The Lycan King's Secret Daughter novel Chapter 12

SYLRA’S POV

The man entered the council chamber like a whisper of winter wind, silent, cold, inevitable.

His jacket was cut in the Ironshade style, dark as a storm cloud, sharp at the edges, silver accents catching the candlelight like tiny blades. Not a single button out of place, not a seam unstitched. The fabric hugged his frame like armor, every movement smooth and calculated.

His boots barely made a sound across the stone floor, but each step landed with purpose, as though he belonged here more than any of us.

Wind had tousled his dark hair, softening the severity of his appearance just enough to betray that he’d come in haste. Or maybe that he simply didn’t care. His eyes, though—those were untouched by weather or time. Pale grey, like steel left out in the snow, steady and sharp as they landed on mine.

I froze.

My heartbeat, traitorous and loud, pounded in my ears. My fingers curled around the hem of my robe.

Standing in hea from me, he bowed slightly toward the King as if this were all routine.

“Your Majesty,” he said, voice cool as a blade.

A stir swept through the chamber. Soft murmurs, shifting robes, furrowed brows.

Maelric stepped forward, his expression unreadable but voice firm. “Council members,” he said, “meet Caelen Rhys, future Alpha of Ironshade. Neutral by oath. Trusted by blood. And now—advisor to the Crown.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, almost as if it was meant only for me, “Advisor to you.”

His eyes were already on me when I turned. They didn’t flicker. They didn’t soften.

They studied.

He stood tall, shoulders relaxed but alert. Not deferent, not arrogant. Just… prepared.

“Princess,” Caelen said, his voice carrying a calm professionalism I wasn’t used to hearing from him, “I look forward to our work together.”

I stared at him, but no words came. My tongue felt thick, my throat suddenly parched. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

They had all planned this.

The memory of pain, of my limbs stretching and bones cracking, hit me like a punch to the ribs. The failed transformation hadn’t been some fevered nightmare—it was real. It was orchestrated. This council session was nothing more than a curtain over the truth. A show.

A test.

“You knew?” I managed, my voice scratchy and low.

“I was summoned this morning,” Caelen replied evenly. “Though I should’ve guessed it earlier.”

He said it without guilt, without apology. Like it made perfect sense to him—to be pulled in, slotted into this scheme, standing now in front of me like everything was still intact between us.

I turned sharply toward Maelric. “You’re serious?”

His expression didn’t shift. “Deadly.”

The word hung in the air, cold and solid. No hesitation. No second guessing.

“He’ll challenge you,” the King continued, tone clipped. “Sharpen you. Frustrate you. But he’ll teach you how to win.”

I barely heard the last sentence. My thoughts were a blur—tangled between betrayal and clarity, between the ache of yesterday’s failure and the stark weight of today’s expectation.

Caelen took a step forward, addressing the council now with a measured gaze that flicked from face to face. “The Princess,” he said, “has more fire than most of you put together.”

A few of the older members stiffened at that.

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