Lyria awoke early in the morning. She always did, a morning wolf by nature, even though most wolves preferred to sleep late. Wyatt had insisted on sleeping in the King’s room with Wallace and Lyria. He had set up a “camp” on the lounge, draping blankets and cocooning himself away. He had fallen asleep there, in his camp, while Wallace and Lyria took turns reading him stories.
Lyria smiled at his sleeping figure. A few feet away, Wallace slumbered in their bed. They looked remarkably alike, even in their quiet, peaceful sleep. Both had dark, thick hair and prominent cheekbones. Wyatt was his father’s miniature in all but a few ways. His eyes, the same icy blue, were larger, rounder. They resembled his mother’s eyes in the shape, at least in the portraits Lyria had seen.
Wyatt also had a s
