Novels by Katy Maverix

LYRAThe battlefield stretched like a wound beneath the sky.The Tribunal’s mountain stronghold loomed ahead—cold and jagged, cloaked in blood-soaked mist. This place wasn’t just defended by magic. It was magic—older than most could remember, carved from bone and shadow.Lyra stood at the edge of the cliff overlooking the approach, wind tangling her hair, steel glinting on her back. Her wolves waited in tense, deadly silence. Some shifted, some clothed, all ready to kill.Ronin stood to her left, the bond humming like a live wire between them.She lifted her sword and pointed forward.“Burn it.”⸻RONANThe charge was chaos.Wolves poured down the slope like a living storm, claws digging deep into frostbitten earth. Arrows flew from both sides. Spells split the sky. The Tribunal had called in every dark favor they had left—wraiths, corrupted shifters, old blood magic that made Ronan’s skin crawl.He didn’t look for Lyra—he felt her. Every strike she landed, every burst of pain when so

LYRAThe camp buzzed like a living thing.Steel sharpened, armor fitted, old grudges aired in low voices under flickering torchlight. Everyone preparing, expecting, waiting.Tomorrow, they’d march. Bleed. Burn.Tonight—was hers.The tent was silent when she stepped inside, but Ronan was already there, leaning over the map table, shirt discarded, muscles tense beneath old scars and fresh strain. The flickering lantern cast him in shadow and gold, and for a moment, she just watched.“You’re brooding,” she said softly.He didn’t look up. “I’m planning.”“You’re worrying.” She moved closer. “And I know the difference.”He turned then—slowly. Eyes burning.“So are you.”⸻RONANShe was radiant in warlight. Wild. Exhausted. Alive.He didn’t reach for her immediately.But the air between them shimmered with need—not just lust, but that gnawing ache only soul-deep things could stir. The kind that whispered: This could be the last.“I don’t want to sleep tonight,” she said, voice lower now, th

LYRAThe scent of iron hit her first.Not the distant tang of training blades or battlefield scars.Fresh blood.Wrong blood.And then—Veira’s voice, sharp and panicked, split the quiet dawn.“LYRA, DOWN!”She dropped instinctively, and the arrow sliced past her cheek, embedding in the post behind her with a thunk that sounded far too final.Poisoned.The black fletching and acrid stench said it all.Someone had just tried to kill her in her own damn war camp.And they almost succeeded.⸻RONANHe was already running.The bond flared hot and wild, not in pain—but in fear.He pushed past startled guards, scenting the air for that slick rot of Tribunal poison, his wolf barely caged beneath his skin.He found her crouched behind the pillar of the war tent, blood on her cheek, sword drawn.Alive.But barely.Her eyes met his, wide and burning.“He was inside the perimeter.”Ronan’s breath caught.Not an outsider.An insider.⸻LYRAShe gave chase before Ronan could stop her.The scent tra

LYRAThey arrived without warning.No drums.No banners.No declaration of war.Just a single, polished black carriage pulled by twin white stags, gliding through the mist like a vision from a cursed fairytale.No guards.No riders.Only a scroll tied in crimson ribbon, placed carefully on the carriage seat, as though it had been meant for her hands all along.The wolves flanked it at a distance, hackles raised.Fane growled low. “It’s a trap.”Veira’s blade gleamed in the morning light. “Or a distraction.”Lyra just stared at it.Because she already knew: it was both.⸻RONANHe watched her approach the carriage, every step measured, every breath silent.The camp held its breath with her.He didn’t stop her—couldn’t.Because this wasn’t just a message from the Tribunal.This was the game they were playing now.Psychological. Elegant. Bloody beneath the silk.He shifted slightly behind her, scenting for poison, for magic, for wrongness.The air was clean.Too clean.That’s when he saw

LYRAThe camp felt quieter after Caelin’s exile.But not safer.Trust had cracked, not shattered—but it left a spiderweb fracture across everything.Miren walked with a limp now. Fane slept with his blade under his pillow. Even Veira, who barely trusted shadows, had taken to standing outside Lyra’s tent at night like a statue carved from suspicion.And Lyra?She tried to rebuild what had been broken.But she couldn’t rebuild blind.That’s why she slipped into Caelin’s tent alone.And found the letters.⸻RONANHe smelled her fury before she stepped out of the canvas.It wasn’t the usual flare of flame that curled in her skin when she was angry. It was cold.Controlled.The kind of rage that could plan assassinations with the same grace she once used to braid her hair.“What did you find?” he asked, falling into step beside her.She didn’t answer. Just handed him one of the notes.Old parchment. Tribunal wax seal.But not addressed to Caelin.Addressed to her.Orders.Threats.A price

LYRAShe didn’t sleep the next night.Not really.Even with Ronan beside her, arms locked tight around her waist like a promise, her body buzzed with the memory of the fire.The thing she’d become in the forest.The lives she’d ended.The power that had felt less like a weapon and more like a second soul.And beneath it all…The truth clawed against her ribs.Someone inside the camp had sent those rogues.They’d gotten past every ward, every sentry.They hadn’t just known where Miren would sleep.They knew when to strike.⸻RONANHe smelled it before she spoke.The shift in her breath.The way she moved her fingers—slow, sharp, precise—as she poured over maps and camp rosters.She was hunting something.“Talk to me,” he said.She didn’t look up. “We have a traitor.”He nodded once.“I’ll find them.”“No,” she said sharply. “We will.”Her eyes locked onto his, molten and unreadable.“Because whoever they are, they didn’t just try to kill Miren.”Her voice dropped.“They tried to destro