Page 15 of The Onyx Covenant

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.”

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