4. The Citedal

Eryndra looked like a ghost the next morning. Face puffy, lips chapped, hair like a bird’s nest, and eyes heavy with dark circles.

She had spent all night strengthening the spell and making sure to stay farther from him, occasionally covering her nose so his scent wouldn’t loosen her guard.

Sometimes in the middle of the night, it felt like his shadow was looming over her.

Luckily, the potion they had used to mask their presence helped, otherwise it would have been impossible.

Still, it was the longest and most terrifying night she had ever had.

Before the sun came up, they were already on their way.

Theron barely glanced at her throughout the rest of the journey, and she was glad.

Eryndra dozed off for the rest of the ride, through the bumpy road and the forest. Her wolf was exhausted, its strength reduced to the point where she could hardly muster any to maintain the spell.

When Eryndra woke up, they had arrived.

The Citadel.

She sat up with wide eyes when she saw the formidable black walls that seemed to pierce the sky.

It was vast.

Banners of deep crimson and silver snapped in the wind, embroidered with a snarling wolf crowned in black thorns.

It was more magnificent than she’d imagined.

Servants bustled about, and guards in thick armor patrolled the grounds. But her stomach twisted, knowing what was waiting for her inside the walls.

Theron dismounted his horse, his boots thudding softly against the ground.

He opened the carriage door, and Eryndra once again froze, alert.

“We’ve arrived.” Theron offered a hand.

Eryndra glanced down at it and her lips thinned.

Theron sighed in irritation. “Whatever, get down.”

He withdrew his hand and stepped aside.

Eryndra straightened her borrowed commoner dress before stepping down. The cold air kissed her skin, but Theron’s gaze pierced even more. She had to take a step back, her gaze shifting to three soldiers who walked by and saluted him with fear and respect in their eyes, reminding her exactly what this male was in this territory.

The dark sword to the crown. Ready to strike down people like her.

His voice was calm when he finally spoke.

“Zarin will take you to your chamber. The betrothal ceremony is in three days. Eat and rest well before then. You shall present yourself before the prince on that day.”

Her eyes snapped to him. “I’m not meeting the prince before the ceremony?”

“You look like the ghost version of yourself. And you smell like hell too. You clearly aren’t used to traveling much. If you wish to see the prince, look your best on the day of the ceremony,” he said with finality and turned to leave without another word.

Eryndra stared until he disappeared.

*Did he have to say all those things?*

Why was she to see the prince on the day of the betrothal and not before?

If she could get on the prince’s good side, at least her pack might have a chance to survive.

Zarin took her to her assigned temporary chamber. The room was larger than her entire childhood bedroom back in Silverion. High ceilings, a massive bed, and a fire crackling in the hearth cast a warm glow over the room.

“A bath has been drawn, and fresh clothes laid out. Food will arrive shortly. Try to rest until the day of the ceremony. If you need anything, pull the cord by the bed,” Zarin said and left before she could speak, shutting the door behind him.

Eryndra flopped onto the soft mattress. The weight of everything crashed down on her.

Becoming the prince’s betrothed while mated to his best friend?

How insane that was.

~~~~~~~

Eryndra woke at a knock on the door.

Rising, she rubbed her eyes and cleared her throat, not realizing when she had fallen asleep.

“Come in.”

A beautiful dark-skinned woman clad in a purple shimmering dress stepped in. Her dark hair was wavy, lustrous, and flawless.

No one needed to tell her this female Lycan was from Nashira, the North. Only that region of the realm had so many rare, dark-skinned, beautiful shapeshifters. Behind her, two other females stepped in and bowed.

“Good morrow, my lady,” she greeted, her voice smooth. “I’m Kayara, your modiste.”

“Kayara? As in Kayara Vantaris?” Eryndra had heard songs about this female—a Lycan modiste best known for her incredibly gorgeous dresses.

Ishara never stopped talking about her.

“Yes. And you must be Lady Eryndra Tarrianne. The substitute daughter.”

“Substitute?”

“That was what the other modistes spread about you,” Kayara said, keeping her tone polite. “They chose not to dress you because of that rumor. But it is my pleasure to prepare you for your betrothal ceremony. I’m here to make you win.”

Eryndra blinked. “I… I don’t understand? Other modistes?”

“Yes, my lady. There are two other Chosens competing to be the Crown Prince’s official betrothed.”

Eryndra’s eyes widened in shock. “How come I never heard of this?”

“Because it wasn’t announced. It was kept secret to prevent a competitor from harming another. The court wants it to be fair.”

Eryndra’s pulse thundered, her hand clutching her dress tightly.

“Then, why choose me?”

Kayara shrugged as she stepped closer.

“The Grand Marshal escorted you here himself. You must have caught his attention. You must be special.”

Special? She wanted nothing more than to be invisible. Every moment the Grand Marshal noticed her was another moment the Veil Spell had to survive.

Kayara placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Worry not,” she assured. “I shall make you the most beautiful dress you’ve ever laid eyes on. The prince won’t have to think twice before choosing you.”

Eryndra swallowed hard. It was not the competition that troubled her...

It was those silver-grey eyes that looked ready to drag the truth out of her soon.

Because if the Grand Marshal—the Godslayer—ever uncovered the truth...

She wouldn't be the only one to be doomed...

But the pack she had sworn to protect.