SYLRA’S POV
The man entered the council chamber like a whisper of winter wind, silent, cold, inevitable.
His jacket was cut in the Ironshade style, dark as a storm cloud, sharp at the edges, silver accents catching the candlelight like tiny blades. Not a single button out of place, not a seam unstitched. The fabric hugged his frame like armor, every movement smooth and calculated.
His boots barely made a sound across the stone floor, but each step landed with purpose, as though he belonged here more than any of us.
Wind had tousled his dark hair, softening the severity of his appearance just enough to betray that he’d come in haste. Or maybe that he simply didn’t care. His eyes, though—those were untouched by weather or time. Pale grey, like steel left out in the snow, steady and sharp as they landed on mine.
I froze.
My heartbeat, traitorous and loud, pounded in my ears. My fingers curled around the hem of my robe.
Standing in hea from me, he bowed slightly toward the King as if this were all routine.
“Your Majesty,” he said, voice cool as a blade.
A stir swept through the chamber. Soft murmurs, shifting robes, furrowed brows.
Maelric stepped forward, his expression unreadable but voice firm. “Council members,” he said, “meet Caelen Rhys, future Alpha of Ironshade. Neutral by oath. Trusted by blood. And now—advisor to the Crown.”
A pause.
Then, quieter, almost as if it was meant only for me, “Advisor to you.”
His eyes were already on me when I turned. They didn’t flicker. They didn’t soften.
They studied.
He stood tall, shoulders relaxed but alert. Not deferent, not arrogant. Just… prepared.
“Princess,” Caelen said, his voice carrying a calm professionalism I wasn’t used to hearing from him, “I look forward to our work together.”
I stared at him, but no words came. My tongue felt thick, my throat suddenly parched. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.
They had all planned this.
The memory of pain, of my limbs stretching and bones cracking, hit me like a punch to the ribs. The failed transformation hadn’t been some fevered nightmare—it was real. It was orchestrated. This council session was nothing more than a curtain over the truth. A show.
A test.
“You knew?” I managed, my voice scratchy and low.
“I was summoned this morning,” Caelen replied evenly. “Though I should’ve guessed it earlier.”
He said it without guilt, without apology. Like it made perfect sense to him—to be pulled in, slotted into this scheme, standing now in front of me like everything was still intact between us.
I turned sharply toward Maelric. “You’re serious?”
His expression didn’t shift. “Deadly.”
The word hung in the air, cold and solid. No hesitation. No second guessing.
“He’ll challenge you,” the King continued, tone clipped. “Sharpen you. Frustrate you. But he’ll teach you how to win.”
I barely heard the last sentence. My thoughts were a blur—tangled between betrayal and clarity, between the ache of yesterday’s failure and the stark weight of today’s expectation.
Caelen took a step forward, addressing the council now with a measured gaze that flicked from face to face. “The Princess,” he said, “has more fire than most of you put together.”
A few of the older members stiffened at that.
“She only needs to learn how to aim it.”
His voice wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. There was conviction behind it. Not flattery, not pity. Just truth—as he saw it.
I blinked, forcing myself to breathe.
When his eyes found mine again, there was no smirk, no warmth. Just that quiet intensity. A challenge. A question.
“Ready to get uncomfortable?” he asked, the words low enough that no one else could hear.
For a heartbeat, I said nothing. My mind screamed at me to walk away, to shove him off the dais, to curse the King, the council—him. But my spine straightened, and I looked him square in the eye.
“Bring it on,” I said.
Caelen’s lips twitched at the edges, almost a smile, but not quite.
The chamber was still, as they watched and waited.
But the moment had already shifted. The room might not have noticed, but I felt it.
Caelen drew a sword from his side and tossed it toward me. The blade landed at my feet with a cold clang against the marble floor, its hilt spinning before settling, as though daring me to pick it up. His expression remained unreadable, calm in that infuriating way of his.
“Get me,” he said simply.
The council stirred behind me. I could feel their eyes, their skepticism, their hunger for something to sneer at. My father said nothing, but his gaze was heavy.
I snatched the sword from the ground and surged forward, gripping it tight, willing my body to move faster than it ever had. My boots scraped the floor, blade slicing through the air with a hiss as I aimed for his shoulder.
He didn’t even unsheathe his own weapon.
One hand. That’s all he used.
In the blink of an eye, his palm met my chest and pushed—just enough force, just the right angle—and I lost my footing. My back hit the floor hard, the wind rushing out of me in a gasp that echoed through the chamber.
The sword slipped from my grip and clattered away.
Heat bloomed in my face.
The silence was worse than laughter.
Caelen stepped closer, looking down at me. “What did you do wrong?”
I tried to speak, to come up with an answer, but my throat tightened. I knew what he wanted. He wanted me to say it. To admit it. But all I could do was stare up at him, teeth clenched.
“You overcommitted. You were too eager,” he answered for me. “You let your emotion decide your move. Again.”
His voice was sharp, not cruel—but it cut anyway.
“You have a lot to learn indeed.”
The words landed like a slap.
I flinched, not outwardly, but inside. My pride, already bruised, shriveled further. His tone wasn’t mocking, and maybe that was worse. He wasn’t trying to humiliate me.
He genuinely believed it.
He turned from me without another glance and started toward the exit. The weight of his judgment still hung in the air, thick and suffocating.
“Meet me on the training grounds. Now,” he called over his shoulder.
Then he was gone.
