19
The throne room had never felt more fragile.
It had been three days since the Seer’s prophecy.
Three days since Lyra had spoken in a language older than the bloodlines.
Three days since power in Ashmoor shifted — from wolves to moonlight.
And the court was unraveling.
Rylan stood at the edge of the war table, staring down at the map of his kingdom. His generals hovered nearby, murmuring about border activity. Rogue howlers moving through the Eastern Ridges. A rising in Hollowmere, where his seal had been burned in the village square.
“The nobles are aligning with the highblood loyalists,” one of his captains muttered. “They say you’ve crowned a witch-child.”
Rylan said nothing.
Because he didn’t care what they called her.
He cared that they were preparing to take her from him.
By nightfall, word reached the castle:
One of the outer provinces had declared itself independent.
They no longer recognized Rylan as king.
Not after he refused to name a highblood heir.
Not after he “enthroned a child of unnatural power.”
They were calling her the Moonspawn.
Rylan’s fists slammed into the map, shaking the table.
He turned to his guards. “Double protection on Lyra. I want every noble within these walls accounted for. No one leaves. No one enters without my seal.”
“Yes, Alpha.”
But even as they scattered, Rylan’s heart thundered with something he hadn’t felt in years.
Because this wasn’t just politics anymore.
This was personal.
Evanna found him in the war corridor, standing beneath the stained-glass window of the first Alpha King.
She stepped close. Quiet. Steady.
“They’re coming, aren’t they?” she said.
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
Evanna’s expression hardened — not with fear, but with fury. “Then we prepare.”
“I’ll evacuate you both,” he said. “Tonight. I’ll send you to the southern cliffs. You’ll be safe.”
“No,” she said. “We’re not running again.”
“You don’t understand—”
“I understand more than you think,” she snapped. “I lived in fear for five years. I raised our daughter in silence while men like them plotted legacies over our ashes.”
She stepped closer, her voice like steel.
“I am done hiding.”
Rylan looked at her — really looked.
Not just as the girl he loved. Not as the mother of his child.
But as his equal.
“You’d stay? Even if war tears this place apart?”
“I’ll burn it to the ground if it means she lives.”
A beat passed.
Then another.
And finally, Rylan reached for her hand, the decision carved into his chest.
“Then we stand together.”
That night, the castle flared to life with torches and battle drills. The moon rose high above the towers, watching. Waiting.
And in the western wing, Lyra stood by her window, eyes wide, watching soldiers rush through the courtyard.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t run.
She only whispered, “It’s starting.”
Then she turned, pulled her fox close, and curled into the window seat.
Outside, storm clouds brewed.
Inside, the child of ash and moonlight prepared.