The ballroom smelled like crushed roses and resentment.
Elara had never seen so many predators smile with such sharp teeth.
The Lycan court had assembled for the "Reconciliation Gathering"—a formal prelude to the coming Blood Feast. A night of dance, drink, and cold diplomacy.
She stood near the balcony edge, clothed in a fresh gown that Kael had personally chosen: matte black, clean lines, no silver threads. Elegant, but not indulgent. A calculated statement.
I am here. But I do not bow.
At her side, Kael was speaking with an elder whose beard looked older than stone. He hadn't left her alone, but he also hadn't touched her since they entered.
Not once.
Every other woman in the room noticed.
Including the one who arrived last.
The music halted.
A gust of cold swept through the tall doors.
And Lysandra entered like a curse whispered in silk.
She wore bone-white lace trimmed in crimson thorns, her waist cinched in a corset designed to both torture and enthrall. Her hair—black and long—flowed down her back like ink poured into snow.
But it was her eyes that stole the breath from the room.
Golden.
Feral.
Familiar.
Elara felt her own pulse stutter.
Because those eyes didn't blink like human eyes.
They blinked like Kael's.
Like a wolf's.
Lysandra crossed the floor without hesitation, her boots echoing like a war drum, her smile venom-dipped.
She stopped three paces from Kael.
And curtsied.
Low. Precise.
"Kael," she purred, voice smooth as velvet and sharp as broken glass. "My fiancé."
The room fell into breathless stillness.
Kael didn't move.
Didn't blink.
"Elara," he said quietly, "this is Lysandra. Daughter of the late Thorne Matriarch."
Lysandra straightened.
"Also known," she said sweetly, "as your betrothed. By ancestral pact."
Elara's mouth opened.
Then shut.
No one had warned her.
No one had mentioned—
"I was twelve when they sealed it," Lysandra continued. "Too young to care. But the elders said we were perfect—your blood, my blood. Unity. Restoration."
She looked Elara up and down.
"And then you returned with her."
Kael finally spoke. "The pact was annulled."
"Was it?" Lysandra turned to the crowd. "I wasn't informed."
"You were presumed dead."
"I was reborn."
She faced Elara.
"I see she bleeds for you. I wonder if she understands what she's bleeding into."
Elara met her gaze. "Try me."
Lysandra's smile widened. "Oh, darling. I don't need to try. I can smell your confusion."
A low, polite laugh rustled through the room.
Kael stepped between them.
"Enough."
Lysandra's tone shifted—still sweet, but colder now. "I come to honor the old ways. I come in peace."
"Then keep it."
She turned to the crowd.
"I propose a gesture of reconciliation."
Elara narrowed her eyes.
Lysandra lifted a gloved hand.
"A dance," she said. "With her."
Elara blinked. "You want to dance with me?"
"It's tradition," Lysandra cooed. "The blood-bound and the bone-bound must cross the floor in step, so that no spirits may follow them into war."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you prove your blood is not strong enough to walk beside his."
The room watched.
Waited.
Kael said nothing.
Elara looked at him.
Still silence.
She stepped forward.
Took Lysandra's outstretched hand.
"I'll lead," Elara said.
The musicians started again.
They danced.
Slow, deliberate turns across the marble.
Hand to hand. Eye to eye.
A ballet of veiled threats.
"You bleed easily," Lysandra murmured.
"I heal faster."
"You wear his scent."
"You want it back?"
Lysandra chuckled. "You think he marked you because he loves you?"
"I think you're upset because he didn't mark you at all."
The crowd tensed.
The musicians faltered.
Elara spun them into another turn.
But Lysandra's hand suddenly clenched hers.
Hard.
Nails dug in.
And Elara felt a sting.
Like a pinprick.
No.
A needle.
Her fingers twitched.
She looked down.
Lysandra's glove glinted—a hidden silver filament woven into the lace.
"You—"
"Shh," Lysandra whispered. "Smile for the court, little flame. We wouldn't want them to know you're already burning."
After the dance, Elara barely made it back to the hall's edge before the nausea hit.
The silver was subtle—too weak to poison, but enough to unbalance.
She gripped the column, vision swimming.
"Elara."
Kael was beside her, suddenly, grabbing her elbow.
"What happened?"
"She—" Elara swallowed hard. "She wore silver. In her gloves."
Kael's expression turned stone.
He let go.
And stalked across the room.
The crowd parted before him.
Lysandra stood waiting, smile lazy.
He said nothing.
Just stared.
Then turned back.
Walked away.
Elara followed.
Back in the guest quarters, she stripped off her gloves and sleeves, revealing faint silver burns along her palm.
Kael stood in silence.
Then crossed the room.
And knelt.
Again.
He kissed the burns.
Again.
"You should have stopped the dance," she said.
"I couldn't."
"You wouldn't."
"She holds more power than you know."
"So do I."
Kael looked up at her.
His eyes tired.
Haunted.
"You're playing a game you don't understand."
"Then teach me."
He stood.
"Telling you would destroy you."
"Not telling me already is."
He didn't answer.
But his hand lifted.
Touched her cheek.
And softly, barely above a whisper:
"She's back."