CHAPTER 4 – The Threat Inside the Palace

Rowan stared at Lyra for what felt like forever.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken threats. Finally, he stepped back. Giving her space to breathe.

"You're right," he said quietly. "I can't send you away now. But understand this. What you saw, what you heard, it stays between us. Tell anyone and I won't be able to protect you."

"Protect me from what?"

"From the people who want me dead." He turned and walked back into the room, every movement fluid and strong. Nothing like the broken prince everyone believed him to be. "Go back to your room. Lock your door. And for once, listen to me."

Lyra opened her mouth to argue, but he'd already disappeared into the shadows.

She made her way back to her chambers, her mind spinning. The king was Rowan's uncle. Which meant Rowan's father, the true king, was gone. Dead? Overthrown? And Rowan was hiding his strength, biding his time.

For what?

Sleep didn't come easy. When it finally did, it was restless and full of half-formed dreams about thrones and wolves and cold gray eyes watching her.

Morning arrived too soon.

A knock on the door woke her. A young servant girl entered, carrying a breakfast tray. She had dark hair pulled into a tight bun and nervous eyes that wouldn't quite meet Lyra's.

"Good morning, miss. I'm Clara. I'll be attending to you during your stay."

Stay. Not marriage. Not a permanent arrangement. Like everyone expected Lyra to leave soon.

"Thank you." Lyra sat up. "You don't have to do that. I can get my own breakfast."

Clara looked shocked. "Oh no, miss. It wouldn't be proper. Besides, the head housekeeper assigned me specifically." She set the tray down, "Miss, if I may ask... is it true you're marrying Prince Rowan?"

"That's what the treaty says."

Clara's hands twisted in her apron. "The king won't like it. He's been trying to match the prince with Lady Morgana for years. A southern bride... it complicates things."

"Who is Lady Morgana?"

"The king's niece. Beautiful, powerful and connected to all the right families." Clara lowered her voice. "There are those in the palace who think she should be the one wearing a crown, not a stranger from the South."

Warning received.

After Clara left, Lyra picked at her breakfast. The eggs tasted off and bitter. She pushed the plate away and dressed herself instead of waiting for Clara to return.

The day passed slowly. Lyra tried to go to the library but found the door locked. She walked the gardens, but everywhere she went, servants stopped talking when she approached. Guards watched her with suspicious eyes.

By evening, the isolation pressed down on her like a weight.

She returned to her room to find Clara laying out a gown for dinner. Deep blue silk, beautiful and expensive.

"The prince requested you join him for the evening meal," Clara said. "It's formal. You'll need to wear this."

Lyra touched the fabric. Soft and Perfect.

"When did this arrive?"

"This afternoon, miss. From the royal seamstress."

After Clara left, Lyra examined the gown more carefully. At first, everything seemed fine. Then she turned it over and saw the damage. Long tears in the lining. Deliberate cuts that would show through the silk the moment she moved. If she wore this to dinner, she'd be humiliated in front of everyone.

Her hands shook. Not from fear, but from anger.

Someone had done this on purpose.

She left the ruined gown on the bed and pulled out the simple dress she'd worn earlier. It wasn't fancy, but it was whole. That would have to be enough.

The dining hall was massive. Long tables, crystal glasses, candles everywhere. And seated at the head, in his wheelchair, was Rowan. He'd changed into formal clothes and a dark jacket. His hair tied back. He looked every bit the prince.

Beside him sat an older man with sharp features and a cold smile. The king.

Lyra felt a sudden shock.

"Ah, the southern bride." The king's voice carried across the hall. "How kind of you to finally join us. Though I see you didn't think our dinner worthy of proper attire."

Heat flooded Lyra's face. Several other nobles sat along the table, all watching her with barely concealed amusement.

"My apologies, Your Majesty." She kept her voice steady. "There was an issue with the gown provided."

"An issue?" The king raised an eyebrow. "How unfortunate."

Rowan's expression hadn't changed, but his fingers tightened slightly on the wheelchair arms. He saw the trap and understood someone had set her up.

"Please, sit." The king gestured to a chair far down the table. Away from Rowan. Isolated among strangers.

The meal was torture. Course after course of rich food that Lyra barely touched, remembering the bitter taste from breakfast. Conversation flowed around her but never included her. The nobles spoke of politics, pack alliances and hunting trips. Nothing she could contribute to.

Across from her sat a stunning woman with black hair and green eyes. Lady Morgana, Lyra guessed. She smiled at Lyra once. Cold and Calculating.

"Tell me," Morgana said sweetly. "Is it true you were rejected by your fated mate before coming here?"

The table went silent.

Lyra met her eyes. "Yes."

"How terrible for you." Morgana's smile widened. "And now you're here, trying to claim a prince who doesn't want you either. That must be difficult."

"Morgana." Rowan's voice cut through the tension. "That's enough."

"I'm simply making conversation."

"Make it elsewhere."

The king laughed. "Come now, nephew. The girl must learn how things work here. We're not soft southerners who coddle feelings."

Nephew. He said it like an insult.

The dinner finally ended. Lyra escaped back to her room, exhausted and humiliated. She wanted to scream. To break something. To run.

Instead, she closed her door and leaned against it, breathing hard.

That's when she noticed it.

A piece of paper on her pillow.

Her heart pounded as she crossed the room and picked it up. The handwriting was neat and careful.

"He did not reject you by choice."

Lyra read it three times. Four. The words didn't change.

He did not reject you by choice.

Who left this? What did it mean? Was someone helping her or playing another cruel game?

She crumpled the note in her fist, then smoothed it out again. Evidence. Or warning. She wasn't sure which.

Outside her window, the moon rose over the mountains. Cold, distant and beautiful.

Somewhere in this palace, someone wanted her gone badly enough to sabotage her clothes and poison her food.

And someone else knew secrets about Rowan they thought she knew too.

Lyra put the note into her pocket and locked her door.

Tomorrow, she will find the answers.

Tonight, she would sleep with a chair wedged under the doorknob.