Chapter Five: performances and promises

Lyra

They told her the Council wouldn’t come until midday.

They lied.

By dawn, riders dressed in ceremonial black were already inside the keep, trailing the scent of smoke, blood, and ancient law. Their power pushed against her skin like cold steel, pressing in at her throat, demanding submission.

She didn’t bow.

She never would.

But even standing straight-backed beside Ronan in the great hall, every instinct in her screamed. Run. Burn. Shift.

“Stand down,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

She glanced at him—tall, composed, every inch the powerful, dominant Alpha he was born to be. He didn’t touch her, but his presence blanketed hers like armor.

Her magic simmered, unsettled.

“I don’t like being paraded,” she said under her breath.

“It’s this or interrogation chambers,” he replied. “Pick your poison.”

From the dais, a Council envoy stepped forward. A woman this time—tall, silver-haired, eyes the color of frostbite. Cold and unblinking.

“You say the bond is real,” she said. “But we don’t smell it.”

Lyra’s heart skipped. Her magic surged.

“She’s not fully shifted,” Ronan said evenly. “The bond is unstable while her blood remains divided.”

The envoy raised a brow. “Convenient.”

Lyra forced a smile, all teeth. “Or true.”

The envoy stepped closer. Too close. She circled Lyra like a predator.

“If the bond is real, you will show it,” she said. “Now.”

Lyra’s stomach dropped. “What do you mean?”

The woman smiled—cruel, ancient, amused.

“Prove your claim. Touch. Mark. Show us what mates look like when no one is watching.”

The room went silent.

Even Ronan stilled.

Lyra’s voice was ice. “This is coercion.”

“This is survival,” the envoy replied. “You walk free only by our tolerance.”

She looked at Ronan. “You said she’s yours. Now act like it.”

⸻

Ronan

He wanted to tear the envoy’s throat out.

But he couldn’t.

He had to play it carefully. Coldly. The Council didn’t make demands—they set traps.

And this was a big one.

“Lyra—” he started.

But she was already stepping forward.

“I’ll do it,” she said, head high, voice razor-sharp. “But if you want a performance, you better be ready for a show.”

Ronan’s heart thudded once, hard.

She was fire and fury, standing there in front of them all—braver than anyone realized. And gods help him, he wanted her. Every breath, every glare, every inch of her defiance.

She turned to him. “Let’s get this over with.”

He didn’t move right away.

Then he stepped close. Closed the space between them until their breath mingled and the bond howled under his skin.

He tilted her chin up. Her eyes narrowed—part hatred, part challenge.

“You sure?” he murmured, only for her.

She swallowed. “Make it look real.”

So he did.

He kissed her.

But not like in the dream.

This was raw. Open-mouthed. Devouring. Their bodies locked together with a force that burned through the falsehood.

She tasted like smoke and rain.

Her hands fisted in his shirt, and a low, desperate sound escaped her throat—a noise neither of them expected.

She melted for half a second.

Then bit his lip.

Hard.

He growled against her mouth, fire blooming in his chest, in his groin, in the bond.

When they pulled apart, panting, flushed, magic crackling in the air, the envoy was smiling.

“Much better,” she said. “Let’s hope it wasn’t just for show.”

⸻

Lyra

Her lips still tingled.

Her heart beat like it wanted out of her chest.

The kiss was supposed to be fake.

But it wasn’t.

She felt it. In her magic. In her wolf.

It had surged forward in the moment, stretching against her skin, trying to claw its way out and toward him. A full shift hovered dangerously close, barely leashed.

She hated how much she liked the way his hands felt on her waist.

Hated that she still wanted more.

The envoy finally turned away, satisfied for now.

But Lyra couldn’t stop shaking.

“You didn’t have to kiss me like that,” she snapped once they were alone in the corridor.

Ronan gave her a look that burned. “You said make it real.”

“I didn’t mean—” She stopped. Her voice failed her.

“You didn’t mean to enjoy it?” he asked, stepping closer. “Or you didn’t mean to want more?”

She shoved him back—magic sparking. “Don’t twist this.”

“I’m not the one lying to myself.”

He moved past her. “Come. There’s something you need to see.”

⸻

Ronan

He led her down into the lower halls. Older than the rest of the keep. Carved from dark stone, thick with memory and blood.

They stopped at a heavy iron door.

He opened it.

Inside: a chamber lit with pale flame. At the center, a mirror covered with runes. Ancestral. Dangerous.

“What is this?” she asked, suspicious.

“The mirror shows lineage,” he said. “And truth.”

She frowned. “Why bring me here?”

He turned to her. “Because someone in the Council knows you. Someone from your past. And they’ve started asking questions.”

Her spine went stiff. “What kind of questions?”

“About your mother. Your bloodline. Your shift.”

Lyra’s lips pressed into a tight line.

Ronan stepped closer. “Tell me what they’re looking for.”

“I don’t know,” she said too quickly.

He raised a brow.

She looked away. “I don’t.”

“You trust me enough to kiss me in front of them,” he said quietly. “But not enough to tell me the truth?”

“That wasn’t trust. That was survival.”

“Same thing, sometimes.”

She turned back to the mirror. “I can’t give you what I don’t understand.”

He watched her. “Then let’s find out together.”

⸻

Lyra

She stood in front of the mirror.

And it began to glow.

Images flickered. A silver wolf, howling in the dark. A woman cloaked in flame. A child with eyes too ancient for her face.

Then—a symbol.

Carved into her mother’s necklace.

A crescent split by a dagger.

She gasped.

“You know it,” Ronan said.

“Yes,” she whispered. “It was my mother’s crest.”

The mirror pulsed.

And then—a flash of something darker. Twisted.

A second symbol burned behind her own.

One Ronan hadn’t seen before.

But Lyra had.

She just didn’t know how to explain it.

Not yet.