Chapter 18
Lyanna
The communication crystal on my desk flares to life, pulsing silver-blue—a recorded message waiting to be played. I freeze mid-sentence, my hand stilling over the investigation notes Callum and I were reviewing.
“It’s from my father,” I say, recognizing his magical signature before I even activate it. The energy patterns are achingly familiar—the way they curl and shimmer has always reminded me of summer storms back home.
I touch the crystal, and a shimmering projection rises from its surface. My father’s image materializes in the air between us, translucent but detailed enough that I can see the strain around his eyes, the rigid set of his shoulders.
“Lyanna.” My father’s voice fills the cabin, formal and resonant with fae authority that expects obedience. Yet beneath it, I hear something that cuts deeper—raw grief edging his words. “The Council expects confirmation of your departure within five days. The binding ceremony takes place in seven.”
Five days. He’s cutting my time in half.
I flatten my hands against the table’s rough wood as his words continue, each one landing like a physical blow.
“Your sister’s memory demands this sacrifice.” His voice catches slightly on Caelynn’s name—a fracture in his perfect composure that no one else would notice. But I’ve known that voice my entire life. “The realms stand at the precipice of war. The bloodshed that would follow ... thousands of lives rest on this alliance.”
I feel Callum’s solid presence behind me, a warm anchor as my father’s words wash over me. He doesn’t touch me—he understands I can’t acknowledge him while the message plays—but I feel his protective energy radiating toward me.
“House Silverthorne has always placed duty above personal desire.” My father’s voice grows more formal, but the strain beneath it becomes more pronounced. “This is what she was prepared for. This is what you must now do in her place.”
The crystal pulses brighter when he speaks of duty, the color shifting subtly with his emotions. His magic reveals what his words never would.
“Our family has served the realm for thirteen generations,” he continues, and now I hear it clearly—the desperate edge beneath the formal cadence. “Remember your oaths, Lyanna. Remember what your mother would have expected of you.”
My breath catches at the mention of my mother. He never speaks of her.
“Come home.” For just a moment, his voice breaks, the formal facade cracking. “Caelynn would have done her duty. Do not dishonor her memory with defiance.”
The crystal’s light fades slowly, silver-blue energy dispersing into the air like mist. Silence fills the cabin.
Before I can fully process my father’s message, the communication crystal flares again. This time, it emits a rolling scroll of fae script that unfurls in the air between us, glowing with binding enchantment. The silvery-blue lines shimmer with arcane authority—formal contract magic that thrums with power.
I force myself to read it with clinical detachment, the way I’d examine a complex magical wound. Not as my life being decided, but as a case requiring objective analysis.
“Prince Korren of House Drakon, Third Bloodline of the Eternal Flame,” the script begins, detailing his lineage back fourteen generations. Each achievement and power manifestation is meticulously documented—flame mastery at age six, battle honors against the Void Wraiths, diplomatic missions to seven realms.
My fingers hover in the air, not quite touching the glowing text. The script continues relentlessly, scrolling to my own bloodline assessment. House Silverthorne’s healing legacy, my mother’s rare harmonizing abilities, my own cross-species healing talents—all catalogued like breeding potential.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to continue reading.
The ceremony requirements appear next: the traditional blood oaths, magical binding rituals, political vows that will tie me permanently to Drakorian court. Seven key invocation moments—the invocation, oath seal, energy binding, judgment call, decree, final chant, and ascension flare. Each must build upon the previous to complete the binding. Each requirementglows with enchantment—these aren’t suggestions or guidelines. They’re magical imperatives.
Someone is pushing him to accelerate this, to pressure me into early compliance before I have time to think, to investigate, to find another way. The manipulation goes deeper than I thought.
I read the diplomatic consequences section twice. Without this marriage alliance, the treaty collapses. Without the treaty, war between realms becomes inevitable. Death tolls are estimated in thousands.
Behind me, I sense Callum’s controlled stillness. He’s moved closer but remains deliberately separated, giving me space to process this assault of information. The air between us feels charged with everything we’re not saying.
The contract concludes with ritual language about honor, duty, and realm stability. The glowing script finally dissolves, motes of binding magic floating in the air before dissipating entirely.
I turn to look at Callum.
One breath. Two. Keep the mask in place.
My hands betray me first. They begin to tremble against the table’s surface, fingers curling against the rough wood as if seeking purchase in a world suddenly tilting beneath me.
“Lyanna.” Callum is beside me in an instant, strong arms pulling me against his chest. His heartbeat thunders against my ear, steady and certain, while mine flutters like trapped birds.
