My claws extend fully, wolf and angel blood surging together as I coil to spring.
“Three.”
We hit the guard wall like a hurricane.
Chapter 32
Lyanna - Earlier that morning
The enchanted bath water stings against my skin. Not just heat—it’s magic, invasive and probing, seeping into my pores with intent. The purification elements burn like antiseptic on an open wound, designed to cleanse me of existing bonds.
Including Callum’s.
Callum.I reach down the bond instinctively, a pulse of warning and reassurance.I’m still here. They’re trying to sever us, but I’m still here.
I keep my face carefully neutral as the attendants work. Six of them surround the marble bath, their movements impersonal and efficient as they perform a ritual, centuries older than any of us. Their hands pour oils, scatter petals, murmur incantations—preparing me like a vessel to be filled with someone else’s claim.
“The blessing of Luminaeth upon this union,” one murmurs, sprinkling silver-flecked water across my shoulders.
I close my eyes, using the moment to extend my senses through the water itself. The purification magic carries traces of every enchantment it’s meant to cleanse—I can feel it probing for the connection to Callum, seeking the threads of our bond like searching fingers. It finds nothing substantial enough to sever. The bond wasn’t complete when they took me, but what exists between us runs deeper than their ritual cleansing can reach.
Faelan’s corruption signature is stronger this morning—a sour note beneath the floral steam. The palace wards amplify his presence, his magical influence threaded through the very stone. He’s close.
“Lean back, Lady Silverthorne,” an attendant instructs. I comply mechanically, tilting my head as they wash my hair with scented oils meant to enhance fae glamour.
While they work, I count breaths between guard movements outside, memorizing the pattern. One hundred and twenty-three between position checks. Window wards shimmer with morning light—weakest at the edges where newer enchantments meet ancient stone.
“The union brings peace to the realms,” another attendant intones, her voice melodic and empty of true feeling.
I meet her eyes briefly, maintaining my diplomatic mask. She doesn’t believe the words any more than I do, but we both perform our assigned roles in this ancient dance of politics disguised as tradition.
The ritual bath concludes, and attendants help me rise from the water. As they dry me with enchanted cloths that tingle against my skin, I keep my breathing controlled, my expression serene.
The thrum in my chest remains quiet but steady. Callum is far away, but his determination reaches me like a distant heartbeat. The connection should have been severed by the enchanted bath, but it persists. That tells me something important about its true nature.
They move me to a smaller dressing chamber adjacent to the bath—a room of mirrors and marble pedestals displaying ceremonial accessories. Not the same room as my sleeping quarters. Different layout, different ward patterns. The jewelry cases on the far wall stand empty, waiting to be filled.
The first layer of silk slides over my damp skin, cool and impossibly light. I stand motionless as the attendants work in synchronized patterns around me—one adjusting clasps at my shoulders, another arranging the fall of fabric along my spine.
The magic woven into each layer presses against my skin like a second pulse—binding spells that feel like tiny hooks seeking purchase in my essence. I can sense their purpose: to make me receptive, malleable, connected to someone else’s claiming.
While they fold and pin and arrange, my mind races through every piece of this deadly puzzle. Caelynn’s face flashes in my memory—her confident smile the last time we spoke, her eyes bright with purpose. Dead now. Murdered specifically to create this vacancy I’m filling.
But why?The question burns through my thoughts. If Faelan wanted my healing abilities, why not simply abduct me? Whyengineer this elaborate marriage to a dragon prince? What does binding me through ceremonial magic accomplish that direct control wouldn’t?
“The sleeves must hang precisely so,” murmurs an attendant, her focus on intricate beadwork that catches the light like captured stars.
The sour taste of Faelan’s magic taints every breath. He’s here somewhere. Watching, waiting. But wearing whose face?
Another layer goes on—heavier this time, the fabric stiff with embroidered silver thread that forms patterns I recognize from ancient texts. Binding sigils. Protection wards turned inward to contain rather than defend.
“The enchantment patterns are particularly complex today,” one attendant murmurs to another, securing a belt of woven moonstone at my waist. “Full binding rather than just symbolic alignment.”
Full binding. The words send ice through my veins. These aren’t just ceremonial symbols—they’re actual magical restraints, designed to channel and redirect my power once activated.
The magic presses deeper with each added layer, seeking connection with my core. What happens to my healing abilities once these bindings activate? Will my power be channeled elsewhere? Redirected? The ceremony has seven key invocation moments—each must build upon the previous to complete the binding.
Two attendants discuss timing in hushed tones. “Three hours until the binding magic activates.”
