The assassination attempt changed everything.
For three days, the Academy buzzed with rumors. No one dared approach Lyra directly, but she could feel the shift in their stares—from mockery to wary curiosity. Whispers followed her through the stone corridors, not of derision, but fear. Someone had tried to kill her. And Kael had killed for her.
Kael had bled for her.
The memory replayed in her mind endlessly—the glint of the dagger, the blur of movement, Kael's snarl as he tore into the attacker like a storm unleashed. Blood had sprayed across the training grounds, hot and bright. And Lyra had stood frozen, eyes wide, unable to scream.
Now, her world was different.
She sat in her room, the moonlight creeping through the barred windows. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the faint, darkened bruise on her wrist where Kael had grabbed her during the attack. She wasn't sure if the pressure of his grip had hurt more—or the way his voice had trembled when he'd shouted her name.
"You're not allowed to die," he had growled after the chaos, eyes wild. "Not without my permission."
Not exactly comforting.
A knock echoed at her door. She flinched.
"Lyra," a soft voice called. It was Marella, the only student who didn't seem to hate her. "Training's cancelled. Headmistress says everyone's on high alert."
Lyra opened the door slowly. Marella's usually cheerful expression was etched with concern. "They think the assassin was from inside the Academy," she whispered. "A student. Maybe even one of the guards."
Lyra swallowed. "But why would anyone want me dead?"
Marella hesitated. "You were marked by the enemy Alpha, forced into his court, and somehow survived what should've killed you a dozen times. You don't belong anywhere, Lyra. That makes you dangerous."
Dangerous. She didn't feel dangerous. She felt… lost.
Later that evening, Kael summoned her.
The guards brought her to the war chamber—dimly lit, heavy with the scent of firewood and steel. Kael stood near the window, his profile carved in shadows, arms crossed.
"You're still alive," he said without turning. "I suppose that's something."
She stepped forward warily. "You saved me."
He looked at her then, sharply. "Don't mistake it for affection."
"I didn't," she snapped, too tired for his usual games. "But someone tried to kill me. Doesn't that matter to you?"
"It matters," he said, voice cold. "Because your death would weaken our bond. And I don't like weakness."
His words hit like a slap.
"Is that all I am to you?" she asked, bitterness rising. "A bond to protect? A leash you didn't ask for but now refuse to let go?"
He moved toward her, slow and deliberate. "You don't understand the enemies circling this court. You're not safe, not even here. Especially not here."
"Then why keep me here?" she challenged, backing away. "Why force this bond if it only makes things worse?"
He stopped inches from her, the heat of his body making her skin prickle. His eyes—burning silver—searched her face.
"Because you're mine," he said quietly. "And I don't share what's mine."
She couldn't breathe. The silence stretched between them, thick with unsaid truths. And then, just as quickly, he turned away.
"You'll be moved to the eastern wing. More guards. No more wandering the grounds alone."
"And what about the assassin?" she asked.
He hesitated.
"We found nothing," he admitted. "No scent, no trace of magic. They knew what they were doing."
That was the most terrifying part.
Later that night, Lyra couldn't sleep. Her mind spun with suspicion. The Academy was a fortress—only wolves loyal to the crown were allowed entry. Which meant whoever had attacked her wasn't just any outsider.
They were one of them.
She wandered the dark hallways, careful not to draw attention. Her feet carried her toward the training grounds, now silent and shadowed. Blood still stained the sand. She knelt near the spot where Kael had landed the killing blow.
A glint caught her eye.
She reached into the dirt and pulled something out—a broken shard of obsidian, small but unnaturally warm. The scent clinging to it wasn't just wolf.
It was laced with witchcraft.
Before she could analyze it further, a figure emerged from the shadows behind her.
"You're not supposed to be here."
Lyra spun, heart slamming against her ribs. It was Thorne—Kael's Beta.
He approached slowly, eyes narrowed. "Searching for answers? Or trouble?"
"Is there a difference in this place?" she retorted, tucking the shard into her pocket.
Thorne gave a cold smile. "You think you're clever. But clever girls die faster here."
She held her ground. "Do you think I should've died that day?"
He didn't answer.
But as he walked away, he added, "Keep digging, Lyra. See what claws you find."
---
The next morning, Kael summoned her again—but not to scold. To interrogate.
"Someone else died last night," he said grimly. "A young omega. Poisoned. Quietly."
Lyra's blood turned to ice.
"We're being hunted," Kael murmured, almost to himself. "And whoever's behind it wants the court to crumble from within."
She looked at him then—really looked at him. Beneath the sharp armor, the cruel tone, he looked… tired. Worn.
"You're scared," she said softly.
His gaze snapped to hers, hard and unyielding. "I don't fear anything."
"Not even the bond?" she whispered. "Not even me?"
He didn't answer. But the way his jaw tightened said everything.
Something was breaking in him.
And maybe… something was awakening in her too.
Because for the first time, Lyra didn't just feel like a prisoner. Or a pawn.
She felt like a storm, waiting.
Waiting to rise.
She felt like a storm, waiting.
Waiting to rise.
Kael turned away from her, but she noticed it—the subtle twitch of his hand, the way his shoulders were too stiff, as if restraining something volatile. He wasn't as in control as he wanted her to believe.
"You should return to your chambers," he said, his voice clipped. "There's a curfew now."
Lyra stayed rooted. "You said someone else died. An omega. Do you know who?"
He glanced over his shoulder. "Talia. She worked in the kitchens. Quiet. Obedient. No enemies."
Lyra's heart squeezed. "Did she... did she know me?"
"She served you once," he replied. "The night after your punishment."
Lyra remembered. A shy girl with nervous hands who had left extra bread on her plate without saying a word. She had smiled at Lyra, just once.
Now she was dead.
"This is my fault," Lyra whispered.
"No," Kael said sharply, facing her fully now. "This is not your fault. It's mine."
She blinked. "What?"
He stepped toward her, his voice low. "Every time I choose to protect you, someone else dies. They think you're a threat to our world. They want you erased before the bond becomes... permanent."
Her breath caught. Permanent?
"What does that mean?" she asked.
Kael's eyes darkened. "If the bond seals itself—if it completes—it becomes irreversible. You and I will be connected in ways no spell can undo."
She shook her head. "But it wasn't supposed to be permanent. You marked me to save my life."
"And I've been paying for it ever since," he growled.
The words stung, but beneath them was something deeper—fear. Regret. Maybe even guilt.
"But you still protect me," she said quietly.
He didn't answer, but the air between them pulsed with unspoken truths. Lyra's mark burned faintly on her skin, as if reacting to his nearness. She suddenly realized how silent the room had become—how heavy the air was.
"I found something last night," she confessed.
Kael's eyes narrowed. "Where?"
"Training grounds. A shard of obsidian. It smelled... wrong. Like witchcraft."
He stiffened. "Let me see it."
Lyra hesitated, then reached into her pocket and handed it to him. His hand brushed hers, and a jolt of heat shot up her arm. He examined the shard closely, nostrils flaring.
"This isn't just witchcraft," he murmured. "It's blood-forged. Black magic. Forbidden even in the eastern covens."
A chill ran down her spine. "What does it mean?"
Kael's gaze flicked to her, and for once, there was no mask. Only fear. Real fear.
"It means this isn't just politics anymore. Someone is using dark magic inside my walls." He clenched the shard. "This is a declaration of war."
Suddenly, the door burst open. Thorne strode in, his face grim.
"We have a problem," he said. "Another student is missing. And one of the guards—Rokai—was found dead in the eastern courtyard. Throat torn out. No scent. No trace."
Kael swore under his breath.
"Who's missing?" Lyra asked.
Thorne hesitated. "Marella."
The floor seemed to shift beneath her.
"No," Lyra said, heart pounding. "She came to see me yesterday. She was worried."
"She's gone now," Thorne said flatly. "And the last person she spoke to... was you."
Lyra stepped back, stunned.
Kael's voice dropped to a snarl. "No one touches her. I want her watched—closely. Anyone so much as breathes near her wrong, they answer to me."
Thorne's jaw tightened but nodded. "Understood."
Lyra's hands curled into fists. "This isn't fair."
"Nothing about this world is fair," Kael said, stepping closer again. "But you need to decide if you're going to keep running from it... or fight."
She looked up at him, pulse racing. "I don't know how to fight like you."
"Then learn," he said, his voice softer now. "Because if this war is coming, you'll need more than survival instincts. You'll need rage."
He paused.
"You'll need your wolf."
That cut deep. Her wolf. Still silent. Still lost.
Lyra turned away, fury and helplessness burning in her chest.
But as she walked out of the war chamber, her vision shimmered. Just for a second, the world blurred—and in her mind, she heard it.
A low growl. Ancient. Feminine. Fierce.
Not a sound from outside.
But from within.
She stumbled, catching herself on the wall.
Her wolf was stirring.
At last.