CHAPTER EIGHT

SKYE'S POV

The East Wing was a labyrinth of cold marble and echoing silence. My footsteps, usually so light and practiced in the kitchens of the Silvercrest Pack, sounded like gunshots against the polished floors. The guard, a hulking Lycan whose face was a map of old scars, didn’t speak. He simply marched, his posture so rigid it looked like he was carved from the same obsidian as the fortress walls.

I didn't blame him for his silence. I was the King’s "surprise." I was the girl who smelled of Beta pack rot and servant’s apron. Every time I passed a mirror—and there were hundreds of them, framed in heavy, tarnished gold—I caught a glimpse of myself: messy brown hair, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, and a dress that looked like it had been pulled from a ragbag.

I hated the way I looked. I hated that I felt small.

"Here," the guard grunted, stopping before a set of double doors carved with intricate, twisting vines.

He pushed them open, and the breath left my lungs.

The room wasn't just a bedroom; it was an observatory. One entire wall was nothing but glass, looking out over the jagged, snow-dusted peaks of the Lycan territory. The valley below was a sprawling, dark expanse of pines and river water that seemed to swallow the light. It was breathtaking, but in a way that made me feel utterly insignificant.

"The King expects you to be ready for dinner," the guard said, his tone indifferent. "The staff will be here shortly. Do not leave the room."

The door clicked shut, leaving me in the kind of silence that made my ears ring.

I walked to the glass, pressing my palm against the cold surface. *Queen.* The word was a foreign object in my mouth. It didn't fit. It felt like trying to wear a crown made of lead.

Before I could sink into the panic clawing at my throat, the doors opened again. A small army of women entered. They moved like ghosts, their faces impassive, carrying bolts of fabric that shimmered like captured starlight—silks, velvets, and laces in shades of deep midnight blue, silver, and crimson.

"You are to be prepared," the eldest woman said. She looked to be nearing her twilight years, with silver hair pulled into a tight, perfect bun. She didn't look at me; she looked *through* me, measuring me for a garment as if I were a mannequin.

"I can dress myself," I said, my voice sounding thin.

"Not for the King’s table, you cannot," she replied crisply. "Strip."

The next hour was an exercise in humiliation. They scrubbed me with scented oils that smelled of crushed jasmine and ozone, a fragrance so intense it made my head swim. They brushed my hair until my scalp burned, pulling it back into a complex weave that tugged at my temples. They dressed me in a gown of dark, liquid velvet that draped over my body like a second skin, clinging to every curve.

When they finally finished, the eldest woman spun me toward the mirror.

I didn't recognize the girl staring back. The velvet gown turned my eyes from a muddy brown to a deep, intense bronze. The lack of my usual, frumpy servant’s apron made me look… regal. Dangerous.

"The King is waiting," the woman said, though she didn't sound impressed. She sounded annoyed, as if the effort had been a waste of good fabric.

I followed them back out into the hall, my feet encased in shoes that made me feel like I was walking on glass. My heart was a frantic bird against my ribs. I had to face Eryx again. I had to face the court. I had to face Asterin.

The guard escorted me to the dining hall, a cavernous room lit by hundreds of candles that danced in the draft. At the head of the long, dark-wood table sat Eryx. He wasn't wearing his heavy coat anymore; he was in a black tunic that emphasized the brutal width of his shoulders.

The room was filled with nobles, their conversation dying the moment I stepped into the light.

Eryx stood. His gaze traveled over me, and for a split second, the cold, kingly mask he wore flickered. A flash of something—hunger, maybe, or simple surprise—crossed his silver eyes.

"Skye," he said, his voice cutting through the stifling tension of the room.

He walked around the table, ignoring the murmurs of the nobles, and stopped in front of me. He didn't touch me, but the heat radiating from him was a physical sensation.

"You look..." He paused, searching for the word. "Like you belong here."

"I feel like a wolf in sheep's clothing," I whispered, loud enough only for him to hear.

"Good," he said, offering his arm. "That’s exactly what a Queen needs to be."

He led me to the seat beside his, and as I sat down, I felt the eyes of the entire court on me. I looked down the table and saw Asterin. She was sitting three chairs down, her fingers curled so tightly around the stem of her wine glass that I thought it might shatter. Her gold eyes were burning.

Dinner was a blur of silver clinking against porcelain and whispered political agendas. I didn't understand half of what they were talking about—territorial boundaries, supply lines, rogue skirmishes—but I watched. I listened. I realized, with a sudden, sharp clarity, that these people weren't just eating; they were measuring me. They were checking for cracks.

Elder Thorne leaned forward, his eyes fixed on me. "Tell us, Skye of Silvercrest," he said, his voice dripping with false curiosity. "What does a servant know of the hardships of ruling a Kingdom? Surely, you must feel… overwhelmed by the history of these walls."

The table went dead silent. Everyone was waiting for me to stumble. Everyone wanted to see the servant girl crumble.

I took a slow breath, the scent of the jasmine oil lingering on my skin. I thought of Rhory’s rejection. I thought of the way Medora looked at me when she thought I wasn't watching. I thought of the mark on my shoulder, the symbol of a bond I hadn't asked for but was determined to survive.

I looked Thorne straight in the eye.

"History is just a story told by those who survived it, Elder," I said, my voice steady, surprising even myself. "I have spent eighteen years surviving in the shadow of people who thought they were masters of history. I think I understand the hardships of ruling quite well. It's just a matter of who is holding the whip, and who is learning to take it away."

The gasp that ran through the room was audible.

Thorne’s face went a mottled, angry red. Cassia stiffened, her fork clattering onto her plate.

Beside me, I felt Eryx shift. A low, rumbling chuckle started deep in his chest—a sound of pure, unadulterated amusement.

He leaned toward me, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.

"They won't underestimate you again," he murmured.

But as I looked at Asterin’s cold, triumphant smile, I knew one thing for certain.

They weren't going to underestimate me. They were going to try to kill me.