Chapter 5: The contract

Lyra

The morning light was gray and thin.

I had not slept. After the king had dismissed me with nothing but a silent wave of his hand, I had returned to my chamber and sat on the bed until dawn. My hands would not stop shaking.

Now, Corvin stood at my door again.

“The king requires your presence in the great hall,” he said. “The contract will be signed.”

I followed him without a word.

The great hall was different by day. The high windows let in a sickly pale light that did nothing to warm the stone. The long table in the center was bare except for a single parchment and a quill.

And at the head of the table sat Caspian.

He was no longer a shadow. In the daylight, I could see him fully. His black hair was pulled back from his face, revealing the sharp angles of his brow and the hard line of his jaw. His silver eyes watched me as I entered, unblinking.

He wore a dark leather tunic and a heavy silver ring on his thumb. No crown. No throne. But the air around him felt thick, as if the room itself bowed to him.

He still did not speak.

Corvin guided me to a chair across from the king. I sat. The wood was cold against my legs.

“This is the marriage contract,” Corvin said, sliding the parchment toward me. “It has been reviewed by the pack council and the king’s advisors. You are to read it and sign.”

I looked down at the words.

Marriage Contract between King Caspian Blackwood of the Northern Territory and Lyra Vance of Silverpine Pack.

Term: One year, commencing upon signature and ending at midnight on the anniversary thereof.

Upon completion of the term, the debt of three hundred silver marks owed by the Vance family to Silverpine Pack shall be considered fully satisfied and void.

During the term, the bride agrees to reside within Iron Keep, to present herself at the king’s request, and to refrain from any conduct that brings dishonor to the crown.

The groom agrees to provide shelter, food, and protection for the duration of the term.

No further obligations are required of either party.

My eyes caught on that last line. No further obligations. Not a real marriage, then. A transaction. A year of my life in exchange for my father’s freedom.

My hands were trembling.

I pressed them flat against the table to still them.

“Read it all,” Corvin said. “There are no surprises.”

I read it again. Then again. The words did not change. One year. Three hundred silver marks. A signature.

I looked up at Caspian.

He was watching me with those silver eyes. His expression gave nothing away. No cruelty. No kindness. Just patience. Ancient, patient silence.

“If I sign,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended, “my father is safe. The debt is gone. He won’t be thrown out of the pack lands?”

“The debt is erased,” Corvin confirmed. “Your father remains in Silverpine with full rights.”

I thought of Papa lying in that bed, his breath rattling, his hand limp in mine. I thought of the healer who had given up on him. I thought of the three hundred silver marks that had felt like a mountain.

And I thought of the silver-eyed king who had not spoken a single word to me.

“What do you want from me?” I asked Caspian directly.

His jaw tightened. For a moment, something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps, that I had dared to address him. But he did not answer.

Corvin cleared his throat. “The king desires a wife in name only. Your presence is sufficient.”

In name only.

I should have felt relief. Instead, I felt something colder. I was not wanted as a partner. I was wanted as a prop. A Null who could stand beside a king and ask for nothing.

I picked up the quill.

My fingers shook so badly that ink splattered onto the parchment. I wiped it with my sleeve, leaving a dark smear.

Caspian’s eyes followed the movement.

I took a breath. Held it. Then I pressed the quill to the paper and wrote my name.

Lyra Vance.

The letters were crooked, trembling, barely legible. But they were mine.

I set down the quill and pushed the parchment back toward Corvin.

“It’s done,” I whispered.

Corvin examined the signature, then nodded. He turned to Caspian. “My king, your seal.”

Caspian rose.

He was taller than I had realized. Towering. He came around the table, and I had to tilt my head back to see his face. He stopped beside my chair, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body.

He pulled a signet ring from his thumb—the silver ring I had noticed earlier. On it was carved the wolf’s skull ringed by thorns.

He pressed the ring into hot wax beside my signature.

The seal left an imprint. The wolf’s skull stared up at me.

Caspian stepped back.

“The contract is sealed,” Corvin announced. “The marriage is binding for one year. You are now the king’s wife.”

The words hung in the air.

The king’s wife.

I looked at my trembling hands. Then I looked at Caspian.

He was staring at the contract. At my name. At the seal. His silver eyes were unreadable.

Then, without a word, he turned and walked out of the great hall.

The doors closed behind him with a sound like thunder.

I sat alone at the long table, staring at the parchment that had just sold my life for a year. My hands still shook. My chest ached.

“You will be shown to your new chambers,” Corvin said quietly. “Nearer to the king’s.”

I nodded. I could not speak.

As I stood, my legs nearly buckled. I caught myself on the edge of the table.

One year, I told myself. Three hundred and sixty-five days.

I could survive anything for one year.

---

Caspian

I walked until I reached the tower stairs.

Then I stopped.

My hand pressed against the cold stone wall. My breathing was too fast. My wolf was pacing beneath my skin, restless and agitated.

She signed.

I had watched her hands tremble as she picked up the quill. I had watched her read the contract twice, searching for hidden traps that did not exist. I had watched her hesitate—just for a moment—before she wrote her name.

And I had felt something I had not felt in centuries.

Guilt.

She was a child. Nineteen years old, sold by her pack, forced to sign away a year of her life for a father who might not survive the winter. She had looked at me with those dark eyes and asked what I wanted from her.

I had not answered.

Because the truth was too ugly.

I wanted her silence. I wanted her nothingness. I wanted the absence of scent and wolf and magic that calmed the beast inside me. I had bought her like a tool, a medicine, a cage for my own demons.

But when she signed—when her trembling hand pressed the quill to the parchment—I had wanted something else.

I had wanted her to stay.

Not because of the contract. Not because of the debt.

Because she had looked at me without flinching.

I pressed my forehead to the stone.

One year, I told myself.

Three hundred and sixty-five days to figure out what kind of monster I had become.