The Lycan King's Outcast Omega (by Cara Anderson) novel Chapter 242

"And you're the one who would steal the throne through deception," she counters, her voice steady despite her precarious position.

Her directness catches me off guard. "The throne was stolen from my bloodline generations ago. We merely seek to restore what was rightfully ours."

"Through a ritual that would violate the true mate bond?" She takes a careful step backward on the log. "Through forcing Alexander's essence to split apart?"

The mention of a mate bond strikes me like a physical blow. "True mate? What are you talking about?"

Her expression shifts, surprise followed by realization. "You don't know," she murmurs. "He found his true mate—the silver thread connection your ritual seeks to override. That's why you need a Silverspiral healer's essence. To break a bond that fate itself decreed."

My mind reels with implications. Alexander has found his true mate? When? How? And why didn't my people's intelligence reveal this critical information? If he's truly bonded...

I push these questions aside, refocusing on the immediate situation. "Whatever bond you claim exists doesn't change the prophecy. The balanced heir must be united with the ancient bloodline to restore what was sundered."

"The prophecy you brought has been corrupted," she insists. "Twisted to serve your purposes. The original words remain hidden in the Cave of Whispers."

Another shock. She knows of the Cave—a place my people have sought for generations, believing it contains the earliest recordings of the prophecies that guide us all. If she has access to this knowledge...

"You are of the Silverspiral bloodline," I state rather than ask. "The mark on your shoulder blade proves it."

Her hand moves instinctively to her left shoulder, confirming my suspicion. "And you would use me in a ritual that could destroy Alexander—split his essence permanently if something goes wrong."

The guards rush past me, following the direction I indicate—but I deliberately point them along the left fork of the ravine, opposite from the path I suggested to Lyra. It will buy her precious minutes to escape into the deeper forest.

Looking back, I realize my approach was too subtle, too ambiguous. In my attempt to maintain appearances while still helping her escape, I likely seemed to be springing a trap rather than offering aid. My words—"Be ready" followed immediately by the shouted command to surrender—could easily have been interpreted as a predator toying with prey rather than the warning I intended. And in her fear and confusion, Lyra would have seen my actions as a failed capture attempt, not the deliberate assistance I meant to provide.

Perhaps that's for the best. If she believed I truly tried to help her, she might have mentioned it to Alexander if she somehow reached him, complicating my position further. This way, I remain the clear enemy in their eyes—the Northern princess leading attacks on healing enclaves—with my momentary doubt hidden from all but myself.

In my chambers, as attendants help me bathe and dress, I find myself haunted by Lyra's words. The true mate bond—something so rare and significant that even our most ambitious ancestors hesitated to interfere with such connections. The Cave of Whispers—a place of original truth my people have sought for centuries without success. The suggestion that our version of the prophecy might be corrupted rather than corrected.

And beneath it all, the uncomfortable question: what if our righteous mission to reclaim the throne is based on a fundamental misunderstanding of the prophecy itself?