13
The throne room of Ashmoor Castle had never been so silent.
The nobles stood in formation beneath the great stained-glass windows, dressed in their finest silks and crested armor. Behind their polished masks were carefully hidden intentions—some expectant, some suspicious, some already sharpening invisible blades.
They thought they were here for a routine council.
They had no idea what was coming.
Rylan stood at the center of the room, wearing his ceremonial black cloak lined with wolf fur, the royal sigil glinting at his shoulder. But his crown sat heavy today—not with gold, but with truth.
He looked across the sea of wolves-in-waiting.
And then he said her name.
“Lyra.”
The doors opened.
Evanna entered first, regal in her simplicity—hair pinned back, chin high, dressed in flowing forest green that made her look more like a queen than half the women already seated on the court.
And beside her, small hand in hers, walked Lyra.
Every step echoed.
Every stare narrowed.
The child walked like moonlight—uncertain, curious, brave.
Whispers rose instantly.
“Is that the girl?”
“She has his eyes.”
“She can’t be more than five—”
Rylan raised one hand.
Silence.
“This is my daughter,” he said clearly, letting the words fall like thunder. “Lyra of Ashmoor. Born of my blood. My heir.”
Gasps rippled like a storm wave.
One of the noblemen stepped forward, red-faced and trembling. “With respect, Your Majesty, this matter should be—”
“—not up for debate,” Rylan interrupted, voice cold and absolute. “She is mine. And she carries the blood of two strong lines—Alpha and freeborn. I will hear no question of her legitimacy. And if anyone lays a hand or whisper against her or her mother again, they will face me directly.”
A noblewoman narrowed her eyes. “The girl’s mother is unbonded. She bears no royal title.”
Rylan turned to Evanna.
And the entire room held its breath.
“I will correct that.”
He crossed the floor without hesitation. Stood beside her. Took her hand.
“I claim her,” he said, voice steady. “In name. In bond. In life.”
Evanna’s lips parted, but no words came. Her fingers trembled in his.
But she didn’t pull away.
Lyra, small and wide-eyed, looked up at the crowd and said in a voice far too innocent for the moment:
“So… does this mean I live in a castle forever now?”
Laughter broke out in half the room. The other half looked like they’d swallowed daggers.
Rylan leaned down to her, smiling. “That depends. You still want your own wolf, remember?”
Lyra gasped. “Like a real one?!”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
After the council adjourned, after the last noble had bowed stiffly and the room had cleared, Evanna turned to Rylan in the quiet of the chamber.
“You just started a war,” she said softly.
“I know,” he replied. “But I’d rather fight for you than live with silence another day.”
And for the first time, she didn’t fight him on it.
She just stepped forward and laid her head against his chest.
And whispered, “Then let’s survive it. Together.”