CHAPTER 2 – The Prince Who Refuses Her

The Northern Palace was nothing like Lyra expected.

She'd imagined something cold and brutal, all stone and ice. Instead, the castle sprawled across a mountain peak, its towers reaching toward gray clouds. Snow covered everything, but the palace itself felt alive. Warm lights glowed in the windows. Smoke curled from chimneys. Guards patrolled the walls with sharp eyes and sharper weapons.

Lyra's carriage stopped at the main entrance. Her hands were numb from the cold despite the fur blanket someone had thrown over her lap three hours ago. The journey north had taken two and a half days. Two and a half days to think about what waited for her.

A broken prince.

A forced marriage.

A new life she didn't choose.

The carriage door opened. A tall woman with braided white hair stood there, her expression stern. "Lyra Hale?"

"Yes."

"I'm Commander Thea. Head of the prince's personal guard." She didn't offer her hand. Just stepped back and waited for Lyra to climb down. "Follow me."

No welcome, no pleasantries, Just orders.

Lyra followed.

They walked through corridors lined with tapestries showing wolves in battle, wolves in moonlight and wolves running free. Servants hurried past without looking at her. The air smelled something wild that made her wolf stir restlessly.

"The prince is waiting," Thea said without turning around. "You'll meet him now."

"Now? But I just arrived. Shouldn't I..."

"The prince wants to see you. That's all that matters."

They stopped in front of massive wooden doors. Two guards stood on either side, both watching Lyra like she might be a threat. Thea pushed the doors open.

The room beyond was huge. A fireplace large enough to stand in dominated one wall, flames crackling and throwing dancing shadows across the floor. Bookshelves lined another wall, packed with leather-bound volumes. Windows showed the mountains beyond and peaks sharp against the darkening sky.

And in the center of it all, near the fire, sat a man in a wheelchair.

Prince Rowan Nightborn.

Lyra's breath stopped for a moment.

She'd expected scars. Expected something monstrous based on the rumors. But the man watching her was... beautiful in a harsh, brutal way. Dark hair fell past his shoulders, his face was all sharp angles and hard lines. His eyes were the color of storm clouds, cold and assessing.

He wore simple clothes. Dark shirt and dark pants. His hands rested on the arms of the wheelchair, relaxed but ready.

And he was staring at her like she was an inconvenience.

"This is her?" His voice was low and rough, like he didn't use it often.

"Yes, Your Highness," Thea said. "Lyra Hale. The substitute bride from the South."

Substitute. The word hung in the air like an insult.

Rowan's gaze traveled over Lyra slowly. Her travel-stained clothes, her messy braid and her pale face. She lifted her chin and stared back, refusing to look away first.

His mouth twitched. Almost a smile.

Then he looked away.

Just like that. Dismissing her the same way Damon had.

"Send her back," Rowan said.

Lyra felt a sudden shock. "What?"

"You heard me." He didn't look at her again. Just stared into the fire like she'd already disappeared. "Put her on a carriage and send her south. The treaty is void."

Thea shifted uncomfortably. "Your Highness, the king expects..."

"I don't care what my father expects." Rowan's voice went cold. "I didn't agree to this marriage. I won't be paraded around like some prize to be claimed. And I certainly won't tie myself to a woman who was rejected by her own mate."

Heat flooded Lyra's face. Of course he knew. Everyone probably knew. Her humiliation had traveled faster than she had.

"I never asked for this either," she said quietly.

Rowan finally looked at her again. His eyes were sharp, intelligent and seeing too much. "Then we agree. You don't want to be here. I don't want you here. Problem solved."

"It's not that simple," Thea cut in. "The treaty binds both kingdoms. If you reject her, the South will see it as an insult. There could be war."

"Let them come."

"Your Highness..."

"Enough." Rowan's hands tightened on the wheelchair arms. Just enough for Lyra to notice. "I've made my decision. She goes back."

Lyra should have felt relieved. She'd been given an escape. A way out of this nightmare. But instead, she felt hot and bitter anger rising in her chest.

"You think you're the only one suffering?" The words came out before she could stop them. "You think you're the only one who got dealt a bad hand?"

Rowan gave her a sharp look

She should have stopped. Should have backed down. But something in her had broken in that Royal Matching Hall three days ago, and the pieces hadn't fit back together right.

"I was rejected in front of hundreds of people," Lyra continued. "My own father traded me away without blinking. My stepsister gets to live her perfect life while I get shipped north to marry a stranger. And now you're rejecting me too because what? Because your pride can't handle a substitute?"

"Lyra," Thea warned.

But Rowan held up one hand. His expression hadn't changed. Still cold and unreadable. "Are you finished?"

"No." Lyra stepped closer. Her wolf pushed at her, urging her forward. "You want to send me back? Fine. But at least have the decency to reject me to my face. Not while staring at the fire like I'm not even worth your attention."

For a long moment, nobody moved.

Then Rowan's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You have spirit. I'll give you that." He rolled his wheelchair forward slightly. The wheels made no sound on the stone floor. "But spirit won't keep you safe here. This palace is full of people who would love nothing more than to see me fail. And anyone close to me becomes a target."

He stopped right in front of her. Close enough that she could see the faint scars on his hands. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from him despite the wheelchair and despite the rumors of him being broken.

"Do not try to get close to me," Rowan said quietly and dangerously. "For your own sake."

Then he turned the wheelchair and rolled toward the door on the far side of the room. Thea moved to follow him, but he waved her off. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Lyra stood there, shaking from cold or anger or fear, she couldn't tell.

Thea sighed. "Come. I'll show you to your rooms."

They walked in silence until they reached a guest wing. Thea stopped outside a heavy door, then glanced around to make sure no one was listening.

"A word of advice," she said in a low tone "The prince you just met? He's not what he seems."

Lyra frowned. "What do you mean?"

Thea leaned closer. "He's pretending. The wheelchair, the weakness and the brokenness. Almost no one knows. But I've served him for five years, and I've seen things." Her eyes were serious. "Whatever you do, don't underestimate him. And don't trust anyone in this palace except yourself."

She walked away before Lyra could ask anything else.

Lyra pushed open the door to her room and stepped inside. It was beautiful, warm and comfortable.

And it felt like a trap.