ROVAN’S POV
The grand marble corridor leading to the Lycan Court stretched ahead. Guards stood sentinel on either side, unmoving, unblinking, cloaked in the silver-and-obsidian colors of House Thorne. The palace of Ebonhold was a monolith carved into a mountain’s heart, regal and ancient. Everything about it screamed power. Legacy. Judgment.
My wolf paced nervously behind my ribs like a caged animal.
“Relax,” Elene said, smiling without warmth. “You look like you’re about to be executed.”
I glanced at her. She was radiant in crimson silk and a polished gold chestpiece that hugged her torso like a battle declaration. Her blonde hair was coiled high, wrapped in jeweled pins from the Redfang treasury. She had definitely dressed to impress.
“I’m not the one under inspection,” I muttered.
She laughed softly. “No, you’re the one offering tribute.”
A guard pounded the butt of his spear against the floor, then pushed the doors open with a groaning thunder that swept through the halls like prophecy.
We stepped into a hall built to humble gods.
Vaulted ceilings stretched into shadows above. An aisle of blood-red carpet unfurled ahead of us, flanked by nobles and alphas from nearly every major pack. They lined the chamber in tight, silent rows, eyes glittering with interest and judgment.
At the far end of the room sat the throne. Carved of dark stone, crowned with wolf fangs, and draped in shadow.
King Maelric Thorne, cold and regal, sat upon it like it was part of him.
He was watching us without a smile, he didn’t even blink or nod and it increased my nervousness.
“Elene of House Redfang,” I said clearly, voice steady, “comes with me as mate and alliance. I, Rovan Dareth of Blackmaw, present her for recognition under the Lycan Crown.”
Elene dropped into a graceful kneel beside me, chin high, hands perfectly posed.
I knelt too. My joints ached from more than the marble.
Still, no response.
The silence stretched.
Seconds. Maybe longer. It felt like being buried alive.
Elene’s fingers twitched on her lap. “Why is he staring like that?” she whispered.
My wolf answered before I could: Because something’s coming. Something’s wrong.
Suddenly, the chamber doors exploded open behind us.
Gasps tore through the crowd like a ripple of lightning. Firm and unhurried footsteps echoed.
I turned, heartbeat slamming in my ears, when I saw her.
Sylra.
Not the girl who left with a pack slung over her shoulder and rejection staining her skin. No.
This Sylra walked like a storm on two legs.
Flanked by two royal guards in gleaming armor, and behind them, the High Seer of the Crown herself, face veiled in silk and moonlight. Sylra’s head was high, unbent. Her hair was braided back, glinting with threads of gold.
She wore a tailored jacket of black leather, collared high and sharp, embroidered with the crest of House Thorne. Her gloves bore the royal mark—wolf heads crowned in silver.
She didn’t look at me as she walked past, every cell in my body screaming her name.
“What—what is this?” Elene hissed, her voice cracking around the edges.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
Sylra passed us like we weren’t even there. Like she hadn’t once shared my bed. Like I hadn’t once held her heartbeat in my hand and crushed it.
She stopped at the base of the throne and bowed low, graceful as snowfall.
“Your Majesty,” she said, voice like cut glass, “your daughter returns, blood-bonded and recognized.”
Maelric rose.
A tide of shadow and thunder lifting from the throne. His voice carried like prophecy through the hushed court.
“Let all present hear: this is Princess Sylra Thorne. My heir.”
The room erupted.
Gasps. Shouts. A few dropped to one knee on instinct. Others just stared.
I couldn’t move. My mouth had gone dry. My wolf slammed against my ribs, howling in anguish and something worse—longing. Recognition. Home.
Elene whipped her head toward me. “S-Sylra? That’s Sylra?”
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t even breathe.
Sylra turned then, finally, and looked at us, with cold endearing eyes.
“You wanted a mate with standing, Rovan,” she said evenly. “You just didn’t realize you had one.”
Elene recoiled like she’d been slapped. “She—she’s lying. This is a trick.”
Sylra didn’t blink. “Does this look like a trick?”
The High Seer stepped forward, lifting her hand. “The blood has spoken. Her heritage is sealed by prophecy. Her claim—unquestionable.”
Maelric nodded once. “The Crescent Court recognizes Princess Sylra as my heir. And none shall contest it.”
