Chapter 2 

The Bride the Pack Couldn’t Wait to Lose

By sunrise, the entire village knew.

Nobody said it directly to Lyra’s face, of course.

The Vale pack preferred cruelty filtered through politeness. It helped them pretend they were decent people afterward.

Still, whispers traveled fast in a mountain territory this small.

Especially when the girl being traded away had spent most of her life giving everyone reasons to stare.

The kitchens were already crowded when Lyra arrived that morning.

Steam curled from iron pots. Women moved between tables carrying bread trays and butchered rabbit while half-awake workers stumbled in from dawn patrol.

The room smelled like burnt herbs and wet wool.

Normally, nobody paid much attention to her.

Today was different.

Conversations softened when she entered.

Eyes lingered too long.

A few people looked relieved.

One woman even smiled.

Lyra kept her gaze lowered as she crossed toward the pantry shelves.

Mirelle had sent her to collect dried winterroot for the morning stew. A simple task. Quiet. Invisible.

Usually the safest kind.

She had almost reached the shelves when someone near the back table muttered:

“So the northerners actually took her.”

Another woman snorted softly.

“Good. Maybe the curse will become their problem now.”

Low laughter spread around the room.

Not loud enough to openly challenge her.

Just enough to make sure she heard it.

Lyra continued gathering herbs.

One bundle.

Then another.

Her fingers remained steady, though her chest felt tight enough to bruise.

Years ago, comments like that used to send her running back to her room in tears.

Now they mostly made her tired.

“You know,” one of the older cooks said while kneading dough, “my grandmother always said moon-cursed girls bring famine wherever they stay too long.”

“Would explain the last few winters.”

More laughter.

Someone else added:

“Maybe the Black Wolf King likes strange things.”

That one earned a few uneasy glances.

Even here, far from the northern territories, people lowered their voices when speaking Kael Draven’s name.

Like he might somehow hear them.

Lyra reached for another bundle of herbs.

A younger servant girl near the ovens watched her nervously before blurting:

“Is it true he ripped a man’s throat out during a treaty dinner?”

The kitchen quieted slightly.

One of the hunters answered first.

“He killed three men.”

“Because they insulted him?”

“Because they insulted his mother.”

A pause followed.

Then:

“They say he kept eating afterward.”

The room went still.

Even the crackling fire seemed quieter.

Lyra hated herself a little for listening.

She shouldn’t care about rumors surrounding the man she’d been sold to.

But the name had followed her all night.

Kael Draven.

The Black Wolf King.

A man so feared that entire packs surrendered rather than risk war against him.

And in three days, she would belong to him.

The thought sat strangely in her chest.

Not quite fear.

Not yet.

Fear implied surprise.

This felt more like standing on train tracks while hearing something massive approaching through the dark.

“Lyra.”

She looked up.

Mirelle stood near the doorway carrying folded linens, her expression already warning her not to react to the room around them.

“Alpha Rowan wants you upstairs.”

Of course he did.

The pack house felt colder than usual.

Or maybe Lyra only noticed it more now that she understood she no longer belonged here.

Servants moved around her carrying flower garlands and ceremonial banners through the halls. White ribbons had already been draped along the staircase rails.

Wedding preparations.

The irony almost made her laugh.

Nothing about this felt like marriage.

When she reached Rowan’s office, the guards outside didn’t bother knocking before letting her in.

Her father stood near the window overlooking the snow-covered valley.

He didn’t turn around immediately when she entered.

For a moment, Lyra allowed herself one stupid, humiliating hope.

Maybe he regretted it.

Maybe hearing the decision aloud last night had changed something.

Maybe somewhere underneath all his disappointment, there was still enough of a father left to hesitate.

Then he spoke.

“The seamstress will arrive this afternoon for final measurements.”

Lyra felt the hope die so quickly it almost embarrassed her.

“You’re dismissing the servants who usually help with ceremonies?” she asked quietly.

“No need.”

His attention remained fixed outside.

“You won’t be here long enough afterward for it to matter.”

Something about the casualness of that answer settled heavily in the room.

Like even discussing her future beyond the wedding seemed unnecessary.

Finally, Rowan turned toward her.

For a man nearing fifty, he still carried himself like a war commander. Tall. Controlled. Silver beginning to thread through dark hair at his temples.

Lyra had inherited his eyes.

Unfortunately.

“You’ll conduct yourself properly in Blackfang territory,” he said. “No emotional outbursts. No defiance. The treaty matters more than your personal discomfort.”

Lyra stared at him.

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

His tone sharpened slightly.

“You were chosen because this pack requires peace. Don’t make the mistake of believing your feelings outweigh hundreds of lives.”

There it was.

The same logic they always used.

Sacrifice sounded noble when powerful men assigned it to someone else.

Lyra folded her hands behind her back to stop herself from shaking.

“You don’t need to worry,” she said softly. “I know exactly what I’m worth to this family.”

Something flickered briefly across Rowan’s face.

Not guilt.

Just irritation.

Like emotions complicated logistics.

“Kael Draven is not a man you provoke,” he warned. “If he dislikes you, there won’t be anything this territory can do.”

The strange thing was:

that almost sounded like concern.

Not enough to save her.

But perhaps enough to imagine the consequences afterward.

Before Lyra could answer, the office door burst open.

Seraphine entered in a rush of pale furs and perfume.

Beautiful as always.

Radiant in the way cruel people often were.

“There you are,” Seraphine sighed dramatically, brushing snow from her gloves. “Honestly, this entire house smells like mourning today.”

Her pale gold curls framed a face delicate enough to look painted. Everything about her reflected the kind of beauty poets wrote ballads about.

The gods had clearly favored one Vale daughter over the other.

Seraphine’s gaze slid toward Lyra.

“You haven’t started crying again, have you?”

Lyra looked away first.

Not because she feared her sister.

Because engaging with Seraphine always felt like stepping barefoot into broken glass.

“Mother says the northern soldiers arrive tonight,” Seraphine continued while removing her gloves. “I heard they travel with actual wolf pelts draped over their armor.”

A smile curved her lips.

“Apparently they skin traitors and wear them into battle. Very romantic.”

“Enough,” Rowan said sharply.

Seraphine rolled her eyes but obeyed.

Mostly.

As Lyra moved toward the door, Seraphine suddenly spoke again.

“You know what the saddest part is?”

Lyra paused despite herself.

Seraphine tilted her head thoughtfully.

“If you’d just been born normal, none of this would’ve happened.”

The words landed gently.

Almost sympathetically.

Which made them worse.

Lyra left before either of them could see the way her hands curled into fists beneath her sleeves.

Outside, snow continued drifting across the courtyard.

Workers hung ceremonial lanterns along the outer walls while stable boys rushed through slush carrying supplies.

Everything looked strangely beautiful.

Like the pack had decided to decorate her funeral.

By evening, the sky darkened into deep blue.

Torches flickered alive across the village perimeter.

And somewhere near the southern watchtower, a horn suddenly sounded through the mountains.

Once.

Then again.

Long.

Low.

Warning.

The entire courtyard fell silent.

Hunters stopped moving.

Servants froze mid-step.

Even the horses became restless.

Lyra looked toward the outer gates just as distant shapes emerged through the snowstorm.

Riders.

At least twenty.

Massive black wolves running beside them.

And at the front—

a banner carrying the silver crest of Blackfang Dominion moved through the falling snow like something dragged out of an old nightmare.

The northern soldiers had arrived.