Chapter 43 Crimson rival
"Up, up, My Lady! The sun has been chasing the shadows for an hour already!"
Faye’s voice was like a bucket of cold water. Elara groaned, burying her face deeper into the plush pillows. The events of Northwood still felt like lead in her limbs.
"Faye, please," Elara muffled into the silk.
"No 'please' today," Liora said, her voice practical as she pulled back the heavy velvet curtains, flooding the room with the golden light of the Lycan capital. "The High Witch is already in the courtyard, and she is not known for her patience. Neither is the King."
The mention of Ronan made Elara’s eyes snap open. Within twenty minutes, Faye and Liora had her out of her nightgown and into training leathers—a sleeveless tunic and fitted trousers that felt like a second skin.
"You look like a warrior," Faye whispered, pinning Elara’s silver hair back.
"I feel like a target," Elara countered. Deep inside, Lyra stirred, a low, vibrating hum against her ribs. "I like the leather," the wolf purred. "It smells of the hunt."
Before heading out, Liora handed her a toasted roll with dark berry jam. "Eat. You’ll need the energy."
Elara was rushing through the hallway, taking a quick bite of the roll, when she rounded the corner near the King’s study and nearly slammed into a wall of solid muscle.
Ronan caught her by the elbows. He was in a dark, form-fitting tunic that showed the devastating breadth of his shoulders.
"Careful," he murmured, his voice rumbling low. His eyes dropped to her face, and his expression softened. "You’re late. Morrigan is already pacing."
"I’m going," Elara said, her breath hitching. "I was just—"
Ronan’s gaze suddenly sharpened, focusing on her mouth. "Wait."
He stepped closer, invading her space until the scent of cedar and storm-clouds filled her senses. Ronan reached out, his hand cupping her jaw, his thumb dragging slowly across her bottom lip.
"You spilled a bit of the sauce," he whispered.
His thumb didn't pull away. He traced the curve of her lip, his golden eyes darkening into a predatory amber.
The air grew heavy. Ronan leaned in, his breath fanning against her skin. He was losing his control; she could see the slight tremor in his hand, the way his pupils were blown wide with need. For a heartbeat, he moved to claim her, his lips inches from hers.
"Take it," Lyra urged, her voice a primal scratch in Elara's mind. "Bite back."
"Your Majesty! The Southern delegation has passed the gates!"
Matthew’s voice echoed down the hall. Ronan stiffened, the spell shattering. He pulled back, his hand dropping, though his chest was still heaving.
"Go to the courtyard," he commanded, his voice rough. "I have to attend to this. I’ll be with you as soon as I can"
\---
Ten minutes later, Elara stood in the stone courtyard. Morrigan, the High Witch, circled her like a raven.
"Your power isn't in your wolf yet, Elara," Morrigan said. "Lyra is the vessel, but your mother’s blood... that is the ink. I am here to wake the witch, not the beast."
Elara wiped sweat from her brow. "I don't know how to start."
"Start with the bitterness," Morrigan commanded.
"Think of the man who branded a replacement while you stood right there. Turn that resentment into fire."
Elara closed her eyes. She thought of Draven. She thought of the cold, dismissive way he had treated her in the past. A low hum began to vibrate in the air. The artifact at her throat grew warm.
“Let me out,” Lyra snarled internally, jealous of the magic. “I can tear them better than sparks can.”
Before Elara could channel either, the heavy oak doors swung open.
"Ronan! My King!"
A woman swept into the courtyard. She was breathtaking—crimson hair braided with gold coins that chimed as she walked, wearing emerald silk cut dangerously low.
This was Lady Pandora.
Ronan vaulted over the balcony railing, landing with a heavy thud.
"Pandora," Ronan said, his voice level. "You weren't expected for another three days."
"And miss seeing you in your training leathers?" Pandora laughed, stepping directly into Ronan’s space. She reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "The South misses its King, Ronan. And I... well, I missed my favorite sparring partner."
Elara stood frozen. She felt messy, sweaty, and small.
Pandora’s sharp eyes finally drifted toward Elara. She looked her up and down, her lip curling. "And who is this little bird? A new servant? She looks quite... fragile."
Lyra roared so loudly Elara winced. “FRAGILE? I will eat her heart!”
"I am Elara," she said, her voice steadier than she expected. She stepped forward. "And I am not a servant neither am I fragile."
Pandora arched an eyebrow. "Oh? It speaks. How charming."
Ronan’s aura shifted, a warning rumble in his chest. He moved away from Pandora, stepping toward Elara. "She is my... my guest, Pandora. And you will address her with respect."
Pandora’s smile sharpened. "Guest? Is that what we're calling them? Tell me, Elara—what exactly do you do to earn the King’s... hospitality?"
Elara felt a vision flash—a red moon, a forest of thorns, and Pandora screaming. It was a witch's sight, cold and absolute.
"I am learning to protect what is mine," Elara said, her voice dropping into a register that made Morrigan smirk. "Perhaps you should stay and watch. You might learn something about boundaries."
The courtyard went silent. Pandora’s eyes narrowed, the playful socialite replaced by a high-ranking wolf. "I think I’m going to enjoy my stay here," she whispered.
Ronan placed a hand on Elara’s shoulder—a grounding, possessive weight. "Matthew will show you to your chambers, Pandora. Elara and I have work to do."
As Pandora swept away, Elara’s skin prickled.
"Morrigan," Elara said, her eyes fixed on the retreating red hair. "Let's start again. The wolf is angry, and the witch is bored. Show me how to use both."