Chapter 10

The Man Beneath the Monster

Kael avoided her for two full days after the library incident.

Not subtly either.

He disappeared before breakfast meetings. Delegated dinner appearances to Fenrir. Sent military reports through servants instead of discussing them directly. Even the wolves near the eastern wing seemed strangely restless without him around, pacing the courtyards at odd hours like they were waiting for instructions that never came.

Lyra told herself the distance was a relief.

It should have been.

Instead, every time footsteps echoed through the fortress halls, some small humiliating part of her still looked up expecting him.

By the third evening, the first real snow battle of the season broke out along the eastern border.

Lyra only learned about it because the fortress shifted all at once.

One minute the lower halls buzzed with ordinary winter activity.

The next—

soldiers were running.

Orders echoed through corridors. Stable doors slammed open below the western ramparts. Medical supplies vanished from storage shelves while servants hurried to prepare extra rooms near the infirmary.

The atmosphere changed so quickly it reminded Lyra of watching animals sense storms before humans noticed the clouds.

“What happened?” she asked one passing servant.

“Border attack near Frost Hollow.”

The young man barely slowed while answering.

“Rogue wolves.”

Then he disappeared down the corridor carrying bandages.

Mirelle appeared from the stairwell a few minutes later already rolling up her sleeves.

“The infirmary needs help.”

Lyra stood immediately.

“I’m coming with you.”

Mirelle opened her mouth like she intended to argue.

Then probably remembered Lyra had spent most of her childhood stitching hunters back together after winter raids.

“Fine,” she sighed. “But if someone loses an arm, I’m assigning them to you.”

The Blackfang infirmary occupied an entire lower wing beneath the fortress.

By the time Lyra arrived, the place already smelled like blood, smoke, wet leather, and medicinal herbs crushed beneath hurried hands.

Wounded soldiers filled nearly every cot.

Some conscious.

Some not.

One young wolf no older than eighteen kept apologizing repeatedly while a healer reset his dislocated shoulder.

“I dropped my damn sword,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

“You dropped it after getting stabbed,” the healer replied. “Very understandable behavior.”

Lyra spent the next hour helping wherever she could.

Cleaning wounds.

Holding bandages.

Boiling water.

At one point she ended up sitting beside an older soldier while he quietly cried from pain and embarrassment after nearly losing two fingers to frostbite.

“You still have the fingers,” Lyra reminded him gently.

“Barely.”

“You’re northern. Aren’t you people biologically incapable of admitting weakness?”

That startled a rough laugh out of him.

Small victory.

Outside, snow continued raging against the fortress walls.

More injured arrived after midnight.

But Kael didn’t.

Fenrir eventually appeared near the infirmary entrance covered in blood that clearly wasn’t all his own.

The room shifted slightly when he entered.

Not fear.

Awareness.

People paid attention when Kael’s beta looked tired.

Mirelle approached immediately.

“Where’s the Alpha?”

Fenrir pulled off one bloodstained glove slowly.

“Still outside.”

Something tightened uncomfortably in Lyra’s chest.

“He’s injured,” Fenrir added after a pause. “Nothing fatal.”

Not fatal.

A terrible way to describe someone.

The next hour crawled by painfully slowly.

Lyra kept trying to focus on work.

Failed repeatedly.

Every distant sound from the outer courtyard dragged her attention back toward the infirmary entrance.

Then finally—

the fortress doors opened.

Cold air swept sharply through the lower halls.

And Kael walked in.

The room quieted almost immediately.

Not fully.

But enough.

Kael looked nothing like the untouchable ruler seated at the head table during court dinners.

His dark coat hung open and soaked through with melting snow while blood streaked one sleeve heavily enough that several healers moved instinctively toward him before stopping short.

Probably because of the expression on his face.

Not angry.

Just exhausted.

Deeply.

Bone-deep exhausted.

Lyra had seen dangerous men before.

Hunters.

Pack enforcers.

Mercenaries passing through southern territories.

They usually carried violence proudly after battle.

Kael carried it like something heavy he was too tired to put down.

Fenrir stepped beside him quietly.

“You’re bleeding through the bandage again.”

“I noticed.”

“Wonderful. Glad we solved that mystery.”

Kael ignored him completely.

His attention lifted across the infirmary.

And landed on Lyra.

For a second neither of them moved.

Then Kael frowned slightly.

“What are you doing down here?”

Lyra blinked.

“Helping?”

The answer sounded obvious enough that Fenrir actually looked offended on her behalf.

“She’s been working for hours,” Mirelle added sharply while passing clean cloths to another healer. “Unlike some people.”

Fenrir coughed suspiciously into his fist to hide a grin.

Kael looked like he intended to argue.

Instead he swayed very slightly.

Barely noticeable.

But enough.

Lyra crossed the room before really thinking about it.

“You need stitches.”

“I need sleep.”

“You’re getting stitches first.”

That earned her a long look.

Not hostile.

Mostly surprised.

Like people generally stopped giving him direct instructions somewhere around the age of sixteen.

Fenrir looked deeply entertained now.

“I like her,” he announced to nobody in particular.

Eventually Kael allowed himself to be dragged toward one of the quieter treatment rooms near the back hall.

Allowed being the important word.

No one in Blackfang physically forced Kael Draven into anything.

The room itself was small and overly warm from the nearby furnace pipes.

Kael sat heavily on the edge of the treatment table while Lyra gathered fresh bandages and stitching supplies from the cabinet nearby.

Only when she turned back did she properly see the wound.

“Oh.”

The word escaped before she could stop it.

A long gash cut across Kael’s ribs beneath torn black fabric, blood still slowly soaking through the temporary field dressing wrapped around his waist.

Not fatal.

Definitely ugly.

Kael glanced down briefly.

“One of the rogues got lucky.”

“That’s your definition of lucky?”

“I’m alive.”

“You northern men set the bar incredibly low.”

A quiet sound escaped him then.

Not quite laughter.

But close enough that Lyra looked up in surprise.

Kael leaned back slightly against the wall while she cleaned the wound.

Up close, exhaustion looked even more obvious on him now.

The sharpness around his eyes had dulled beneath fatigue. His shoulders remained tense purely out of habit rather than energy. Several smaller cuts marked his knuckles and throat like he’d stopped bothering to notice pain hours ago.

And suddenly—

he didn’t look monstrous.

Just worn down.

Like someone who hadn’t rested properly in years.

Lyra threaded the needle carefully.

“This is going to hurt.”

Kael looked at her steadily.

“I know.”

Something about the answer landed strangely between them.

Not because of the wound.

Because it sounded like he meant far more than that.