Page 4 of The Onyx Covenant (The Lunaterra Chronicles #2)

LYRA

I hate portals. The ancient magic pulls at my insides, stretching and compressing me until I’m not sure where my body ends and the void begins. For three nauseating seconds, I exist everywhere and nowhere, my consciousness scattered across dimensions.

Then reality slams back into place, and I stumble forward onto gleaming marble floors, my stomach lurching violently. Father and Mother step through behind me with irritating grace, as though traveling through portals is no more disorienting than a casual stroll. The two guards carrying our bags follow, looking only slightly green around the face.

“Welcome to Solmane,” a crisp male voice announces.

I straighten, blinking away the disorientation as my eyes adjust to the light flooding through stained-glass windows. We’ve arrived in the Portal Pavilion, a grand circular chamber with arched doorways leading to different parts of the sprawling capital city.

Solmane. The capital jewel of the kingdoms and host to today’s United Houses Luncheon.

The last time I was here, I was sixteen. We never even made it to the actual event. Some diplomatic crisis had Father rushing home, leaving Mother and me to spend precisely four hours shopping in the merchant district before being whisked back through the portal.

In those four hours, I’d seen enough to know that Solmane represented everything I didn’t want—artifice, political games, and marriages arranged for power rather than love.

Not that love had worked out any better for me. My chest tightened at the thought.

“Alpha Mooncrest,” the voice continues, belonging to a tall, slender man in elaborate gray robes. “Lady Elara. Lady Lyra. The Covenant welcomes you to Solmane for the United Houses Luncheon and the Royal Wedding.”

Father inclines his head, every inch the dignified pack leader. “Thank you, Master Calloway. It’s been too long.”

“Indeed it has.” Calloway’s gaze flicks briefly to me, assessing in a way that makes my skin crawl. “If you’ll follow me, your accommodations have been prepared in the Rise Tower.”

We step out of the pavilion into blinding sunlight, and Solmane unfolds before us in all its ostentatious glory.

Holy fuck.

The city is more beautiful than I remember—and more alien to a wolf raised in the forests of Eclipsia. Glass spires twist toward the sky like frozen waterfalls, catching the sun and reflecting it in prisms that paint the streets in rainbow hues. Bridges of pale wood and shimmering metal connect buildings at various levels, creating a three-dimensional maze of architecture that defies gravity.

Unlike our stone dwellings that grow organically from the forest floor, everything here seems designed to impress, to announce its own importance. Vines with purple and blue blossoms cascade down the sides of buildings, perfectly cultivated to appear wild while actually being meticulously maintained.

The streets below teem with life—not just wolves, but beings from across the planet. Humans with their quick, nervous movements. Fae with their iridescent wings.

Banners in deep crimson and gold hang everywhere, displaying the crest of the Hunter’s Moon.

“The city has changed since your last visit,” Calloway observes, noting my wide-eyed stare. “The Crystal Quarter has been expanded, and the new Lunar Gardens were completed just last month.”

“It’s very… shiny,” I manage, earning a warning glance from Mother.

Calloway’s lips twitch. “Some find it overwhelming at first, but I assure you, Rise Tower offers a more… rustic aesthetic that may be more to your liking.”

Rustic . His polite way of saying it’s been designed to make forest-dwelling wolves feel less out of place. How considerate.

We’re led to a sleek carriage pulled by creatures that resemble horses but aren’t quite—their coats shimmer with a metallic gleam, and their eyes hold an intelligence no normal horse possesses.

“Kelpies,” Mother whispers to me as we climb inside. “Fae-bred.”

The carriage moves with unnatural smoothness through streets that part for us like water. I sink into plush velvet seats, watching the spectacle of Solmane slide past the windows.

Vendors line the avenues, hawking everything from moonstone trinkets to pastries shaped like crescent moons to ribbons in every imaginable color.

It’s beautiful. It’s impressive.

I hate it.

Every gleaming surface, every perfectly arranged flower, every carefully designed vista screams artifice. There’s nothing real here, nothing authentic. Back home, our stone houses bear the marks of centuries of wolf habitation—claw marks, scent markings, and the occasional bloodstain from territorial disputes. Our forest paths wind naturally through the trees, shaped by generations of paws rather than some architect’s grand vision.

This place is a costume, a mask. Just like the one I’m wearing now—dutiful daughter, perfect priestess, future mate to some worthy Alpha. But not today.

“We’re here,” Father announces unnecessarily as the carriage stops before a tower that, true to its name, appears to be carved from some pale stone that captures the pearlescent quality of moonlight.

Rise Tower goes to at least twenty stories, its facade decorated with carvings of wolves and moons in various phases. Unlike the glass spires of the city center, this building has a solidity to it, a permanence that speaks to wolf sensibilities.

Calloway leads us through doors carved from a single piece of silver-white wood into a lobby that manages to be both elegant and primal. Chandeliers crafted from antlers hang from the vaulted ceiling, casting warm light over stone floors inlaid with lunar phases in blue and silver tile.

“Your suite occupies the entire fifteenth floor,” he informs us, guiding us to an elevator operated by actual magic rather than mechanics. “The United Houses Luncheon begins in four hours, which should give you ample time to rest and prepare.”

The doors slide open directly into our accommodations, revealing a space that would comfortably house my entire pack’s covenant. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer panoramic views of Solmane, the city stretching out below us like a jeweled carpet.

“This is… adequate,” Father says, which, in his lexicon, is high praise indeed.

Calloway bows slightly. “If you require anything, simply speak your needs to the moonstone by the door. A servant will attend you promptly.” With that, he disappears back into the elevator, leaving us to explore our temporary home.

“Well,” Mother says after a moment of silence. “Shall we settle in?”

The next few hours pass in a blur—unpacking, staring out at the beautiful city, checking out our quarters. The air smells faintly of cedar and something sweeter. Then, it’s time to prepare for the luncheon.

I pause at the mirror, expecting to see a familiar reflection. Instead, I find myself staring at a stranger.

The woman who looks back at me bears little resemblance to the wolf who was training with staffs at dawn. My white-blonde hair, usually worn in practical braids, has been arranged by Mother in an elaborate updo with moonstone pins that catch the light when I move. My ceremonial facial markings, the delicate silver lines that identify me as a priestess in training, have been enhanced with some shimmering powder that makes them appear to glow from within.

The dress is something else entirely.

Unlike the formal robes I expected to wear, Mother provided a gown that is daringly modern. The bodice hugs my torso in pale silver silk, embroidered with phases of the moon in white thread so fine that it’s barely visible. From the waist, the skirt flows in layers of gossamer fabric the color of twilight, darkening from silver to the deep blue of midnight at the hem. The back dips low, exposing more skin than I’m comfortable with, while the front offers a modest neckline that keeps me just on the respectable side of pack tradition.

“You look beautiful,” Mother says, appearing behind me in the mirror. She’s dressed in similar colors but a more conservative style, as befits her status as Luna of the pack.

“I look like someone else,” I mutter, tugging at the bodice.

“Sometimes that’s what’s required of us,” she replies, her hands gentle as she adjusts one of my hairpins. “To be who our pack needs, rather than who we wish to be.”

The words hit too close to home, stirring the restlessness that’s lived in my chest since childhood. “And if who I am isn’t who the pack needs?”

Something soft flickers in Mother’s eyes. “Then you find ways to be both, in different moments.” She touches the spiral birthmark on my wrist, visible despite my attempts to cover it with bracelets. “The moon has many phases, Lyra. So do we.”

Before I can respond, Father’s voice booms from the main room. “It’s time.”

Mother squeezes my hand once, then releases it. “Remember who you are today. Whose daughter.”

“I don’t plan to find a mate today, just so we’re clear,” I whisper so Father doesn’t hear and set off on a rant. “I’m here, forced to attend the Royal Wedding.”

She smiles too sweetly and pats my hand like this has been some clever trick they used to get me here. Then, without another word, she turns and strides toward the door.

I grind my teeth and follow, steeling myself for a gathering of political niceties and thinly veiled matchmaking attempts.

The ballroom where the United Houses Luncheon is held occupies the entirety of the central building, a massive structure of white stone and gold. We approach along a grand hallway lined with portraits of past leaders, their stern faces watching our progress with painted eyes that seem to follow our movements.

Father and Mother pause every few steps to greet acquaintances, their social obligations slowing our progress to a crawl. I hover awkwardly behind them, searching the crowd with a growing sense of dread.

He won’t be here, I tell myself. Why would he be? The Royal Wedding isn’t until tomorrow.

But even as I think it, I know I’m lying to myself. Of course he’ll be here. His father is Alpha of the Umbra pack—he wouldn’t miss a chance to show his face, to remind everyone that his family has dominated the Onyx Covenant for fifty years. Even if he’s not here for matchmaking, this is still the perfect stage to flaunt his power.

The hallway opens into an antechamber where guests gather before entering the main ballroom. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow light over a sea of formal attire.

Then I see him.

Theron Shadowmane stands alone near a window, a glass of something amber held loosely in one hand. He’s dressed in formal black, the severity of the color broken only by silver accents at his collar and cuffs. His hair, longer than I recall, is pulled back, revealing the sharp angles of his face and the intensity of his gray eyes as they scan the room.

I stumble, my heel catching on the hem of my gown. Goddess, he’s even more beautiful than I remember. More dangerous.

My attention darts around, searching for the woman in red, his betrothed. I don’t see her, but I do spot his father holding court in a corner, surrounded by others hanging on his every word. Theron’s father radiates menace, even in this formal setting.

Heat floods my body. I should look away from Theron. Should pretend I haven’t seen him.

Instead, I stare like a rabbit hypnotized by a predator, my heart hammering.

“Lyra,” Mother murmurs, touching my elbow. “Are you all right? You look flushed.”

I blink, breaking the spell. “Fine,” I manage. “Just… warm in here.”

She follows my gaze, hers landing on Theron. Something shifts in her expression. It’s not a surprise, exactly, but a sharpening of interest that makes me uneasy.

“Come,” she says, her voice gentle. “Your father wants to introduce you to some families.”

She guides me away, deeper into the antechamber where Father stands with a cluster of important-looking individuals. I go through the motions of greeting them, smiling and nodding at appropriate intervals while my mind remains fixated on the wolf by the window.

Why isn’t his betrothed with him? Did something happen to her? Did he change his mind?

Hope flares, unwelcome and deadly, before I ruthlessly extinguish it. It doesn’t matter. Whatever happened or didn’t happen between Theron and the woman in red has nothing to do with me. He made his choice a year ago.

Finally, we’re ushered into the main ballroom, a space so vast and opulent that it momentarily distracts me from my emotional turmoil. The ceiling soars at least four stories above, painted with a mural of the night sky so realistic it seems to move. Actual stars—or magical approximations of them—twinkle, casting a soft glow over the guests.

The floor is a masterpiece of wood and stone.

My parents immediately drift toward a group of officials, leaving me momentarily unattended. I seize the opportunity to move over to the nearest wall, seeking some semblance of cover in a room designed to put everyone on display.

I can’t breathe properly. Can’t think. My eyes keep finding him, no matter how determinedly I try to look elsewhere. He’s moved into the ballroom now, still alone, still studying the crowd as though searching for someone.

For me? The thought sends a jolt of electricity down my spine.

No. Not for me. Never again for me.

I need to escape, to find a moment to collect myself. The bathrooms must be nearby, where I can splash cold water on my face and remember all the reasons I hate Theron Shadowmane.

I push away from the wall, intent on escape.

“Excuse me, but are you Lyra Mooncrest?” a male voice asks.

I turn to find a young man watching me with open admiration. He’s handsome enough—tall, with deep brown hair and friendly matching eyes. A human, by the looks of him, or perhaps a wolf with unusually subtle features.

“I am,” I confirm. “And you are?”

“Damien Croft,” he says with a slight bow. “House of the Midnight Star. I’ve heard so much about you from mutual acquaintances.”

I doubt that very much, considering I have approximately two friends, neither of whom would run in his circles. I smile politely, falling back on years of training in proper pack etiquette.

“All good things, I hope.”

“Only the best.” When he smiles, he seems genuine. “They said you were beautiful, but they failed to mention you’d be the most striking woman in the room.”

Under normal circumstances, such an obvious line would make me sigh. Tonight, desperate for any distraction, I find myself almost appreciating his compliment.

“That’s very kind,” I respond. “Though I think there are many who would dispute your assessment.”

“Not from where I’m standing.” He gestures to a passing server, collecting two glasses of sparkling wine. “Would you care for a drink? I promise it’s not an attempt to lower your inhibitions—merely to help you endure what promises to be a tedious evening of political maneuvering disguised as social niceties.”

A surprised laugh escapes me. “You’re not a fan of these gatherings, either?”

“I find them exhausting,” he confesses, handing me a glass. “My mother insists I attend to make connections, but I’d rather be in my workshop.”

This piques my genuine interest. “Workshop?”

“I design mechanical contraptions,” he explains, a hint of embarrassment coloring his voice. “Mostly useless things that amuse me, occasionally something practical. My latest is a device that automatically waters plants based on soil moisture.”

“That actually sounds useful.”

“For someone who consistently kills houseplants, perhaps.” His smile widens. “So, what would you rather be doing than standing here making small talk with a stranger?”

Training with Aria, I think immediately. Running through the forest in wolf form. Anywhere but here, where Theron’s presence presses against my awareness like a physical weight.

“Reading,” I say instead, the lie coming easily. “I’m studying ancient healing techniques.”

“Ah, yes, you’re training as a priestess, aren’t you?” So someone has been talking about me… my parents instantly come to mind. “I’ve read that your healers can mend bones with just a touch and the right incantation.”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that.” I take a sip of the wine, welcoming its coolness. “The moon grants us access to?—”

I stop mid-sentence, my spine stiffening as awareness prickles across my skin. He’s watching me. I can feel it.

My eyes flick up involuntarily, meeting Theron’s gaze across the room. He stands less than thirty feet away, his expression unreadable as he stares at me and my companion. Something dark flashes in his eyes—something that looks dangerously like possession—before he turns away, drawn into conversation by someone I can’t see.

“Is that your partner?” Damien asks, following my gaze.

I nearly choke on my wine. “God, no. Never.”

“Well, he’s looking at you as if he’d like to either kill me or drag you away. Possibly both.”

“He’s what?” I can’t help but glance back, and sure enough, Theron is watching us again, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack stone.

“Ah, complicated history,” Damien surmises. “Say no more. I’ve had a few of those myself.”

I turn back to him, conscious of Theron’s stare burning into my back. My heart beats so loudly I’m certain Damien can hear it, but a sudden reckless thought takes hold. Why shouldn’t Theron see me enjoying someone else’s company? Why shouldn’t he get a taste of what I’ve felt this past year?

“You know what?” I say, finding my voice. “He’s nobody important. Just someone who once made promises he couldn’t keep.”

“Ah.” Damien’s eyes sparkle with understanding. “The plot thickens.” He leans in slightly, voice dropping conspiratorially. “If you’d like to make him jealous, I’m happy to play along. I’m excellent at pretending to be utterly captivated.”

The petty, wounded part of me—the part that has cried itself to sleep more nights than I care to admit—rises to the surface.

“You know what? I’d like that very much.”

“Wonderful.” Damien grins, offering his arm. “Shall we give him a show to remember, then?”

I take his arm, my smile feeling almost natural for the first time today. “Lead the way.”

We stroll along the edge of the ballroom, Damien keeping up a stream of witty commentary about the other guests that has me genuinely laughing. I’m acutely aware of Theron’s gaze following our progress, and I can practically feel the tension radiating from him, even across the crowded room. And it’s wonderful.

“He’s moving closer,” Damien murmurs. “And if looks could kill, I’d be six feet under.”

“Let him be jealous,” I say, though my heart hammers against my ribs. I lean in as though Damien has just said something delightfully scandalous, letting my hand linger on his bicep.

“Brave woman.” He chuckles. “I think he might actually be growling.”

“Good,” I say, loud enough to be heard by anyone nearby. Then I laugh, high and musical, tossing my head back in a practiced gesture I’ve seen other women use to display their throats in subtle invitation.