Chapter 84

Chapter 84: Chapter 84

The grand ballroom of Shadowmoon Academy had been transformed into a rehearsal space. The chandeliers had been lowered and polished until they sparkled like captured stars. The marble floor gleamed with fresh wax. Musicians sat in the corner, their instruments at the ready, waiting for the instructor’s signal. And at the center of it all, the pageantry participants stood in their assigned pairs, preparing to rehearse the performance that would define the showcase.

Soren stood rigid as a statue, his hands clasped behind his back, his jaw tight enough to crack stone. Beside him, Selene was the picture of elegance her dark hair swept up in an elaborate twist, her silver-white rehearsal gown flowing around her like water. Her amber eyes sparkled with satisfaction every time she glanced at him.

"Places, everyone!" called the instructor, a brisk, silver-haired woman named Madam Este who had been loaned to Shadowmoon specifically for this purpose. She clapped her hands sharply, and the musicians fell silent. "We will begin with the opening procession. Couples, take your positions. Lord Thornridge, Lady Selene, you will lead."

Soren didn’t move.

Selene took his arm and guided him firmly to the center of the floor. "Smile, darling," she murmured. "You look like you’re attending a funeral."

"Perhaps I am."

"Don’t be dramatic." She positioned herself in front of him, one hand resting on his shoulder, the other clasped in his. Her touch was possessive, familiar—the touch of a woman who believed she already owned him. "This is a performance. Nothing more. You’ve trained for battle a thousand times. Surely you can survive a dance."

"Battles are honest. This is theater."

"And theater requires you to play your part." Her amber eyes met his. "So play it."

The music began—a sweeping orchestral piece that swelled through the ballroom like a tide. Soren moved through the steps mechanically, his body following the patterns he’d been taught while his mind churned with dark thoughts. The dance required him to hold Selene close, to guide her through the turns, to gaze into her eyes as if she were the only woman in the world.

Every moment of it felt like a betrayal.

"Relax your shoulders," Selene murmured as they turned. "You’re dancing like a wooden soldier."

"I don’t care about the dance."

"Obviously. But you should care about the consequences of failing it." Her voice was light, conversational, as if they were discussing the weather. "The King will be watching. Every dignitary in the Seven Packs will be watching. If you embarrass yourself—if you embarrass me—there will be questions."

"Let them ask questions."

"And if those questions lead to your little prince?" She smiled sweetly. "I wonder what they would find."

Soren’s hand tightened on her waist. "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing at all. Just... idle speculation." She spun out of his arms and back in, her movements flawless. "Thorne Astrlyn is such an intriguing figure, isn’t he? So delicate. So secretive. So very... feminine."

The word hit Soren like a blade between the ribs. He missed a step, stumbled, and Selene’s grip on his shoulder tightened to steady him.

"Careful," she breathed. "Wouldn’t want to fall."

"What are you saying?"

"I’m not saying anything. I’m just observing." Her amber eyes glittered with cold amusement. "But if I were saying something—if I were speculating, purely hypothetically—I might wonder why the heir to the Astrlyn pack never changes in front of the other students. Why he flinches when someone gets too close. Why he fights like a dancer and bleeds like the moon." She leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear. "I might wonder why the Sword Sovereign is so devoted to a boy who can’t shift. Unless, of course, he’s not a boy at all."

Soren stopped dancing. The other couples swirled around them, oblivious to the frozen tableau at the center of the floor.

"If you do anything to Thorne—" he began, his voice low and dangerous.

"Calm down, Prince Soren." Selene’s smile didn’t waver. "This is not a royal manner. People are watching. Your father’s advisors are in the gallery. Would you like them to see you threatening your betrothed?"

Soren’s hands were trembling with the effort of restraint. Kael was roaring in his mind, demanding release, demanding blood, demanding that he protect his mate from the woman who was threatening her. But Selene was right. People were watching. The King’s advisors. The Silvermoon instructors. The other pageantry participants. Any outburst would raise questions. Any questions would lead back to Nyra.

He inhaled sharply and resumed the dance.

"Good boy," Selene murmured. "Now, about the kiss. The choreography requires it at the climax of the performance. A symbolic gesture—the King and Queen of the showcase, united in front of the realm."

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"I said no." Soren’s voice was iron. "I won’t kiss you. Not for the pageantry. Not for my father. Not for anyone."

Selene’s expression flickered—the first crack in her perfect composure. Then she smiled again, colder this time. "You seem to be under the impression that you have a choice. Let me be clear, darling. I know the secret your little boyfriend is hiding. I know about the binding cloth. I know about the silver hair and the silver blood and the princess who pretended to be a prince. I know everything."

Soren’s blood ran cold.

"And I’m willing to keep that secret," Selene continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "I’m willing to let your precious Thorne continue his little charade, at least for now. But only if you cooperate. Only if you play your part. Only if you kiss me at the pageantry and convince the realm that we are the perfect, happy couple our fathers intended us to be."

"You’re blackmailing me."

"I’m negotiating. There’s a difference." She spun gracefully out of his arms and back in, her smile never wavering. "So. The kiss. Will you do it, or shall I have a very interesting conversation with Lady Isolde about certain irregularities among the student body?"

Soren stared at her—the beautiful face, the cold eyes, the ruthless intelligence behind the elegant mask. He had faced down rogues and assassins and his father’s impossible expectations without flinching. But this—this was a different kind of battle. A battle fought with secrets and whispers and the threat of exposure.

"If you hurt her," he said quietly, "I will destroy you. Not as a prince. Not as the Sword Sovereign. As a Lycan. As a mate. There will be nowhere in the Seven Packs you can hide from me."

Selene’s smile flickered. For just a moment, she looked almost afraid.

Then the mask was back. "Noted. Now kiss me, darling. The rehearsal requires it."

He didn’t kiss her. Not yet. But Selene’s threat hung in the air between them like a drawn blade, and Soren knew—with a cold, sinking certainty—that the showcase was about to become far more dangerous than anyone had anticipated.

In the potions laboratory, the atmosphere was considerably lighter.

Nyra sat on a stool near the window, a mortar and pestle in her hands, grinding moonflower petals into a fine silver dust. Corvin worked beside her, his attention split between a bubbling cauldron and a stack of research notes. The afternoon sun streamed through the high windows, catching the dust motes in the air and making the vials on the shelves glitter like jewels.

"Finer," Corvin said without looking up. "You’re still leaving chunks."

"I’m not leaving chunks. Those are artistic variations."

"Artistic variations in potion-making are called mistakes."

"You’re very critical for someone who invited me to help."

"I didn’t invite you. You showed up unannounced and started touching things." He glanced at her, his whiskey-dark eyes warm despite his words. "I merely decided not to kick you out."

"Because you love my company."

"Because you’d just come back anyway."

Nyra laughed and resumed grinding. The moonflower petals were stubborn, resisting her efforts to reduce them to powder. She had been in the laboratory for nearly an hour, keeping Corvin company while he worked on his final preparations for the showcase. It had become something of a ritual—her visiting him in the lab, him pretending to be annoyed, both of them knowing it was a lie.

"Lucian said you’ve been working yourself to exhaustion," she said quietly. "He’s worried about you."

"Lucian worries too much."

"He said you’ve barely slept in a week."

"I’ve slept. Just... not much." Corvin added a pinch of something green to his cauldron, and the liquid inside turned a brilliant shade of violet. "The showcase is in three days. The King is coming. Selene is scheming. There are assassins in this academy who want you dead. Sleep seems like a luxury I can’t afford."

"Corvin." Nyra set down her mortar and pestle. "You can’t protect everyone if you collapse from exhaustion."

"I don’t intend to collapse."

"No one ever intends to collapse. It just happens. Usually at the worst possible moment."

He looked at her—the silver hair, the earnest eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw. "You’re not going to let this go, are you?"

"Absolutely not."

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "Fine. I’ll sleep tonight. For a few hours. But only because you asked."

"Good. I’ll have Lucian check on you."

"Lucian is a traitor."

"Lucian is a good friend who cares about you."

"Same thing." He turned back to his cauldron, but the tension in his shoulders had eased slightly. "How are you? Really? With the showcase approaching and everything that’s happening?"

Nyra was quiet for a moment. "Nervous. Excited. Terrified. All at once." She picked up her pestle again and resumed grinding. "Soren is rehearsing with Selene right now. The pageantry. They have to dance together in front of everyone. There’s even a kiss in the choreography."

Corvin’s hands paused over his vials. "A kiss?"

"At the climax of the performance. To symbolize the union of the two academies. Or something." She tried to keep her voice light, but the jealousy crept in anyway. "It’s just a performance. It doesn’t mean anything."

"But it bothers you."

"Of course it bothers me. She’s beautiful and elegant and she gets to stand beside him in front of the entire realm while I have to watch from the audience and pretend I don’t care." Nyra ground the petals harder than necessary. "But I told him to do it. I told him to play his part and not make a scene. Because if he refuses, Selene will get suspicious. And if Selene gets suspicious..."

"She’ll start digging."

"She’s already digging. I can feel it." Nyra set the pestle down with a clatter. "She knows something, Corvin. I saw it in her eyes during the pageantry rehearsal yesterday. She looks at me like she’s already won. Like she’s just waiting for the right moment to strike."

"Then we’ll be ready for her." Corvin’s voice was steady. "I’ve prepared protective potions for everyone. Soren has Ragnar watching his back. Your friends would die for you without hesitation. Whatever Selene is planning, she won’t succeed."

"And if she exposes me? In front of the King? In front of everyone?"

"Then we deal with it. Together." He crossed to where she sat and placed his hand over hers. "You’re not alone anymore, Nyra. You haven’t been alone since the moment you arrived at this academy. Whatever happens at the showcase—whatever Selene does—you have people who will stand beside you. Me. Soren. Finn. Marek. Jasper. Ragnar. Even Lucian and Orion. We’re your pack now. And packs protect their own."

Nyra looked up at him, her silver eyes bright with emotion. "When did you become so good at speeches?"

"I’ve always been good at speeches. I just prefer to use my talents for manipulation rather than comfort."

"At least you’re honest about it."

"Always." He squeezed her hand once and released it. "Now finish grinding those petals. The potion won’t brew itself, and I refuse to let Selene’s machinations interfere with my work."

Nyra laughed and picked up her pestle. "Yes, sir."

"Don’t call me sir. It makes me feel old."

"You are old."

"I’m twenty-one."

"Ancient."

Corvin threw a moonflower petal at her head. She caught it and threw it back. And for a little while, the laboratory was filled with laughter instead of fear.