Chapter 3 The Silent Prince and the Defiant Bride

Lyra didn't sleep that night.

She lay in the too-soft bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything. The rejection, the warning and thea's whispered words about Rowan pretending.

Pretending what exactly?

When dawn broke, Lyra made a decision. She wasn't going to hide in this room. Wasn't going to wait for someone to tell her what to do. If she was stuck here, she'd carve out her own place.

She dressed in the simplest clothes she could find in the wardrobe someone had stocked. Dark pants, plain tunic and boots that actually fit. Then she walked out.

The palace was already awake. Servants hurried through corridors. Guards changed shifts. The smell of bread baking drifted from somewhere below. Lyra followed it until she found the kitchens.

A plump woman with flour on her hands looked up, "Miss? You shouldn't be down here."

"Why not?"

"Well, because... you're a lady. Ladies don't come to the kitchens."

Lyra pulled out a stool and sat at the large wooden table. "I'm not really a lady. Just someone who got sent here. And I'm hungry."

The woman blinked. Then, slowly, she smiled. "Alright then. I'm Marta. Head cook." She set a plate of warm bread and honey in front of Lyra. "Eat. You look half-starved."

For the first time in days, Lyra relaxed slightly. The bread was good. The kitchen was warm. Marta didn't ask questions or look at her with pity.

"Where's the library?" Lyra asked between bites.

"East wing. Third floor. But nobody uses it much anymore."

"Why not?"

Marta's smile faded. "The prince used to spend hours there. Before the accident. Now he keeps to his rooms mostly."

There it was again. The accident. Everyone mentioned it but nobody explained it.

Lyra finished eating and headed for the east wing. The library was exactly where Marta said it would be. Huge windows, rows and rows of books, and dust motes floating in the pale sunlight.

And Rowan, sitting in his wheelchair near the window, reading.

He looked up when she entered. His expression didn't change. "You're still here."

"Apparently." Lyra walked to the shelves and started scanning titles, history, battle strategy and herb lore. Everything was organized perfectly.

"I told you to leave."

"You suggested it. I didn't agree." She pulled out a book on Northern pack traditions. "If I'm stuck here, I might as well learn about this place."

"You're not stuck. I can arrange a carriage."

"And start a war?" Lyra turned to face him. "Thea made it clear yesterday. The treaty matters. If you send me back, the South takes it as an insult."

Rowan closed his book slowly. "You care about politics now?"

"I care about not causing more problems." She sat in a chair across from him, "I also care about not being useless. So here's what I want."

His eyebrows rose slightly. "You're making demands?"

"Requests." Lyra met his cold stare without flinching. "I want access to the library, I want to be able to walk the palace grounds without guards following me everywhere. And I want something to do. Work, training. Anything but sitting in that room waiting to be decorative."

Rowan studied her for a long moment. "Most women in your position would be planning their wedding dress."

"I'm not most women."

"Clearly." He leaned back in the wheelchair. "Fine. Use the library. Walk where you want. But stay away from the king's wing. And don't expect me to entertain you."

"I'm not asking you to."

Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement maybe. Or respect. Hard to tell. "Anything else?"

"Yes. Stop looking at me like I'm an inconvenience. I didn't ask to be your substitute bride. But I'm here. So we might as well make the best of it."

Rowan's jaw tightened. For a second, Lyra thought she'd pushed too far. Then he simply picked up his book again. "The training grounds are behind the east tower. If you want work, start there. Commander Thea runs morning drills."

Dismissal. But also permission.

Lyra stood. "Thank you."

He didn't respond. Just kept reading like she'd already left.

Over the next three days, Lyra fell into a routine. Mornings in the training yard, watching the guards run drills. Afternoons in the library, reading everything she could about the North. Evenings in her room, exhausted but feeling more alive than she had in months.

And everywhere she went, she felt Rowan watching her.

Not obviously. He never stared. But she'd catch glimpses of him near windows, in doorways, his wheelchair positioned where he had a clear view of wherever she was. His expression never changed. Cold, distant and calculating.

It should have bothered her. Instead, it made her curious.

On the fourth night, Lyra couldn't sleep again. She left her room and wandered the corridors, not really going anywhere. Just moving.

Voices stopped her.

Low and Angry. Coming from behind a partially open door.

She knew she shouldn't listen. Knew it was wrong. But something in the tone made her pause.

"You can't keep hiding." That was Thea's voice. "The council is getting suspicious. They think you're weak."

"Good." Rowan Said. "Let them think about it."

"For how long? Your uncle sits on the throne that should be yours. Every day you wait, he gets stronger."

"And every day I wait, I learn who's loyal and who's not."

Silence. Then Thea again, softer. "The girl. She's not part of this."

"I know."

"Then why keep her here? Send her back before she gets caught in the middle."

"I tried. She refused."

"So force her."

"No." Rowan's voice went hard. "I won't become my uncle. I won't use people like pieces on a board. She stays or goes by her own choice."

Footsteps. Coming toward the door.

Lyra ducked into an alcove, pressing herself against the wall. Thea emerged first, her face looked troubled. She walked past without seeing Lyra.

Then came the sound of wheels on stone.

But when Rowan appeared in the doorway, he wasn't in the wheelchair.

He was standing,

Walking,

Moving like a predator, smooth and powerful and completely whole.

Lyra's breath stopped for a moment.

He froze mid-step. His head turned slowly toward the alcove where she hid. Their eyes met.

For a long, terrible moment, neither of them moved.

Then Rowan's expression went cold and dangerous. "How much did you hear?"

Lyra stepped out of the shadows. Her heart pounded but she kept her voice steady. "Enough."

"Then you know why you can't stay." He moved closer. Not threatening exactly, but making it clear she had no escape route. "You heard things you shouldn't have. Things that could get you killed."

"Your uncle," Lyra said quietly. "He's the king. But you said the throne should be yours."

Rowan's jaw clenched. "This conversation is over."

"You're not broken. You're hiding. Pretending to be useless while you..." What? Plan a coup? Wait for the right moment? "While you figure out how to take back what's yours."

"You don't know anything."

"I know enough." Lyra lifted her chin. "And I know you can't send me away now. Not when I know the truth."