Dawn at the royal palace brought no warmth from the sun, only the distant echo of military drums and the rhythmic movement of guards changing shifts in the stone courtyards. For Sofia, the awakening was a brutal collision with reality. The pain in her body had dulled to a muted reminder of her escape, but the void in her chest, where the bond with Gavin used to be, kept bleeding in silence.
Greta entered the small room before the light had finished filtering through the narrow, high window. In her hands she carried a dress of thick cotton, a muted blue-gray color, and an impeccable white apron.
"Put this on," the old woman said in a whisper, leaving the clothes at the foot of the bed. "The palace is already awake, and the kitchen waits for no one. Today you'll join as a cleaning assistant in the east wing. It's the area least frequented by the court, but you must be meticulous. In this place, a poorly washed floor can cost you a severe punishment."
Sofia nodded in silence. She slipped out of bed, feeling the cold of the stone floor seep through the soles of her feet. As she dressed, she noticed how the service uniform, though coarse, served as armor. It concealed the bandages covering her wounds, and as she gathered her long brown hair into a low bun, she felt she was also burying the Sofia Ivanov everyone despised. Now she was simply an anonymous servant.
Upon stepping into the main corridors of the service wing, the sheer size of the place took her breath away. The ceilings were so high they vanished into the shadows, supported by columns of polished black rock that gleamed under the torchlight. The air down here didn't smell of flowers or luxury; it reeked of raw power, the dense essence of hundreds of Lycan warriors who formed the king's guard. That scent sent Sofia's inner wolf into a state of absolute alertness, cowering in the deepest part of her being under the overwhelming pressure of the territory.
"Your task today is to clean the large windows in the portrait corridor," Greta instructed, handing her a wooden bucket of warm water and a thick cloth. "Finish before noon. At that hour, the king's Beta usually patrols the area to inspect security. If you see him, press yourself against the wall and keep your eyes on your feet. Kaelen doesn't tolerate distractions."
Sofia took the bucket and headed to the designated corridor. The physical work served as an anesthetic for her mind. Scrubbing the tall panes of glass, stretching her aching arms, and focusing on eliminating every stain kept her away from the memories of the bloodstained wedding and her sister Tania's accusations.
However, fate in the palace of the Lycans was an unpredictable beast.
A few minutes before noon, while Sofia stood on a small wooden ladder to reach the upper part of a window, she heard heavy footsteps that made the floor tiles vibrate. They weren't the light steps of the servants or the rhythmic stride of ordinary guards. It was a slow, deliberate march, laden with a mystical weight that froze the blood in Sofia's veins.
A scent of storm, smoked oak, and pure silver flooded the corridor at once, erasing every other smell. It was an aroma so imposing that it forced knees to buckle out of pure instinct of submission.
Sofia held her breath, the cloth frozen against the glass. She knew, from the terrifying descriptions that crossed pack borders, who that presence belonged to.
The Lycan King. Cesar Drovnikov was crossing the east wing.
Accompanied by his Beta, Kaelen, and two guards of the royal elite, the monarch moved with the elegance of an alpha predator. He wore an impeccable dark-cut suit that accentuated his imposing physique, and the scar that crossed vertically over his left eye gave him a fearsome, almost divine air. His gaze was cold, a stormy gray that seemed capable of reading anyone's darkest secrets with a single glance.
"The southern borders report unusual movements from the Ivanov pack, my lord," Kaelen said in a low, respectful voice as he walked half a step behind the king. "It seems they're searching for someone with desperation. A fugitive."
Sofia felt her heart stop completely upon hearing her family's name. Panic seized her with such force that her hand trembled, losing its grip on the wet cloth.
The piece of fabric fell, striking the edge of the wooden bucket and making it teeter dangerously on the ladder's ledge. In her desperate attempt to catch it before it made noise, Sofia's foot slipped from the rung.
The sound of the wooden ladder creaking and the bucket overturning with a sharp thud echoed like a gunshot in the solemnity of the corridor. The soapy water spread rapidly across the black stone floor, stopping just a few meters from the king's boots.
The guards drew their swords in the blink of an eye, blocking their monarch's path, while Kaelen placed a hand on the hilt of his dagger, his eyes fixed on the silhouette that had just fallen to the ground.
Sofia ended up on her knees on the wet floor, her palms pressed into the cold water, trembling visibly. The pain of the fall was nothing compared to the terror that suffocated her. She had broken Greta's sacred rule on her very first day: she had drawn the monster's attention.
"What is the meaning of this?" Kaelen's voice cut like ice as he stepped forward to reprimand the intruder.
However, a firm hand covered in dark tattoos settled on the Beta's shoulder, stopping him.
Cesar Drovnikov stepped forward, waving his guards aside with a slight motion of his head. His heavy boots stopped right at the edge of the puddle. From his height, the Lycan King lowered his gaze toward the servant who remained hunched on the floor, her head so low that her forehead nearly touched the tiles.
The corridor plunged into a sepulchral silence, broken only by the steady drip of water falling from the ladder.
Cesar flared his nostrils, drawing in the air of the place. His furrowed brow betrayed that something had caught his attention. Beneath the smell of soap and the young woman's obvious fear, the king's keen sense of smell detected a subtle trail, almost imperceptible but unmistakable: the lingering scent of a freshly slain wolf's blood and the painful fragrance of a mate bond that had just been violently torn apart. A scent that didn't belong to a simple orphan from the Lowlands.
"Look at me," the Lycan King ordered. His voice was not a shout but a dense murmur, charged with the relentless vibration of the Supreme Alpha that made Sofia's hidden wolf lurch with terror and absolute submission.
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