The garden at Ironfang was no ordinary place. Lyra had expected mud, weeds, and brambles choked between stone walls. Instead, she found herself staring at an expanse of twisted beauty.
The air was heavy with the perfume of roses, dark crimson and red as blood, their petals thick and wet-looking. Thorned vines climbed trellises carved from iron, their shadows long and spidery against the courtyard wall. At the garden's heart, a fountain trickled silver water, though the stone wolves carved along its rim looked ready to leap down and tear throats.
Magra had brought her here after supper, claiming she needed fresh air. The healer's lined face had shown no expression when Lyra squinted against the fading sun, only a curt nod before she left Lyra seated on a stone bench. Alone.
Lyra tilted her face up toward the pale wash of evening light. The warmth felt strange against her skin after the days locked in stone and shadow. For a moment, she almost let herself relax.
But the walls loomed too high. Iron-tipped gates were locked. Soldiers' shadows patrolled the ramparts. And beyond, she could just glimpse the wild spread of forest.
So close, she thought bitterly, clutching the bench. So close I can almost breathe freedom.
Her eyes lingered on the iron gates of the garden and she wondered, if she escaped the garden would she get a chance? Her heart thudded. Could she climb? Slip through? Run before they noticed?
The thought sent her to her feet. She crossed the path of white gravel, her breath shallow, her gaze darting. Her fingers grazed the cold metal bars, testing their strength.
And then…
"Going somewhere, little bird?"
The voice was smooth as honey, mocking as a knife pressed to skin.
Lyra spun.
He was leaning against the fountain as though he had always been there, a man carved from unfair beauty, slender but strong, sharp jaw, lips curved in a smile that was equal parts charming and cruel. His eyes gleamed a mischievous amber-gold, watching her as if she were a puzzle he already had all the answers to.
One of them. Another Twisted Alpha.
Lyra's mouth went dry, but she refused to take a step back. "I was… only looking around."
His smile widened, teeth gleaming. "Looking around at the bars? At the walls? Tsk, tsk." He pushed off the fountain and strolled toward her, every motion fluid, as though he danced rather than walked. "You want to escape. Bold, considering my brother Caius already found you trying that once. You met his shadows, what did you think of them?"
He stopped a few feet away, hands clasped behind his back, tilting his head as though studying a painting. "Do you always try to run, or were we just that frightening?"
Lyra's pulse hammered. She should have lowered her gaze, bent her head, begged for mercy. That's what the women Magra had spoken of probably did. But the memory of Caius's cold betrayal burned in her veins, stoking a heat that usually burned away all caution and always got her into trouble.
Her chin lifted. "Why should I stay? To be your prisoner? Your… broodmare?" The word made bile rise in her throat. "I would rather throw myself from that wall."
Dorian blinked. Then his grin spread slow and wide. He laughed, a rich, musical sound that sent chills down her spine. "Ah, now this is delicious. A bite. Finally."
Lyra clenched her fists. "I don't find this amusing."
"That is because you my dear are the the mouse," he purred sensibly, circling her now, his footsteps crunching in the gravel. "And we are the cats. Everything about this place, this castle, these walls, was built for our amusement. You'll learn that soon enough."
Her head snapped, tracking him as he prowled. "You think I'll break so easily? You're wrong."
He stopped behind her. She felt the heat of him at her back, his breath brushing her ear. "They all break, little bird. Some quickly, some slowly. The only question is how and when."
Lyra's nails bit into her palms, drawing tiny crescents of pain. "Try me."
That was when his power slid over her.
She didn't see it, didn't hear it. She felt it, like silk against her skin, like warm hands cupping her face, like honey dripping into her veins, luring her into a sweet sensation.
The garden blurred. Her breath caught. Before her stood her father, not drunk, not sneering, not selling her off like cattle, but smiling, arms outstretched. "Lyra," he said, his voice warm, kind. "Come home."
Her chest split open with longing. She staggered forward.
No. No, this isn't real. Her father never smiled at her or had a kind word for her.
The image flickered, just a shimmer, and she gasped, clutching her head. "Stop it!"
Dorian chuckled. The illusion snapped back. This time, her mother. Gentle hands brushing her hair, eyes soft with love. Her mother, who had died when Lyra was a child.
Lyra's knees buckled. Tears pricked her eyes before she could stop them. The need to reach out, to touch, to cling, was overwhelming.
But then she remembered the cave. Caius smiling. Caius bleeding. Caius laughing in the shadows.
And rage roared louder than longing.
Her head whipped toward Dorian, and for an instant, just an instant the illusion shattered completely. She saw only him, his amber eyes wide in shock, his lips parted.
"You…" she hissed. "You won't have me."
The spell cracked like glass.
Dorian blinked, stepping back as if she had shoved him. His grin returned, but this time it was sharper, edged with something unsettled. "Well. Well. That's new and interesting."
Lyra panted, sweat beading her brow. Her whole body trembled, but she refused to look away.
He tilted his head, studying her like a specimen under glass. "You resisted. No one resists me." He leaned closer, eyes gleaming. "What are you, little bird?"
She swallowed, forcing steel into her voice. "I'm someone you should be very careful with."
For a long, taut moment, silence reigned. Then Dorian's laughter rang out again, high and delighted. "Oh, I like you. I think I'll enjoy this game very, very much."
He reached out as if to stroke her cheek but this time she slapped his hand away.
The sound echoed in the garden.
Dorian froze. Then, slowly, his grin widened until it showed too many teeth. His amber eyes burned like twin flames.
"Careful," he murmured, voice a dangerous purr. "The fire in you is real. Burn too hot, and you might catch the wolves' attention. And we are not very kind when we are curious."
With that, he stepped back. In the blink of an eye, he was gone, vanishing down a path of roses, his laughter lingering long after his form had disappeared.
Lyra stood rooted to the spot, her whole body quaking. She hadn't won, she knew that. She had only bought herself attention. Dangerous attention.
But for the first time since she'd been dragged into this nightmare, she didn't feel entirely powerless.
She had made one of them falter.
And that meant that they were not infallible gods.