Chapter 92

Chapter 92: Chapter 92

Freya slipped through the corridors of Shadowmoon Academy with the practiced ease of a girl who had spent her childhood navigating palaces. The welcome feast was still in full swing, the grand hall buzzing with music and conversation, but she had already done her duty she had smiled at the dignitaries, curtsied to the pack elders, and pretended to be interested in the endless speeches about tradition and honor and the glory of the realm. Now she wanted to explore.

She turned a corner near the east wing and nearly collided with a familiar figure.

"Corvin!"

Corvin stopped mid-stride, his dark hair slightly disheveled, his whiskey-colored eyes widening with surprise. A smile—a real one, not the calculated smirks he wore around the academy—spread across his face.

"Princess Freya," he said, catching her as she launched herself at him. "You’ve gotten taller."

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" She pulled back and grinned at him. "I missed you. You never visit the palace anymore."

"I’ve been busy. The academy keeps me occupied."

"Busy making potions and being mysterious?"

"Among other things." He studied her face. "I heard your wolf finally came. Congratulations."

Freya beamed. "Three weeks ago. I wanted to tell you in person, but Father said the showcase was coming and we’d see you then." She paused, her expression softening. "I’ve missed our lessons. You were always my favorite teacher."

"I was your only teacher who let you blow things up."

"That’s why you were my favorite."

Corvin laughed—a low, warm sound that few people at the academy had ever heard. He had known Freya since she was a child, had taught her the basics of potion-making in the palace laboratories while her brother trained with Ragnar. She had been small and fierce and endlessly curious, and he had loved her like a little sister.

"Have you seen your brother?" Freya asked. "My brother, I mean. Soren."

"I’ve seen him. We’re... friends now. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"It’s complicated." Corvin’s expression flickered. "But we’ve reached an understanding. For now."

Freya nodded, her dark eyes knowing. "The silver-haired one. Thorne. She’s his mate, isn’t she?"

Corvin’s eyebrows rose. "You figured that out quickly."

"I’m observant. And the seer may have mentioned something about a silver-haired woman of the old blood." Freya’s voice dropped. "Does my father know?"

"No. And it’s best if he doesn’t. Not yet."

"But he’ll find out eventually. Secrets like that don’t stay hidden forever."

"I know. We’re trying to manage the reveal." Corvin paused. "How much do you know about Thorne?"

"Enough. She’s the hidden princess of the Astrlyn pack. She’s been pretending to be her dead brother. She’s Soren’s mate. And she’s the Moonblood heir the seer spoke of." Freya shrugged. "I figured it out on my own. Soren didn’t tell me."

"And you’re... fine with it?"

"She makes my brother happy. I haven’t seen him smile like that in years." Freya’s expression was serious now, far older than her thirteen years. "I don’t care about politics or betrothal contracts or any of that. I care about Soren. And if she’s the one who makes him happy, then she’s the one I support."

Corvin looked at her for a long moment. Then he reached out and ruffled her hair, ignoring her indignant squawk. "You’ve grown up, Princess Freya. And you’ve become wiser than most of the adults in that hall."

"I know." She smoothed her hair back into place. "Now walk me back to the feast. Mother will send a search party if I’m gone too long."

They walked together through the corridors, their footsteps echoing on the ancient stone. When they reached the entrance to the grand hall, Freya paused.

"Corvin? Take care of my brother. And take care of his mate. They’re going to need all the allies they can get."

"I will. I promise."

She smiled and slipped back into the hall, disappearing into the crowd of silk and jewels. Corvin watched her go, his heart heavy with the weight of everything that was coming.

The grand hall had never been so magnificent—or so suffocating.

Nyra stood near the back of the room, her back pressed against the cold stone wall, trying to make herself as small and invisible as possible. The feast had transitioned into a formal reception, with dignitaries from every pack circulating through the crowd. The King and Queen sat at the high table with Proctor Kane and Lady Isolde. Soren had been summoned to his father’s side, his expression carefully neutral as he endured the endless procession of nobles who wanted to greet the crown prince.

She watched him from across the hall, her heart aching with a mixture of pride and fear. He looked every inch the prince he was supposed to be—regal, composed, untouchable. But she knew the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw. He was counting the minutes until he could escape.

"It’s strange, isn’t it?" Jasper’s voice was quiet at her side. "Seeing him like that."

Nyra turned. Jasper stood beside her, his ever-present book tucked under his arm, his sharp eyes fixed on the high table. "What do you mean?"

"I mean seeing him as the crown prince. The heir to the Seven Packs. It’s easy to forget, when he’s training with us or eating in the cafeteria or arguing with Ragnar about footwork. But that—" He nodded toward the high table. "That’s who he really is. That’s the weight he’s been carrying since the day he was born."

"I know." Nyra paused. "Jasper, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"How did you figure it out? About me?"

Jasper was silent for a moment. Then he turned to face her fully, his sharp eyes meeting hers. "I suspected for a long time. You were too careful. Too secretive. You flinched when people got too close. You never changed in front of us. You avoided the communal showers. Little things, but they added up."

"And the confirmation?"

"I heard Soren talking to Ragnar one night. He said something about never being attracted to men—that he preferred women. That he was, in his words, ’extremely straight.’ So when he started pursuing you—when I saw the way he looked at you—I knew you couldn’t be what you were pretending to be."

Nyra’s breath caught. "And the final proof?"

Jasper’s voice softened. "The night you reconciled with him. At the lake. I followed you when you left the dorm. I was worried about you—worried you might do something reckless. I didn’t mean to spy. But I heard him call you Nyra. I saw you kiss him. And I knew."

Nyra stared at him. "You’ve known all this time. And you never said anything."

"It wasn’t my secret to tell." Jasper’s expression was gentle, warmer than she had ever seen it. "You’ve been carrying this burden alone for months. I wasn’t going to add to it by exposing you before you were ready. Whatever your reasons for hiding—whatever drove you to take your brother’s place—that’s your story. Not mine. I knew you would tell us when the time was right."

Nyra’s eyes burned with unshed tears. "Jasper..."

"You’re our friend, Thorne. Or Nyra. Or whatever name you choose." He almost smiled. "That’s not going to change because we know what’s under the binding."

She hugged him. It was impulsive and probably inappropriate and she didn’t care. Jasper stiffened for a moment, clearly not accustomed to physical affection, and then his arms came up and he hugged her back.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for keeping my secret. Thank you for being my friend."

"You’re welcome." He pulled back and adjusted his book. "Now stop crying. If you ruin your formal tunic, Finn will ask questions, and I don’t have the energy to lie to him."

Nyra laughed and wiped her eyes. "You’re a good friend, Jasper Reed."

"I know. Now come on. The feast is almost over, and we should make an appearance before someone notices we’re missing."

They walked back toward the crowd together, and Nyra felt the weight on her shoulders lift just a little.

The final course of the welcome feast was served as the sun began to set, painting the grand hall in shades of amber and rose through the high windows. The tables had been cleared of the earlier dishes and now groaned under the weight of elaborate desserts—honey cakes and fruit tarts and chocolate sculptures that must have taken the kitchen staff days to prepare.

At the high table, the King presided over a more intimate gathering. Soren sat at his father’s right hand, the Queen at his left. Freya had been allowed to join them, though she looked thoroughly bored by the political conversation. Proctor Kane and Lady Isolde sat nearby, along with several high-ranking members of the royal council.

"The showcase events begin tomorrow at dawn," Kane was saying. "The combat exhibitions will take place in the morning, followed by the potions and alchemy demonstrations in the afternoon. The strategic warfare simulation will be held the following day. And the ball—with the pageantry and the crowning of the showcase King and Queen—will take place on the final night."

"And my son’s participation?" the King asked.

"Soren will compete in the combat exhibitions and perform in the pageantry alongside Lady Selene. He has been training rigorously."

"I would expect nothing less." The King turned to Soren. "You’ve made quite a name for yourself here. The Sword Sovereign. Undefeated in combat. I’ve heard the stories."

"I’ve had good training."

"Indeed. And now the realm will see what you’ve become." The King’s expression was difficult to read. "I am proud of you, Soren. I don’t say it often enough. But I am."

Soren’s composure flickered. "Thank you, Father."

The Queen reached across the table and squeezed her son’s hand. "We both are. More than you know."

Across the hall, the other dignitaries were arriving in a steady stream. Lord and Lady Eldritch—Corvin’s parents—had made their entrance an hour ago, Lord Eldritch a stern, silver-haired Alpha with his son’s sharp eyes, Lady Eldritch a graceful woman with a warm smile. They had greeted Corvin with quiet pride and were now seated among the other noble families.

Ragnar’s parents had arrived shortly after. Lord Blackfang, a massive, scarred Alpha who looked like an older, even more intimidating version of his son, and Lady Blackfang, a fierce-looking woman with kind eyes. Ragnar had greeted them with his usual gruffness, but Nyra had seen the way his shoulders relaxed when his mother hugged him.