The Lycan King's Secret Daughter novel Chapter 11

SYLRIA’S POV

“I brought the dress, Your Highness.”

The voice yanked me out of sleep like a splash of ice water.

I sat up instantly, heart still hammering from the tail end of some half-formed nightmare. I wondered if that failed transformation was a dream or the reality.

The sunlight filtered through the carved stone lattice windows, scattering golden shapes across the marble floor. My room smelled faintly of lavender and leather—calm, expensive, regal.

Too regal.

I rubbed my face, still adjusting. “What time is it?”

“Past second bell,” my maid, Maren, replied gently, stepping forward. “You’re expected in the council chamber. It’s… a mock debate.”

“A what?”

She lifted a silver hanger with today’s chosen dress, sleek black silk embroidered with gold threads, more formality than comfort. I stared at it like it might bite me.

“They’re waiting,” she said quietly.

I let out a slow, panicked breath. “Of course they are.”

I dressed in a daze, brushing my hair back into a simple braid, ignoring the trembling in my hands as Maren helped fasten the collar. I didn’t bother with heavy makeup, there was no time, no energy, and no sense pretending I was calm.

“What even is a mock debate?” I muttered, pacing near the wardrobe.

“An exercise, Your Highness,” she said. “To test your decision-making. Your composure. Your ability to hold your own among the council.”

“So… trial by political fire.”

Maren gave a sympathetic smile. “Pretty much.”

I nodded in understanding. Perhaps this had something to do with my failed transformation. But I still couldn’t figure out if it was real or if it was a dream.

The hallway leading to the council chamber stretched forever. Every step echoed too loudly. I passed armored guards who bowed with polite stiffness. Servants carrying scrolls. Whispered greetings.

I nodded where appropriate. Smiled when necessary. Inside, I was absolutely unraveling.

The massive doors opened with a resonant groan.

Every eye turned to me.

Eight council members sat at the crescent table, each a power player in their own right. Some were old, others young. None of them looked welcoming. The King sat at the center throne, arms crossed, face unreadable.

I stepped inside, spine straight despite the tightness in my chest.

“Princess Sylra,” one of the councilors greeted, a graying man named Alrik whose voice could cut silk. “Let us begin.”

The first scenario was straightforward, or so it seemed.

A border dispute between two neighboring packs. Resources dwindling. Tensions high. One pack accused the other of illegal expansion.

“What do you do, Princess?” asked Councilor Vellan, his tone falsely cordial.

“I… I’d call for both leaders to meet under a neutral banner,” I began, choosing my words carefully. “Gather firsthand reports. Cross-examine facts before any judgments.”

“Neutral banner?” Alrik arched a brow. “You mean the Crown?”

“Yes. The Crown should act as mediator.”

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