his position, potentially his life. For me.
I grip the dresser edge to steady myself, the cool marble anchoring me as the bond pulses with proximity.
The palace wards shimmer visibly now, rippling across the crystalline walls like disturbed water. The defensive magic pulses with intrusion alerts—someone has breached the castle.
Not someone. Callum. And likely others.
I straighten, forcing my breathing to even out as I school my features back to neutral. I can almost trace his movement—east wing, moving with purpose toward the central palace complex.
Voices erupt in the corridor outside my chamber—guards shouting orders; boots pounding against marble floors as security forces mobilize. The alertness in their tone betrays genuine concern. This isn’t a drill or false alarm.
The attendants burst back into the room; their movements no longer measured but rushed. Their eyes dart nervously to the windows where warning lights flash across the magical barriers.
“Security breach in eastern wing,” one attendant mumbles nervously, adjusting the ceremonial tiara with trembling fingers. “But ceremony proceeds on schedule—Lord Theron’s orders.”
Of course it does. Whatever is happening, Faelan won’t let it interrupt his carefully orchestrated plan. Which means I have limited time before those seven binding moments begin.
The tiara settles onto my head, its weight significant. More enchantments woven into precious metal, more hooks seeking to anchor themselves in my essence. The necklace follows—a collar of moonstone and silver. This isn’t adornment, it’s a leash.
Eight guards surround me as we move through the palace corridors, their weapons drawn and steps precise. Four leading, four following—not the usual three who stood outside my door.
I keep my expression perfectly neutral as alarms pulse through the crystalline walls. The palace wards ripple visibly, defense systems activating in waves that send silver-blue light cascading across the translucent surfaces.
My fingertips brush against the heavy fabric at my sides, the layers of silk and enchantment offering no hidden pockets, no concealed weapons. I came here with nothing but my healing abilities and my wits. Those will have to be enough.
Callum’s presence grows stronger with each step. Western corridors—I can almost feel him fighting closer. The sensation intensifies—no longer distant but immediate. Real.
“Faster,” the lead guard commands, his hand gripping my arm more firmly than protocol allows.
I comply with practiced grace, maintaining the appearance of cooperation while my senses map every detail. Guard positions doubled at each junction. Magical barriers strengthening—visible now as crystalline webs across windows and doorways.
We round the final corner, the grand throne room doors looming ahead. Their surface ripples with ancient enchantments, pulsing brighter as the ceremony magic builds inside.
The lead guards halt before the massive doors. Through the translucent crystal, I glimpse the ceremony participants assembling in formal rows. Prince Korren stands rigidly near the central altar, waiting.
The tribunal members arrange themselves in ceremonial formation—seven figures in ancient regalia, their expressions solemn. Each represents a realm touched by this alliance.
King Finnian and Queen Aoife are notably absent—visiting King Thaldiran and Queen Astryl in Tarlan, conveniently removed from witnessing this farce.
But the sour note beneath the ceremonial magic turns my stomach. Faelan’s corruption signature pulses through the entire chamber, unmistakable to my healer senses. He’s here personally, though I cannot yet identify which form he’s taken.
The doors begin to open, ceremonial music filtering through—ancient, ethereal notes that mark the first binding preparation.
My father stands near the altar, his posture unnaturally rigid. The grief manipulation is visible even from this distance—subtle magical tendrils wrapped around his aura, tightening whenever his resolve wavers.
I take a measured breath, schooling my features into serene acceptance as I prepare to cross the threshold. Callum is minutes away—I feel his determination like a physical force, burning through whatever connects us.
I must stall.
I step into the throne room as the first notes of the binding ceremony begin.