CHAPTER 5 – The King's Warning

The summons came at dawn.

Lyra had barely slept. Every creak of the floorboards and every whisper of wind against the window made her jump. The note lay under her pillow. "He did not reject you by choice." She'd memorized every curve of every letter, trying to understand who would risk leaving it.

Clara knocked softly. "Miss? The king wishes to see you in his private study. Immediately."

Lyra's blood went cold. "Now?"

"Yes, miss. I'm to escort you."

There was no refusing a king.

Lyra dressed quickly and followed Clara through corridors she hadn't seen before. These halls were richer, tapestries woven with gold thread and marble floors polished to mirrors. Everything designed to remind visitors of power and wealth.

They stopped outside a door carved with wolves mid-hunt. Clara knocked twice.

"Enter." King Aldric's voice was smooth and pleasant.

Lyra stepped inside.

The study was smaller than she expected but no less impressive. Shelves lined with books and scrolls. A massive desk covered in papers and maps. And behind it, the king himself. He looked different without the formal dinner clothes. More relaxed and more dangerous.

"Miss Hale. Thank you for coming so promptly." He gestured to a chair across from his desk. "Please, sit."

Lyra sat. Her hands folded in her lap to keep them from shaking.

King Aldric smiled. "I wanted to speak with you privately. Yesterday's dinner was hardly the place for a proper conversation." He poured two glasses of wine from a crystal decanter. "You must have questions. Concerns. It's only natural."

He slid one glass across the desk toward her.

Lyra didn't touch it. Not after the bitter eggs from yesterday.

The king noticed. His smile widened slightly. "Wise. Trust is a rare commodity in palaces, isn't it?" He took a sip from his own glass. "I'll be direct with you, Miss Hale. Your presence here complicates matters."

"The treaty—"

"The treaty." He waved his hand dismissively. "A dusty old agreement no one remembered until your family dragged it out of some archive. Convenient timing, wouldn't you say?"

Lyra said nothing.

"My nephew is... fragile," the king continued. His voice dripped with false concern. "The accident five years ago broke more than his body. His spirit, his will to lead. He can barely manage his own affairs, let alone a wife." He leaned forward. "I'm sure you've noticed. The wheelchair, the isolation and the way he withdraws from everything."

Every word was a lie. Lyra had seen Rowan walk. Had seen the strength in him. But she kept her face blank.

"I worry," King Aldric said softly, "that adding a marriage to his burdens will break him completely. Especially a marriage to someone who..." He trailed off delicately.

"Someone who was rejected by her own mate?" Lyra finished.

"I wouldn't have put it so bluntly. But yes." He sat back. "You understand then. This union benefits no one, It embarrasses my nephew, It puts you in an uncomfortable position. And it creates tension when the North needs stability."

"What are you asking me to do?"

"I'm asking you to be reasonable. To understand your place here." His voice hardened just slightly. "You are a guest, Miss Hale. A temporary complication. You will keep to your rooms, you will not interfere with palace business, you will not burden my nephew with demands or expectations." He paused. "And you will not spread foolish rumors or cause trouble."

There it was. The threat wrapped in silk.

"If you do these things," the king continued, his smile returning, "your stay here will be comfortable. Pleasant even. But if you prove difficult..." He let the sentence hang.

Lyra's nails dug into her palms. "And if I refuse?"

"Refuse?" King Aldric laughed. "My dear girl, you misunderstand. I'm not giving you a choice. I'm explaining reality. The North is not like your soft southern lands. Here, wolves who don't know their place don't survive long."

He stood, walking around the desk until he loomed over her chair. "Accidents happen in palaces, food spoils, stairs become slippery and fires start in locked rooms." His hand rested on the back of her chair. "It would be tragic if something happened to such a young, naive girl. So far from home. With no one to protect her."

Every muscle in Lyra's body screamed at her to run. But she forced herself to stay still and to meet his eyes without flinching.

"I understand, Your Majesty."

"Good." He patted her shoulder like a loving uncle. "I knew you were a smart girl. Clara will show you back to your rooms. I suggest you spend the day resting. You look tired."

Dismissed.

Lyra stood on shaking legs and walked to the door. Her hand was on the handle when the king spoke again.

"Oh, and Miss Hale? That note you found last night. I'd forget about it if I were you. People who ask too many questions tend to find answers they don't like."

Her blood turned to ice.

He knew about the note. Which meant someone reported it to him. Someone was watching her room. Someone going through her things.

She was being hunted.

Lyra nodded once and left.

Clara waited outside, She'd heard everything. Or enough. She led Lyra back through the corridors without speaking. When they reached Lyra's door, Clara whispered, "I'm sorry, miss."

Then she hurried away like staying too long might curse her.

Lyra pushed open her door and stopped.

Something was wrong.

The room looked the same. Bed made, curtains drawn. But the air felt different and disturbed.

She stepped inside slowly, every sense alert. Her wolf stirred and hackles rose.

Nothing seemed out of place. 

Then she saw it.

On her door. The inside of her door.

Four deep gouges in the wood. Fresh splinters. The marks went from top to bottom in parallel lines.

Claw marks.

Someone had shifted. Had dragged their claws down her door while she was with the king. A message. A warning.

We can get to you anytime.

Lyra's hands shook as she traced the marks. They were deep and deliberate. Made by someone strong.

She thought of the king's words. Accidents happen. Fires start in locked rooms.

This wasn't about the treaty. Wasn't about her being a substitute bride.

This was about Rowan. About whatever game he and his uncle were playing. And she'd stumbled into the middle of it without understanding the rules.

Lyra locked her door and wedged the chair under the handle again. Then she sat on her bed and stared at those claw marks.

In the South, she'd been unwanted, rejected and pushed aside.

Here, she was a target.

And she had no idea who wanted her dead or why.