Jasper came to my chamber the following morning with a covered tray of coffee and warm pastries wrapped in linen from the village bakery I had once frequented in quieter days.
He did not knock, as he never did, moving through doors as though the walls of the Falcrest manor had long since ceased to recognize him as an intruder.
Elyon entered a room like a sovereign claiming judgment over his court, but Jasper entered as though he had always belonged within the silence itself, already aware of what he would find, already unbothered by whatever awaited him.
“You did not take supper,” he said, setting the tray upon my desk beneath the window where pale morning light filtered through the high glass.
I lowered my gaze and wrote upon my slate with slow, careful strokes.
Elyon told you?
Jasper’s attention did not go to the untouched food. Instead, his eyes settled briefly on the water goblet beside my bed, still filled to the brim.
“No,” he replied, his voice even. “You always drink half a goblet before sleep. Last night, it remained untouched.”
My hand paused.
It was such a small observation that it should have meant nothing at all, something easily dismissed, something no one would bother to remember in a household ruled by power, blood, and shifting alliances. And yet Jasper spoke of it with such certainty that it felt as though he had been collecting these details of me for years without my knowledge.
The way I turned toward the window when storms gathered beyond the mountains, as though I could hear something in the thunder that others could not.
The way my fingers curled inward when my wolf grew restless beneath my skin during the full moon.
The way I could not sleep unless the fire burned low and steady rather than bright and consuming.
I had once believed such familiarity was only the consequence of the Falcrest twins having grown up sharing everything, even instincts that did not belong to them.
Now, that belief felt thin, fragile, and disturbingly insufficient.
Jasper sat across from me with the ease of someone who had long ago stopped asking permission for presence. His gaze remained fixed upon my face, steady and unblinking, not invasive in the way of curiosity but deliberate in the way of recognition.
“You have been different since yesterday,” he said at last.
I wrote slowly, as though the steadiness of my hand might convince both of us that nothing had changed.
I am to be wed in six days. Brides are allowed unease.
A faint curve touched his mouth, though it carried no warmth.
“Are you?” he asked.
I looked up at him then.
The air between us shifted, not dramatically, but in a way that felt like something quietly turning its head.
He leaned forward slightly, voice lowering as though the walls themselves might remember what he said.
“Are you truly going to be wed, Lysandra?”
The question struck deeper than it should have, pressing against something unspoken that had already begun to fracture.
Before I could answer, sunlight caught upon his right hand where it rested loosely against his knee, and the sight of the ring made my breath catch without warning.
Black onyx set in silver, carved in an old wolf-mark design used in northern territories to signify oath-bound secrecy.
I knew that ring.
Not from council halls or Falcrest ceremonies beneath torchlight, but from a place far quieter and far more intimate, a lakeside manor hidden beyond the western pines where I had once been kept during a fever that blurred memory and reality until they became indistinguishable.
I remembered rain against stone.
I remembered a voice speaking low beside me through the night.
I remembered being held as though my body mattered more than the illness consuming it.
I remembered my fingers curling weakly around cold metal pressed against my palm, as though I had been anchoring myself to something I could not name.
At the time, I had believed it was Elyon.
But Elyon wore gold.
Jasper wore black onyx.
His gaze followed mine almost imperceptibly, and for the briefest moment his hand closed, as though instinct alone told him to hide what could no longer be hidden.
It was already too late.
The door opened again before anything could be said.
Adrielle entered without announcement, her presence filling the chamber as though she had been invited by fate rather than courtesy. She wore pale rose silk that moved softly around her frame, and upon her hair lay a veil of black pearls that caught the morning light with a muted, mournful glow.
My breath caught.
I knew that veil.
It had been recovered from my mother’s belongings after the rogue attack, the last relic of her I had been allowed to keep, returned to me by Elyon as though it were a gesture of mercy rather than memory.
Adrielle touched the pearls with gentle reverence that felt practiced rather than sincere.
“I hope you do not mind,” she said lightly, her voice carrying the kind of softness that never needed to raise itself to command attention. “Elyon said I could borrow it for the rehearsal. He believes it complements my voice.”
My fingers tightened around the slate until the edges pressed into my skin.
Elyon glanced briefly at me. “It is only for the ceremony,” he said, his tone dismissive in the way one might soothe a passing complaint. “Do not be difficult.”
Difficult.
As though grief over my mother’s veil resting upon another woman’s head was an inconvenience rather than memory being stripped away in plain sight.
Adrielle stepped closer, her smile widening slightly as she spoke again, her voice soft enough that it might have been mistaken for kindness by anyone who did not know how carefully cruelty could be disguised.
“You have always been generous with me, Lysandra,” she said. “Your songs, your time, even your name when it suited me to borrow it. I trust you will not mind one small veil.”
The way she said my name was almost affectionate, but there was calculation beneath it, a deliberate touch against something she knew would not remain still.
Elyon turned away from both of us. “Go downstairs,” he instructed her. “I will join you shortly.”
Adrielle lingered for a moment longer. “You promised to go over the Nyxaria contract with me,” she added, as though the words had slipped out by accident.
The room shifted.
Silence fell in a way that felt almost physical.
Elyon’s gaze sharpened instantly.
Adrielle laughed lightly, quick and false. “The performance contract,” she corrected herself. “I am nervous. I keep mixing my words.”
She left soon after, though the air she left behind remained unsettled, as though something invisible had already begun to rot.
Elyon turned back to me once she was gone, his expression smoothing itself into something composed once more.
“Rest,” he said. “Tomorrow will require your presence.”
He left without waiting for my response.
Only when his footsteps faded completely did I rise.
The study was located on the upper floor behind a door of carved walnut reinforced with old lunar wards that responded only to bloodline resonance and inherited permission. Long ago, Elyon had allowed me access under the pretense of trust, though I had often wondered whether it had ever truly been trust at all, or simply certainty that I would never dare to betray him.
The wards parted beneath my touch.
Inside, the room was still, lined with scrolls of treaties, lineage records, and sealed contracts bearing the Falcrest crest. I moved quietly toward the desk, opening the second drawer with hands that refused to tremble despite the weight in my chest.
What I found inside was not a wedding agreement.
It was a transfer of name, voice, and inheritance.
Every composition tied to Nyxaria, every song I had ever created beneath that hidden identity, and every future work that might ever be born from it, was being legally bound to Adrielle Veyra after the mating ceremony.
My signature line was already prepared.
So was the authorization seal for my mother’s continued treatment, attached beneath it like a threat disguised as necessity.
If I signed, my voice would no longer belong to me.
If I refused, my mother would become leverage in ways no wolf should ever be forced to imagine.
My breath steadied by force alone.
Then footsteps echoed beyond the corridor.
I barely had time to move before the study door opened.
Elyon entered first, followed closely by Jasper.
Their conversation carried into the room before either of them noticed anything amiss.
“You are moving too quickly,” Jasper said quietly. “Lysandra is not unaware of patterns.”
“She is loyal,” Elyon replied without hesitation, “and loyalty is far easier to control than suspicion.”
“She will notice the Nyxaria transfer.”
“She will sign when she understands what is at stake.”
A pause settled between them.
“And afterward?” Jasper asked.
Elyon’s voice remained calm, almost indifferent.
“Adrielle will become Nyxaria in name before the packs. Lysandra will be kept out of sight until the Corvayne holdings are absorbed.”
Jasper’s tone lowered further. “And if she refuses to remain silent?”
Elyon did not hesitate.
“Then she will be removed.”
The word lingered longer than it should have, not because it was loud, but because it was final.
I pressed a hand over my mouth, forcing stillness into every part of me as I listened to the man I had once believed was my salvation reduce my existence to something disposable.
After they left, I remained hidden until the silence felt safe enough to breathe again.
Back in my chamber, I retrieved the mindstone that had been left beneath my pillow, its surface already faintly warmed as though it had been waiting.
Before I could speak through it, light formed across its surface.
If you wish your mother to remain among the living, stop trusting the Alpha who calls you his future Luna.
My heart tightened.
Who are you?
The reply arrived without delay.
Draven Nightbane.
The name alone carried weight enough to shift something in the air around me.
Alpha Draven Nightbane ruled the western borderlands where the pines grew dark and the rivers ran like iron, a territory spoken of in half-whispers even among elder wolves. The Falcrest house called him a rival. Others called him worse things when they thought the wind would not carry it.
I held the stone tighter.
Why are you watching me?
The answer came last, quieter than the rest, yet heavier than anything I had read before.
Because I know who Nyxaria is, Lysandra Corvayne.
A pause followed, long enough that I almost believed it was finished.
Then another line appeared.
And because I have been waiting for the moment you remember that your voice was never truly lost.
