15
Rylan had ruled through war, famine, and uprising.
He had faced down bloodthirsty packs and foreign kings.
But nothing had prepared him for this:
The slow rot of betrayal inside his own walls.
The list was short.
The number of nobles with access to the west wing was limited. So were the rooms with enough privacy to speak freely without a magical trace.
And yet… Lyra had overheard something. Something real.
He believed her.
She hadn’t told him directly—Evanna had.
Her voice shaking as she relayed every word their daughter whispered to her at dawn, clutching her fox like a shield.
"She said they talked about bloodlines. About acting if you wouldn’t.”
Rylan had gone still.
Because there were only five people who’d ever used that exact language to him before: “stability through proper succession.”
Three of them were known threats.
The fourth was old and ill.
The fifth…
The fifth was someone he had trusted with his life.
Lord Therin.
Rylan’s war advisor.
His father’s former second-in-command.
The man who trained him as a pup.
The same man who’d once said, “When you’re king, you’ll need to learn how to cut off the limb before the infection spreads.”
Rylan hadn’t understood it then. But he did now.
And the limb?
Was Lyra.
He confronted him in the council chamber at dusk, no guards. No audience.
Just the two of them.
“Were you in the west wing two nights ago?” Rylan asked.
Therin didn’t flinch. “I walk the halls every night. Why?”
“You were heard,” Rylan said. “Plotting. Against my daughter.”
Therin’s lips curved into something between pity and condescension. “Not plotting. Discussing solutions.”
Rylan’s blood turned to fire. “She’s five.”
“She’s a disruption,” Therin replied. “You’ve spent your reign holding this kingdom together, and you’re ready to risk it all for a girl born in secret to a woman with no name?”
“Her name,” Rylan growled, “is Evanna. And my daughter’s name is Lyra. Say it.”
“You were never meant to be ruled by your heart,” Therin spat. “You were bred to lead. To secure our legacy, not threaten it.”
Rylan stepped forward slowly, until they were nearly nose to nose. “And you were meant to protect what I love. Not plot against it.”
Therin’s mouth opened to argue—
—but Rylan’s fist struck before he could say another word.
The older man collapsed to the ground with a grunt, blood trickling from his mouth.
“Effective immediately,” Rylan said coldly, “you’re stripped of all rank and position. Touch my family again, and I won’t stop at exile.”
Evanna heard the news before Rylan returned to their wing.
She stood outside Lyra’s room, one hand pressed to the doorframe, listening to her daughter hum lullabies while braiding flower stems.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t tremble.
She only whispered to herself, “If they come for her again… I won’t wait for Rylan to handle it.”
Because a mother’s love was not politics.
It was war.
Later that night, Rylan stood by the fireplace, knuckles bruised, soul heavier than before.
Evanna sat nearby, quiet, eyes flicking to him.
“You were right,” he said at last. “They’ve been waiting for a reason. She gave them one.”
“She gave you a reason,” Evanna said. “To fight for something that matters.”
Rylan looked at her then.
Really looked at her.
And saw not just the woman he once lost…
But the queen she had become.
“I’ll protect her,” he whispered. “I swear it.”
Evanna nodded slowly.
“Then start acting like a king who doesn’t just rule a kingdom—”
She met his eyes.
“Rule your bloodline.”