Chapter 87

Chapter 87: Chapter 87

The abandoned classroom on the east wing was darker than usual, the single candle on the teacher’s desk burning low, its wax pooling like blood on the scarred wood. Killian Drak stood alone in the center of the room, his dark eyes fixed on the flickering flame, his hands opening and closing at his sides. The silence was absolute. The shadows were deep. And in the darkness, Killian rehearsed.

"Corvin," he whispered, his voice soft and trembling. "Corvin, look at me. Look at me. I’ve been here all along. I’ve been waiting. I’ve been patient. I’ve done everything you asked. Everything."

He paused. His reflection in the cracked window glass showed a man he barely recognized—hollow-eyed, gaunt, his dark hair disheveled, his lips cracked and dry. He looked like a ghost. He looked like a monster.

"No. Not like that. Too desperate." He straightened his shoulders, smoothed his hair, practiced a smile. It looked wrong on his face—too wide, too sharp, the smile of a predator ugh pretending to be prey. "Corvin. I need to tell you something. Something important. About Thorne. About what’s going to happen at the showcase. I know you don’t trust me, but you need to listen—"

He stopped. His reflection stared back at him, and the smile crumbled.

"No. No, that’s not right either. He won’t believe me. He never believes me." His voice cracked. "He only believes Thorne. He only sees Thorne. Thorne, Thorne, Thorne. Always Thorne."

His fist slammed into the wall. The stone was cold and unyielding, and pain shot through his knuckles, but he barely felt it. All he felt was the rage. The jealousy. The desperate, consuming need to be seen.

"After tomorrow," he whispered to his reflection, "Thorne will be gone. And Corvin will have no choice but to see me. He’ll grieve, and I’ll comfort him. He’ll be broken, and I’ll put him back together. He’ll finally understand that I’m the only one who’s ever truly loved him."

He pressed his forehead against the cold glass.

"Tomorrow. It all ends tomorrow."

The door creaked open behind him. Draven stepped inside, his broad shoulders filling the frame, his expression eager and anxious in equal measure.

"Killian? Are you ready?"

Killian turned. The hollow-eyed ghost was gone, replaced by the cold, composed mask he wore like armor. "I’m always ready. Is everything in place?"

"Everything. The signal. The distraction. The weapon." Draven patted the hidden pocket inside his training tunic. "No one will suspect a thing."

"Good." Killian crossed the room and pulled Draven into a kiss—hard and demanding, more possession than affection. "After tomorrow, everything changes. Do you understand? Everything."

"I understand." Draven’s voice was thick with devotion. "I won’t fail you."

"I know you won’t." Killian kissed him again. "Now go. Rest. Tomorrow, we make history."

Draven slipped out of the room, and Killian stood alone in the darkness, the candle guttering at his side. He looked at his reflection one last time.

"Soon," he whispered. "Soon."

The meeting place was a storage room near the eastern gate, far from the bustling preparations of the main academy. Nikolai stood near the single window, his scarred face illuminated by the pale afternoon light. Xavier lounged against a stack of crates, his easy smile finally returned, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

"The final message arrived this morning," Nikolai said, holding up a folded piece of parchment. "Lord Varek confirms the plan. The signal will be given during the pageantry. The assassination will take place during the ball, when the guests are distracted and the guards are spread thin."

"And the target?" Xavier asked.

"Thorne Astrlyn. No witnesses. No survivors." Nikolai’s voice was cold and clinical. "Killian will handle the execution. Draven will provide the distraction. We will ensure their escape."

"And if something goes wrong?"

"Nothing will go wrong. We’ve prepared for every contingency." Nikolai folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket. "Lord Varek has promised a substantial reward for success. Titles. Lands. Positions in the new regime. Failure, however—" He paused. "Failure is not an option."

Xavier nodded slowly. "And Killian? Do you trust him?"

"I trust his obsession. He’ll do anything to eliminate Thorne. His hatred is more reliable than loyalty." Nikolai turned toward the door. "We meet again at dawn. Be ready. Tomorrow, the prince dies."

They slipped out of the storage room one by one, their footsteps silent on the cold stone. The plan was set. The pieces were in place. And somewhere in the shadows, the clock ticked closer to midnight.

The academy was a hive of nervous energy.

Banners in crimson and gold hung from every tower, their edges snapping in the crisp morning breeze. Servants scurried through the corridors with armfuls of flowers and silverware and freshly pressed linens. The grand hall had been transformed into a glittering palace of silk and candlelight, its tables polished to a mirror shine, its chandeliers blazing with the light of a thousand candles. The training grounds were being converted into an arena for the combat exhibitions. The dormitories had been inspected and re-inspected. Security had been doubled, then tripled.

The King was arriving at sunset. And the entire academy was holding its breath.

Nyra stood near the eastern garden, watching the chaos unfold from a quiet distance. She had barely slept the night before, her mind churning with fears and possibilities. Selene knew her secret. The King was coming. The showcase was tomorrow. Everything she had worked for—every lie she had told, every mask she had worn—was about to be put to the ultimate test.

A pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist from behind.

"You’re brooding," Soren murmured against her ear. "You always get this little furrow between your eyebrows when you’re brooding."

"I’m not brooding. I’m thinking."

"Same thing." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "What are you thinking about?"

"Everything. Selene. Your father. The showcase. The fact that I had to watch you kiss another woman yesterday in front of half the academy." She turned in his arms to face him, her silver eyes sparking with a jealousy she couldn’t quite suppress. "You looked very princely, by the way. Very royal. Very... kissable."

Soren raised an eyebrow. "Is that jealousy I smell in the air?"

"It’s not jealousy. It’s... observation."

"Observation."

"Yes. I observed you kissing your betrothed. For an uncomfortably long time. While she whispered things in your ear and smiled like a cat who’d caught a canary." Nyra poked his chest. "So if you want to go and kiss her again, go ahead. She’s your betrothed, after all. I’m just the secret mistress."

"You’re not my secret mistress. You’re my mate."

"Same thing, apparently."

Soren caught her hand before she could poke him again. "I’m sorry. For the kiss. For the pageantry. For all of it. I know it hurt you. I know you’re trying to be strong about it, and I love you for that. But you don’t have to pretend with me."

Nyra’s bravado faltered. "It did hurt. Watching you with her. Even though I knew it wasn’t real. Even though I knew you didn’t want it. It still hurt."

"I know." He cupped her face in his hands. "And I’m sorry. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Starting now."

He kissed her.

It was not the mechanical, reluctant kiss he had given Selene in the ballroom. It was not the desperate kiss of the lake or the tender kiss of reconciliation. It was a kiss of apology and devotion and fierce, burning love. His lips moved against hers with the certainty of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to claim it.

Nyra melted into him. Her hands fisted in his tunic, pulling him closer. His arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her slightly off the ground. The kiss deepened, and the world around them faded away—the banners, the servants, the chaos of preparation, the looming threat of the King’s arrival.

"I love you," he murmured against her lips.

"I love you too," she breathed back.

"Let me make it up to you. Properly. Now."

She didn’t argue. She didn’t resist. She let him take her hand and lead her through the corridors to his suite, where the curtains were drawn and the bed was soft and the world outside ceased to exist.

What followed was not frantic. It was not desperate or rushed or tinged with the fear of being caught. It was slow and deliberate and achingly tender—two people who had weathered a storm and come out the other side, bruised but unbroken. Soren undressed her with the reverence of a pilgrim at a shrine, pressing kisses to each inch of skin as it was revealed. Nyra traced the lines of his tattoo with her fingertips, marveling at the wolves mid-hunt, the moonlight etched in ink.

"I love this," she murmured. "Your tattoo. Your wolves. Your story written on your skin."

"I love you," he replied. "Your silver hair. Your fierce heart. Your stubborn, beautiful soul."

They came together like the tide meeting the shore—inevitable, timeless, utterly right. Soren moved above her with the same focused intensity he brought to everything, but his touch was gentle, his gaze never leaving her face, his whispered words a constant litany of love and reassurance. Nyra clung to him like he was the only anchor in a storm-tossed sea, and when they finally tumbled over the edge together, it was with her name on his lips and his heartbeat against her chest.

Afterward, they lay tangled in the silk sheets, their bodies slick with sweat, their breathing slowly returning to normal. Nyra’s head rested on Soren’s chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin. His arm was wrapped around her waist, holding her close.

"The King arrives at sunset," she said quietly.

"I know."

"Are you afraid?"

"Terrified." He pressed a kiss to her hair. "But not for myself. For you. For what he might do if he finds out about us. About what you are."

"He won’t find out. We’ve been careful."

"Selene knows. And she’s not the only one. Valeria suspects. The assassins are still out there. Your uncle is arriving with the Astrlyn delegation." Soren’s voice tightened. "There are too many threats, Nyra. Too many people who want to hurt you."

"Then we’ll face them together." She propped herself up on her elbow and looked at him. "Whatever happens at the showcase—whatever your father says or does—I’m not going anywhere. You’re my mate. My partner. My equal. And I’m not letting anyone take that away from me."

He pulled her down and kissed her. "I don’t deserve you."

"No. You don’t. But you’re stuck with me anyway."

"I can live with that."