The man stared at her like she was prey—and he was trying to decide whether or not to end her.
Lyra didn't know what terrified her more: the fact that she had no idea where she was, or the way his presence bent the air around him, thick and electric. He wasn't just powerful. He was power. Ancient. Raw.
Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Marked by who?"
The wind swirled behind him, tugging at his cloak. "By me. You stepped into the Veil under moonfire. That makes you mine."
Lyra blinked. "Excuse me?"
His jaw tightened. "You crossed a blood moon portal. It does not open by chance. It chose you. Which means you belong to the Night Court now."
She stared at him. "Okay. No offense, Vampire Legolas, but I belong to no one."
Something flickered in his gaze. Annoyance. Amusement. Maybe both. "You will address me properly, mortal."
She folded her arms, ignoring the tremble in her spine. "Sure. And what exactly do I call you? Your Ice Majesty? King of Drama?"
He stepped closer. Not touching her. Not yet. But his voice dropped into something velvet and unrelenting.
"I am King Theron of the Night Court. Keeper of the Shadow Flame. Warden of the Wyrm-Seal. You will not mock me."
Silence fell between them like a blade.
Lyra swallowed hard. "Right. Of course. Very… impressive résumé."
His lips twitched. Barely. But then his gaze swept over her—her soaked clothes, scraped palms, wide eyes—and something shifted.
"You're trembling."
"I'm cold," she lied.
"You're terrified," he said. "And you should be."
He turned away from her then, his cloak snapping behind him as he began walking toward a distant path lit with bluish lanterns. "Come. You cannot stay in the open. There are worse things than kings that prowl these woods."
"Wait—I'm not going anywhere with you!"
He paused. Turned just enough to look over his shoulder. "Then stay, and die."
It wasn't a threat.
It was a truth.
And somehow, she believed him.
So she did the only thing she could do.
She followed.