The scent of damp wood and burning tallow filled the air, mingling with the faint stench of old blood. It was the kind of smell that never left a place, seeping into the very walls, into the skin of those who lived within it. Aria Voss had grown used to it. The scent of servitude. The scent of a life that did not belong to her.

She scrubbed the stone floors of the servant’s quarters, her fingers raw from the harsh lye soap that burned against her calloused skin. The bucket of water beside her had long since turned murky, but she did not dare change it until she was finished. Stopping would only earn her lashes, and she had endured enough of those for one lifetime.

Her body ached from the day’s work—no, from a lifetime of servitude. Born into this world with no name worth remembering, no family to claim her, she had been raised as nothing more than property within the grand estate of Lord Cedric Rothmore, a nobleman whose cruelty knew no bounds. Aria had never known freedom, only commands. Only punishment when she did not obey quickly enough.

"Aria!" A sharp voice rang out through the halls, followed by the clicking of heeled boots against the cold stone floor. Lady Eleanor, Lord Rothmore’s second wife, stepped into view, her dark red gown brushing against the floor as she stopped in front of Aria. "Get up. Now."

Aria hurried to her feet, keeping her head bowed. She knew better than to meet the Lady’s gaze. The last servant who had dared to look Eleanor in the eye had been thrown to the wolves. Literally.

"You are to be bathed and dressed immediately," Eleanor said, her lips curling in distaste. "His Majesty, the Lycan King, arrives tonight. And my husband has graciously decided to offer you as a gift to him."

Aria’s heart stilled.

The Lycan King?

Her stomach twisted violently, though she knew better than to show it. She had heard the whispers, the stories spoken in hushed voices by the other servants. King Kieran Vale was not merely a ruler—he was a conqueror. A beast who had carved his kingdom from the bones of those who had dared to defy him. A Lycan so powerful, so ruthless, that even the nobles feared him.

And now… she was to be his?

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed as she studied Aria’s silence. "You should be grateful. A creature like you would never amount to anything on your own. Our king may decide to make you one of his pets. If you're lucky, he might even allow you to live."

Aria’s hands clenched at her sides, but she swallowed the bitter words rising in her throat. She was no fool. Speaking out would only earn her a beating—or worse.

"Yes, my lady," she said, forcing her voice to remain steady.

Eleanor smirked, clearly pleased with Aria’s submission. "Good. The maids will prepare you. I expect you to be presentable by the time the king arrives. Do not shame this household."

With that, the Lady turned and swept out of the room, leaving behind the cold silence of Aria’s fate.

—

The bathwater was scalding, but Aria did not flinch as the maids scrubbed her skin raw. The scent of lavender and honey filled the air, an expensive fragrance meant to mask the stench of servitude. She stared at her reflection in the water, watching as the filth was stripped away, revealing pale, unmarked skin beneath.

She had always known she was different from the other servants. Her skin was unmarred, unlike the others who bore the scars of years spent in chains. Lord Rothmore had never allowed her to be permanently marked, though she had never understood why. Now, as the maids worked to transform her, she felt the weight of a truth she had never been given.

They dressed her in a gown finer than anything she had ever worn before—deep crimson velvet, the color of blood, cinched at the waist with gold embroidery. Her long, chestnut-brown hair was brushed until it gleamed, falling in soft waves down her back. The moment she stood before the mirror, she barely recognized herself.

"You almost look noble," one of the maids muttered, her tone dripping with something close to resentment.

Aria said nothing. She had no reason to respond. It did not matter how she looked.

She was still a prisoner.

—

The grand hall of Lord Rothmore’s estate was alive with the murmur of nobles, their jeweled attire glistening beneath the golden candlelight. A feast had been prepared in honor of the king’s arrival, though the air was thick with tension. None of them knew why King Kieran had come—not truly.

And then, the doors opened.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop as he stepped inside.

Aria’s breath caught.

The stories had not done him justice.

Kieran Vale was a vision of lethal grace, his presence suffocating. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in black, the fabric of his fitted tunic doing little to conceal the raw power beneath. His dark hair, nearly black, fell just above his shoulders in waves, framing a face that was both cruel and devastatingly handsome.

But it was his eyes that sent ice down Aria’s spine.

They were gold. A shade so piercing, so unnatural, that they seemed to glow even in the dim candlelight.

A predator’s gaze.

Every noble in the room bowed their heads in submission, the air thick with fear and reverence. Even Lord Rothmore, a man known for his arrogance, lowered himself slightly in the king’s presence.

"Your Majesty," Rothmore greeted, his voice careful. "It is an honor to have you in our home."

Kieran did not reply immediately. His gaze swept over the room, his expression unreadable. And then—

He saw her.

Aria did not know how she knew, but she did. The moment his golden eyes locked onto hers, the world seemed to still. It was not a look of recognition, nor of curiosity. It was something deeper.

Something primal.

The air shifted. A low growl rumbled from the king’s chest, so quiet that only those nearest could hear it. The tension in the room grew thick, suffocating.

And then, Kieran spoke.

"Who is she?"

Silence.

Aria felt every eye in the room turn to her, but she could not move. Could not breathe.

Lord Rothmore, ever the opportunist, smiled. "A gift, Your Majesty. A servant of my household. I offer her to you as a token of my loyalty."

Kieran’s gaze did not waver. "A servant?"

"Yes, my King."

A long pause.

Then—

"No."

The single word sent a chill through the room. Rothmore paled, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to mask his confusion. "I—I do not understand—"

Kieran took a step forward.

"She is not a servant."

His voice was softer now, but no less dangerous. There was something else in it now, something unspoken.

Aria did not understand what was happening, but she knew one thing.

The king was staring at her like he had found something he had lost.

Or something that had been stolen from him.

And then—

He said the words that changed everything.

"She is mine"

Silence.

A heavy, deafening silence that seemed to swallow the entire hall whole.

Every noble, every servant, every single person in Lord Rothmore’s estate had frozen at the king’s declaration. Even the air felt different—charged, tense, almost suffocating under the sheer weight of the words that had just fallen from his lips.

She is mine.

Aria could not breathe. Her heart pounded in her chest, a frantic rhythm that echoed in her ears.

This was a mistake. A misunderstanding. A cruel trick played by fate.

She was no one.

She was nothing.

A servant. A slave. A piece of property passed between powerful men at their leisure.

Yet King Kieran Vale, the most feared ruler in the entire realm, had just laid claim to her.

Her hands trembled at her sides, but she forced herself to remain still, to keep her head bowed. Looking directly at him felt dangerous, as though she would shatter beneath the intensity of his golden gaze.

Lord Rothmore recovered first. His expression, carefully schooled into neutrality, barely hid the flicker of confusion behind his eyes. "Your Majesty," he said, his voice slow, measured, as if speaking to a beast he did not wish to startle, "she is a mere servant, unworthy of your attention. I only offered her as a gesture of goodwill—surely you would prefer something more… fitting?"

There was a sharp edge to his tone now, a desperate attempt to salvage whatever had just unraveled.

Kieran did not look away from Aria. He did not so much as blink.

"You insult me, Lord Rothmore?"

Rothmore stiffened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "No, my King. I only meant—"

"You meant to offer me a gift, yet now you attempt to revoke it?" Kieran’s voice was dangerously soft, a deceptive calm beneath which a storm brewed. "Or do you think yourself above my will?"

The hall grew even colder. Aria swore she could feel the walls closing in.

Lord Rothmore’s face paled, realizing his mistake too late. He dipped into a deep bow, his arrogance crumbling under the weight of his fear. "Of course not, Your Majesty. Forgive my poor choice of words. She is yours, if you so wish."

Kieran did not respond. Instead, he finally—finally—turned his full attention to her.

"Look at me," he commanded.

It was not a request.

The authority in his voice sent a shiver down her spine, and despite every instinct screaming at her to keep her gaze lowered, she obeyed.

Slowly, hesitantly, she lifted her chin.

And met his eyes.

A breath hitched in her throat.

There was something terrifying in those golden irises, something far beyond mere curiosity. It was a storm, a wildfire—an emotion so raw and unreadable that it left her feeling exposed, as if he could see through her very soul.

Aria had never known power. Had never been given the luxury of control over her own life. Yet standing beneath his gaze, she felt something shift in the air, something she did not understand.

"Your name," he demanded.

She hesitated for only a fraction of a second before answering. "Aria, Your Majesty."

Kieran’s expression did not change, but the moment the name left her lips, something dark flickered in his gaze. A fleeting emotion, gone too quickly for her to name.

Aria.

Had her name meant something to him?

Before she could question it further, Kieran turned to Rothmore. "Prepare her for travel. We leave within the hour."

Her stomach twisted violently. Travel?

He was taking her with him.

No.

No, no, no.

Panic clawed at her chest, but she kept her expression carefully blank. She knew better than to speak out, to question, to beg for a fate different from the one being forced upon her.

Yet her silence did not stop the fear from taking root deep in her bones.

—

The estate was a flurry of movement after the king’s declaration. Servants rushed to prepare Aria for the journey ahead, stuffing fine silks and delicate gowns into a travel chest that did not belong to her. It all felt surreal, like a dream she could not wake from.

She stood motionless as the maids fastened a thick cloak over her shoulders, wrapping her in the softest fur she had ever touched. It was too much. Too luxurious.

She did not deserve this.

And yet, she had no choice but to accept it.

"You must have done something to earn his favor," one of the maids muttered under her breath as she tightened the laces of Aria’s bodice. "Perhaps you pleased him in another life."

Aria flinched at the implication.

She had never even spoken to the king before tonight. She had never even seen him.

And yet, he had claimed her.

Why?

What did he see in her that she did not?

—

The journey to the capital was long and silent.

Aria sat in a carriage alone, surrounded by finery she had never been allowed to touch before. The soft cushions beneath her felt foreign, uncomfortable. She was used to sleeping on the cold stone floors of the servant quarters, used to rough wool and tattered linens.

Not this.

Not a life of silk and velvet.

She should have been grateful.

Any other servant would have traded their soul for the chance to be lifted from the filth of their station, to be given a place within the Lycan King’s court.

But Aria felt only fear.

She did not belong here.

And sooner or later, Kieran Vale would realize that.

The carriage came to a slow halt.

Her breath caught as the door swung open, revealing the massive stone walls of the royal palace.

It was unlike anything she had ever seen before—looming towers stretching high into the night sky, torches burning brightly against the darkened stone. A fortress fit for a ruler.

Fit for a beast.

A tall figure stood waiting at the entrance, his broad form silhouetted by the flickering firelight.

Kieran.

Aria’s hands curled into fists as the realization sank in.

She was no longer a servant.

No longer a prisoner of Lord Rothmore’s estate.

But she had not been freed.

She had merely been transferred to a different kind of cage.

And this time, the bars were made of gold.