Chapter 4 THE GALA

The Moon-Glass Palace was a masterpiece of transparent lies. Standing in the corner of the ballroom, I felt every bit the fraud I was. My ribs ached, the linen binding feeling like a hot wire against my skin as the ballroom’s heat rose.

"You're doing it again," Rayder said, leaning back against a marble pillar. He looked effortlessly regal, but I could see the tension in the way he gripped his glass.

"Doing what, Your Highness?" I rasped.

"Scanning the room like you’re looking for a sniper. It’s a gala, Cyrus. The only thing likely to kill you here is the boredom or the appetizers."

"In the North, the appetizers are usually poisoned," I countered, my eyes darting to a group of elders whispering in the corner.

Rayder chuckled, a low sound that vibrated through the air between us. "Remind me never to visit your hometown. You’re far too high-strung for a boy of... what, nineteen?"

"Twenty," I lied. Adding years was part of the mask.

"Twenty," he repeated, his golden eyes narrowing. "You have the eyes of someone a hundred years older. It’s unsettling. Most guards are trying to sneak a drink or eye up the High Commission’s daughters. You look like you’re counting the exits."

"I am. There are six. Two are blocked by floral arrangements, which is a fire hazard, and one is guarded by a Beta who looks like he’s about to fall asleep."

Rayder sighed, but there was a flicker of genuine amusement in his gaze. "I hire a bodyguard and I get a safety inspector. Goddess help me."

Before I could respond, we were descended upon by Councilor Vane, a man whose face was as wrinkled as the ancient scrolls he guarded. He didn't look at me; to him, I was furniture.

"Prince Rayder," Vane began, his voice like dry parchment. "The Council is concerned. The Red Moon delegates are already at the gates, and you are standing here gossiping with a... servant."

Rayder’s posture shifted instantly. The playful spark died, replaced by a cold, royal frost. "Cyrus is my primary guard, Vane. If he’s gossiping, it’s because I commanded him to. What does the Council want? More complaints about my 'rebellious' streak?"

"The Council wants stability," Vane hissed, leaning in. "The prophecy hangs over us like a guillotine. 'The Prince shall mate the Enemy.' If the Red Moon brings a female of high rank tonight, you are expected to show interest. For the sake of the pack’s peace."

I felt a sharp pang in my chest that had nothing to do with my binding. The Prince shall mate the Enemy.

Rayder’s jaw set so hard I thought his teeth might crack. "I don’t take orders on who to bed from a prophecy, Vane. Now, if you’ll excuse us, the 'Enemy' has arrived."

The doors thundered open. The air turned to ice.

The Red Moon contingent didn't walk; they invaded. At their head was Gideon, the Lead Enforcer. He was a mountain of a man, draped in grey wolf furs that still smelled of the wild. He wasn't a Prince, but he held more power than most Alphas—he was the one who carried out the executions.

Gideon stopped inches from Rayder, the height difference forcing Rayder to look up, though the Prince didn't flinch.

"Rayder," Gideon barked. "Your palace smells like flowers and weakness. Thorne sends his regards, though he’s disappointed you haven't shifted in six months. Are you losing your wolf, or just your spine?"

Rayder smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Neither, Gideon. I’ve just learned that a wolf who barks all the time rarely bites. How is the 'Enforcer' business? Still murdering families in their sleep, or have you moved on to kicking puppies?"

Gideon’s eyes, a pale, sickly yellow, flashed. "We do what is necessary to keep the bloodlines pure. Unlike the South, we don’t let 'healers' and 'weaklings' dilute our strength."

He looked at me then. The silence stretched, becoming heavy and toxic. Gideon’s nostrils flared. He took a step toward me, bypassing Rayder.

"You," Gideon said. "I know that scent."

My heart hammered against the linen strips. The walnut oil. The tobacco. Please, Goddess, let them hold.

"I doubt it," I rasped. "I don't frequent slaughterhouses."

Gideon laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. "A Northern brat with a sharp tongue. You remind me of a girl I once knew. She had the same defiant look right before I threw her into the Mud Flats."

"Must have been a very small girl to leave such an impression on a 'big' man like you," I said, my voice steady despite the roar of blood in my ears.

Gideon’s hand blurred—a strike meant to catch me by the throat—but I didn't flinch. I moved my head a fraction of an inch, the wind of his hand whistling past my ear, and brought my own hand up, palm flat, stopping his arm mid-air. It was a healer’s block, using his own momentum against him.

"Touch me again," I whispered, leaning into his space, "and you’ll find out why the North produces ghosts instead of heirs."

"Enough!" Rayder roared. He stepped between us, his Alpha aura exploding outward. It was a physical weight that made the nearby glass windows rattle. "Gideon, you are a guest. Cyrus is my shadow. If you strike him, you strike me. Is Thorne ready for a war over a guard’s 'disrespect'?"

Gideon pulled his arm back, his eyes narrowing as he studied me with a new, terrifying intensity. "A guard who knows Northern Pressure-Point strikes? Interesting. Where did you find this one, Rayder? He doesn't smell like a warrior. He smells like... hidden things."

"He smells like the man who’s going to keep you from breathing if you don't back off," Rayder countered.

Gideon smirked, turning on his heel. "Keep him close, Prince. Shadows have a way of merging with the dark. We’ll talk later about the prophecy. I believe the Alpha has someone in mind for you."

As the Red Moon pack moved toward the dais, Rayder turned to me. His face was pale, his eyes wide with a mix of fury and confusion.

"Where the hell did you learn to block an Enforcer like that?" he demanded, his voice low and urgent.

"The North is a violent place, Your Highness."

"Don't give me that 'Northern' crap, Cyrus! That wasn't a guard’s move. That was... precise. Like you knew exactly where his nerves were." He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. "And why did he say you looked like a girl? Why are you shaking?"

"I'm not shaking," I lied, though my hands were trembling so violently I had to tuck them behind my back.

"You’re a liar," Rayder whispered. "A brave, lethal liar. But you’re my liar."

He reached out, his hand grasping the back of my neck. It wasn't an attack; it was a claim. His touch sent a jolt of electricity through me that almost made me gasp. For a second, I forgot about the Red Moon, the prophecy, and the binding. I only felt him.

"Interrupting a moment, brothers?"

We both jumped. Lyric stood there, her violet eyes dancing with amusement. She was holding a fan, tapping it against her chin.

"Lyric," Rayder sighed, letting go of my neck. "Not now."

"Oh, I think definitely now," she said, her gaze sliding to me. "Your guard has been very naughty, Rayder. Challenging Gideon? Such a masculine display of bravado." She stepped toward me, her voice dropping to a whisper that only I could hear. "But tell me, Cyrus... does the binding make it hard to dance? Or do you only bind your heart?"

"Does that suit ever feel too tight? You seem to be breathing quite shallowly. Perhaps the Southern air is too heavy for a Northern boy.”

The world tilted. She knew.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Lady Lyric," I said, my voice cracking.

"Of course you don't," she smiled, her eyes like cold gems. "Rayder,will you see Gideon for a moment? He said he has something to tell you in private and I'd also love to have a private word with your shadow about... 'Northern' etiquette."

Rayder looked between us, suspicious. "Lyric, leave him alone. He’s had a rough night."

"I'll be gentle," she promised, her eyes never leaving mine. "I just want to see what's underneath that cold exterior."

As Rayder walked away, his brow furrowed in confusion, Lyric leaned in until her lips were grazing my ear.

"I don't know who you are, 'Cyrus,'" she hissed. "But I know what you are. 

"Tell me... if I were to drop this fan, would you pick it up like a gentleman, or would you forget yourself and bend like a girl who's afraid her binding might snap?"

She pulled back, her eyes alight with the thrill of the hunt. 

The world tilted. My lungs seized, the air refusing to enter my chest. My secret,the one I had sacrificed my name and my hair to protect,felt like it was being stripped bare under the cold violet of her gaze. I opened my mouth to defend myself, to growl a denial, but my voice had died in my throat.

Then, Lyric burst into a soft, melodic peal of laughter.

She pulled back, tapping her fan against her chin, her eyes dancing with mischief rather than malice. "Oh, Goddess, Cyrus! You should see your face. You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

I blinked, my hand still trembling on the hilt of my dagger. "My Lady?"

"It’s a line from The Hidden Moon," she said, waving her fan dismissively. "That human TV series everyone in the South is obsessed with? The one about the princess who disguises herself as a knight to save her father? She spends the whole second season terrified that her armor will slip."

She laughed again, a light, tinkling sound that drew the eyes of a few passing Betas. "I saw you standing there so stiff and serious, looking like you were holding your breath, and I couldn't resist. You Northerners are so literal. I honestly thought for a second you might actually faint."

The blood rushed back to my face, hot and stinging. I forced a stiff, awkward half-smile, my heart still trying to settle in my chest. "I... I don't watch much television, My Lady."

"Clearly," she teased, her eyes scanning my face with a lingering curiosity that made my skin crawl. "It was just a joke, Cyrus. Though, honestly, I hope you don't end up like the girl in the show. She gets caught in chapter twelve because she forgets how to sit like a man. It’s quite tragic, really. All that effort wasted because of a bad habit."

She leaned in one last time, her voice dropping an octave, the playfulness replaced by something sharper. "But do try to breathe. If you pass out in the middle of the ballroom, Rayder will spend the rest of the night hovering over you, and I’ll never get my dance."

Before I could respond, Rayder returned, handing her a flute of sparkling wine. He looked at me, his eyes searching mine for any sign of distress. "Is everything alright?"

"Perfectly," Lyric chirped, taking a sip of her drink. "Your guard just lacks a sense of humor, Rayder. But he’s very... dedicated. I can see why you’re so fond of him."

Rayder frowned, his hand moving instinctively toward my shoulder before he caught himself and pulled back. "He’s a soldier, Lyric. Not a comedian."

"He's a mystery," she corrected, giving me a final, enigmatic wink over the rim of her glass. "And I’ve always loved a good mystery."

As she moved away, her violet silk trailing behind her, Rayder turned to me, his expression darkening. "What was that really about, Cyrus? She looked like she was grilling you."

"She was just... making a joke about a show," I rasped, the lie tasting like ash. "Something about a knight."

Rayder sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Lyric spends too much time with humans. Don't let her get in your head. She likes to play with people just to see how they break."

"I'm not going to break, Your Highness."

"I know you're not," he whispered, his golden eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that felt more dangerous than Lyric's jokes. "But I think you're holding your breath again. Walk with me to the terrace. The air in here is getting too thin for both of us."

As I followed him out toward the dark, salt-sprayed balcony, I realized Lyric’s "joke" hadn't been a joke at all. It was a warning. She might not know the truth yet, but she was watching the way I sat, the way I stood, and the way I breathed.

The masquerade was getting harder, and the night had only just begun.