The days settled into a tense, watchful rhythm. Elara spent her mornings with Kaelen, a silent, observing presence during his court sessions. She learned the rhythms of his rule—his patience with petitioners, his swift, uncompromising justice, his deep, abiding respect for strength and honesty. She saw the way his court watched him, a mixture of fear, awe, and genuine loyalty. He was not a tyrant who ruled by fear alone; he was a pillar, unyielding and strong, and his people relied on that strength.
In the afternoons, she was left to her own devices. It was during one of these solitary hours that she discovered the one place in the fortress that felt like home: the Royal Library.
It was not like the Southern scriptorium, all light and air and neatly organized scrolls. This was a cavernous space, carved deep into the mountain, its ceiling lost in shadow. The air was cool and dry, smelling of old leather, parchment, and stone. Instead of shelves, there were pillars of natural rock, and into these pillars, niches and alcoves had been carved, each one housing a stack of scrolls, a bound codex, or a collection of stone tablets etched with runes so ancient their meaning was half-forgotten.
It was, she realized with a thrill, the hoard of a dragon. A hoard of knowledge.
She ran her fingers over the spine of a heavy book bound in what looked like wyrm-hide. Here, she could breathe. Here, the persona of the princess could slip, and Elara the scribe could emerge.
"An unusual choice of sanctuary for a Southern rose."
The voice, smooth as oil, came from behind a nearby pillar. Lysander stepped into the flickering light of the glow-moss orbs that illuminated the library, his fox ears twitching with amusement.
Elara's heart clenched, but she did not startle. She had been expecting him. "A princess must understand the kingdom she is to rule, Lord Lysander. Knowledge is the first step."
"Ah, wisdom as well as beauty," he purred, moving closer. He plucked a scroll from a niche at random. "And what knowledge do you seek? Military histories? Genealogies? Or perhaps… the mating habits of dragons?" He gave her a sly, knowing look.
She refused to be baited. "I find a broad education is most valuable. One never knows what information may become relevant."
He leaned against the pillar, too close for comfort. "For instance, it is relevant to know that the true Princess Seraphine has a noted aversion to dust. A tragic allergy, I'm told. And yet, here you are, surrounded by centuries of it, without so much as a sniffle."
The trap was sprung. He had tested her, and she had failed.
Elara's mind went blank for a terrifying second. Then, the scribe's instinct for detail took over. She met his gaze, allowing a flicker of the real Seraphine's imperiousness into her eyes. "Are you calling me a liar, Lord Lysander?"
He seemed taken aback by her directness. "I merely observe a curious discrepancy."
"Then observe this," she said, her voice dropping, laced with a threat she pulled from the memory of the Queen. "The politics of the South are a tangled web. Alliances shift. Appearances are maintained for reasons a Northern courtier might not comprehend. My health is a matter of state, not a subject for your gossip. Do I make myself clear?"
She was bluffing, weaving a web of implication around his specific fact. She was counting on his nature as a schemer to fill in the blanks with a conspiracy grand enough to give him pause.
Lysander's charming mask slipped, revealing the sharp, calculating creature beneath. He studied her, his amber eyes searching for a crack in her armor. She held her ground, her expression one of cold reprimand.
After a long moment, he inclined his head, a gesture of concession that felt more dangerous than a bow. "My apologies, Your Highness. I overstepped. The complexities of the Southern court are, indeed, beyond my humble understanding." He straightened, his smile returning, though it was tighter now. "I shall leave you to your studies."
He melted back into the shadows of the library as silently as he had arrived.
Elara waited until his footsteps faded before she let out a shuddering breath, leaning heavily against the cool stone of a bookshelf. That had been too close. He knew. He might not have proof, but he knew she was not who she claimed to be. He was a snake, coiling in the grass, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Frustration and fear welled up in her, a hot pressure behind her eyes. She needed to know more. She needed weapons. If Lysander was digging into her past, she needed to dig into his.
She began to search the library with a new purpose, looking for anything on the Fox Clan, on court intrigues, on shifter laws and customs. The organization was chaotic, a reflection of a collector who valued possession over order. It was in a dark, forgotten alcove, high up on a spiraling staircase, that she found it.
A small, unassuming codex, its cover plain. But the title, stamped in fading gold leaf, made her breath catch: On the Binding Nature of the Mate-Bond: A Shifter's Sacred Oath.
Her hands trembled as she opened it. The script was old-fashioned, but legible. She read of the instinct, deep and unbreakable, that could latch onto a person, shifter or human. It spoke of a bond that formed not through choice, but through a profound, often instantaneous, recognition of the soul. It described the symptoms for the shifter: an intense protectiveness, a heightened possessiveness, an inability to be away from their mate for long periods, and a deep, instinctual drive to provide and care for them.
And then, she read the consequences of rejecting a true mate-bond. For the shifter, it was a slow, agonizing descent into madness and feral rage, a condition known as the Withering. For the chosen mate, if they willfully and cruelly spurned the bond, the text was vague but ominous, speaking of a life forever shadowed, a soul forever seeking its missing half in vain.
Theron's words from another life echoed in her memory. "Shifters are often loyal... and once they've selected their mate, there is no turning back." It wasn't just a line; it was a biological, magical, and spiritual law in this world.
The implications crashed over her. If Theron, in that past life, had truly selected her as his mate during their time in the office—manifested by the accidental kiss that broke his control—then his constant attention, his nitpicking, his need to keep her close… had it all been a twisted, frustrated expression of that bond? Had her hatred of him been a rejection that was causing him a pain she never understood?
And what of Kaelen? The heat of his touch, the intensity of his gaze… were they just the appraising looks of a king to his political bride, or was there something more primal at work?
A sudden noise—the scuff of a boot on stone—made her slam the book shut and whirl around.
Kaelen stood at the entrance to the alcove, his large frame filling the space. He was not looking at her, but at the book in her hands. His expression was unreadable.
"This is an unusual section for light reading, Princess," he remarked, his voice echoing softly in the confined space.
Elara's mind raced. What excuse could she give? Why would Seraphine be reading about shifter mating bonds?
"I…" she began, her voice faltering.
He took a step forward, his golden eyes finally lifting to meet hers. The heat she always felt around him seemed to intensify in the small alcove, becoming a tangible force.
"My library is open to you," he said, his gaze dropping again to the book. "But some knowledge has teeth. It can bite the unprepared."
He reached out, not for the book, but for her. His fingers, warm and sure, brushed against hers as he took the codex from her trembling hands. The contact was electric, a jolt that shot straight up her arm and settled in the pit of her stomach.
He looked down at the cover, then back at her face, his slitted pupils wide in the dim light.
"Is there something you wish to ask me, Elara?"
The use of her real name—her true name—struck her with the force of a physical blow. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't speak. The world tilted on its axis, and all she could see were his burning, knowing, golden eyes.
The dragon had discovered the mouse in his hoard. And he knew exactly what she was.