The summons came wrapped in silk.
That alone made it feel wrong.
Lyra unrolled the scroll with care, fingers cold despite the room's heat. The ribbon slipped to the floor, soft and red as a vein freshly opened.
Come to the southern wing. Alone. No guards. No weapons.— Dorian
No signature. No title.
Just a name that stank of command.
She read it three times. Then she burned it in the corner of a candle flame, watching the edges curl, blacken, vanish.
Still, the words clung to her skin.
The southern wing was quiet.
Deceptively so.
No soldiers. No guards. Just velvet drapes lining the corridor, the scent of wine and smoke curling from behind a set of wide double doors.
Her heart beat harder with each step. Not out of fear.
Out of fury.
The door creaked open with the pressure of her hand.
Dorian stood at the far end of the chamber, facing the fire. His posture was rigid, hands clasped behind his back like he was giving a eulogy—or preparing for one.
He didn't turn.
"I expected you sooner," he said.
"I considered not coming," she replied. "But then I remembered what you do when someone disobeys you."
A dry chuckle.
Still facing the fire.
"What do you want, Dorian?"
He turned slowly.
His hair was pulled back tight, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw. His jacket was open. Shirt crisp. Polished. Controlled.
Everything about him was curated.
But his eyes…
His eyes were boiling.
"You've disrupted the hierarchy," he said. "Pitted us against one another. Made a fool of the Pact we've upheld for generations."
"And?"
"You think that makes you clever?" His voice dropped, thick with disdain. "You were brought here to breed. To bind. Not to barter and flirt and act like you're one of us."
Lyra smiled coldly. "You think I don't see the way you all look at me? Like I'm a weapon one second and prey the next?"
"I see you for exactly what you are."
He stepped forward—slow at first.
"You're a bitch in heat playing queen."
She tensed.
He moved faster than she anticipated—his hand snapping out, grabbing her wrist, dragging her into the center of the room before she could dodge.
She stumbled once.
Only once.
He shoved her against the wall.
Her spine cracked against the stone.
Still, she didn't cry out.
He leaned in, breath hot against her face, the scent of wine and rot thick between them.
"I'm going to remind you what you were brought here for."
Her stomach flipped.
"Don't you dare."
"You were chosen. Not for your clever tongue. Not for your defiance." His hand slid lower, brushing the side of her thigh. "But for your womb."
Lyra snarled, twisting violently—but his grip was tight. Controlling. He was trying to make her panic. Trying to shrink her.
It wouldn't work.
He shoved her backward, and this time she hit the edge of the low banquet table by the fire. It cracked under her weight.
Glass shattered.
Scrolls tumbled.
She scrambled upright, but he was on her again, grabbing the front of her shift.
"Let's not pretend this hasn't been coming," he growled, yanking the fabric down. "You walk through this compound like you're untouchable. Like we don't own you."
She spat in his face.
He reeled back, surprised.
Then slapped her across the mouth.
The sound cracked like a whip.
She tasted blood immediately.
He grabbed her again.
Her shoulder ached. Her mouth throbbed. She kicked, hard, catching his shin—he grunted, stumbled, then slapped her again, harder.
Her ears rang.
She twisted, desperate to break free—but he forced her down across the table, one hand fumbling at his belt.
She screamed.
Not for help.
For rage.
The mark on her shoulder flared red-hot, and she raked her nails across his face.
He shouted in pain.
"You will submit!"
The door burst open.
Lucien didn't enter. He exploded into the room.
Dorian didn't even have time to turn fully before Lucien's fist collided with his jaw—once, twice, three times in rapid succession. Blood spattered across the hearthstones. Dorian hit the floor hard, wheezing, already bleeding from the mouth.
Lucien didn't stop.
He straddled him, grabbed the collar of his coat, and slammed his head into the floor.
"You touch her—" Lucien's voice was raw, unrecognizable "—and you die. Do you hear me?"
Dorian gurgled a response, too stunned to answer.
Lucien raised his fist again—
"Lucien!" Silas.
He appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed, horrified.
"Stop," Silas breathed. "You'll kill him."
"Good."
Lucien reared back.
But Lyra's voice cut the air like a blade.
"Let him."
Everyone froze.
She stood at the edge of the table, blood dripping from her lip, the torn front of her shift barely covering her collarbone.
Her fists were clenched.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly.
She looked like a goddess summoned from ash and flame.
Lucien stared at her—then slowly released Dorian's collar.
The Alpha lay in a pile of his own blood and glass.
Silas moved toward Lyra.
"Don't." Her voice was sharp. Shaking. "Don't come near me."
He stopped.
"I didn't know—"
"You all knew," she whispered, voice shaking now. "You knew he hated me. You knew he was losing control."
"I would've never let this happen—"
"But you did," she said, turning to Lucien now. "You left me. All of you left me in a den of wolves and told me to smile."
Silas stepped forward, arms slightly raised. "Let us help—"
"You want to help?" she snapped. "Tell me what part of me is still mine."
Neither answered.
Lucien's hands were still bloodied. His breath still fast.
He took a step toward her.
"Don't," she said. "Don't touch me. I can still feel him on me."
Lucien froze mid-step.
Silas hung his head.
"I'll have him locked down," Silas whispered.
"No," she said. "Let him crawl. Let him feel what it's like to be nothing."
And then she turned her back on them.
Her shoulders shook—but she didn't cry.
She walked to the door like she was holding her entire body together with willpower alone.
And before she stepped through it, she spoke one last time.
"If one more of you lays a hand on me without permission…" She looked over her shoulder, eyes glittering with rage. "I swear by whatever gods still listen—I will gut you with my bare hands."
Then she was gone.
And the mark on her shoulder?
It burned black.
🖤 Mini-Scene: Something in Her Snapped
She didn't run.
She didn't cry.
She walked—silent, steady—through the stone halls like a ghost with bones made of steel. The corridor was empty. No one stopped her. No one dared.
She reached her room and closed the door with care. Not a slam. Not a lock.
Just… stillness.
Then she stood in the center of the room, fists trembling, the blood from her mouth now dry on her chin. Her breath was shallow. Her pulse thundered.
But she didn't collapse.
Instead, she moved to the mirror.
Unfastened the remnants of her torn shift.
Let it fall to the floor.
She looked at her body the way someone might examine a battlefield after the war.
Scrapes. A bruise blooming purple on her hip. A smear of blood across her collarbone. And the mark—
Burned deep, pulsing not with heat this time…
But with something darker.
Not rage.
Ruin.
She touched it. Winced.
And whispered, "You didn't break me."
To Dorian.
To the Alphas.
To whatever power marked her like prey.
And somewhere in the air, like breath caught on wind, she thought she heard something answer back.
Not a voice.
Not a name.
Just one promise:
Then make them bleed.