Moonlight streamed through the broken panes of stained glass, painting fractured patterns on the cold marble floor of the Shadow Court's inner chamber. The silence was heavy, reverent. It was not a place for prayer but for decisions decisions that reshaped kingdoms and silenced kings.
Lyra knelt at the center of the crescent-shaped floor, her black cloak pooling around her. Her dual blades lay before her like an offering. She did not tremble. She never did.
A figure stepped from the shadows. High Chancellor Verris, robed in crimson, his hawk-like eyes narrowing.
"You've completed your last assignment. Silently, swiftly. Impressive as always."
Lyra said nothing. Praise was irrelevant. Only the next mission mattered.
He circled her slowly, the hem of his cloak whispering across the stone. "Your next target has been decided."
Another figure emerged. The shadows shifted. The Grand Mistress herself appeared, cloaked in living shadow, her voice as smooth and cold as a winter stream.
"Alpha Draven Varkas."
Silence followed. Then—
"The Butcher of Blackfen?" Lyra's voice was low, almost amused.
"The same. Ruthless. Cunning. Untouchable. Until now."
Lyra's lips twitched. A challenge.
"He rules the Northern Packs with an iron fist."
"And a blood-stained throne," Verris added.
Lyra's gaze flickered upward. "Assassination or infiltration?"
"Both," the Grand Mistress answered. "You are to pose as a political emissary from the neutral southern clans. Gain his trust. Find his weaknesses. Then... strike."
A scroll slid across the floor toward her. Lyra picked it up. A seal marked with black wax and a blood-red insignia: a wolf's fang through a rose.
"You have one month."
A beat of silence passed. Then she rose to her feet, scroll in hand.
"Consider it done."
Two nights later, Lyra stood at the edge of the Northern Wastes, the howling wind tugging at her hood. Before her, the fortress of Ironfang Keep rose like a dagger against the moonlit sky. Its spires were jagged, its walls as black as the legends surrounding it.
She adjusted the dagger hidden beneath her sleeve and strode forward.
Inside the keep, torches flickered against stone walls. Warriors moved like ghosts, silent and deadly, their eyes flickering with suspicion.
Lyra was led to the great hall, where a throne of blackened bone and obsidian awaited. Upon it sat a man draped in a mantle of wolf fur, his eyes like silver fire.
Draven Varkas.
Alpha. Warlord. Target.
His gaze met hers the moment she entered, and something shifted. The air cracked—an unseen lightning bolt.
Lyra's breath caught.
So did his.
She bowed low, every movement measured. "Lyra of the Southern Clans. I bring a proposal of peace."
Draven stood, his presence a storm.
"Peace? Or poison in silk?"
Her lips curled slightly. "Sometimes, Alpha, they are the same."
A pause.
Then he smiled.
A dangerous, devastating smile.
"Interesting."
That night, Lyra stood at her assigned quarters, unrolling the scroll. Inside were maps, coded phrases, and a sketch of the Alpha's inner circle. Her mission was clear: get close. Find the moment. End him.
But the memory of his eyes lingered.
Silver. Piercing. Familiar.
No. It was a trick. A distraction.
She was Shadow Court. Heartless. Ruthless.
She would not fall for her mark.
And yet, as the moon climbed higher, she couldn't shake the weight of his gaze.
Something about Draven Varkas was different.
And she had a feeling this mission was the beginn
ing of something far more dangerous than a kill order.
Something that could destroy them both.