Claimed by the Alpha Princes

3.

Chapter Three: The Resonance Chamber

The hum in my head doesn’t stop, a relentless pulse that feels like it’s stitching itself into my thoughts. I’m being herded through the Imperial Nexus, flanked by Rhaekor and Draven, with Cyen trailing behind, his charming smile now a tight line. Tyrian’s gone, slipped away after his cryptic words, but his presence lingers in my mind like a shadow underwater. The hallway we’re in is a maze of crystalline walls, their surfaces rippling with light that seems to react to my steps. I’m still in this ridiculous gown, its translucent fabric whispering against my skin, making me feel like a prize on display. My bare feet are cold against the smooth floor, and every step echoes with the weight of what’s coming.

“Resonance chamber,” I mutter, my voice sharp to mask the fear clawing at my chest. “What does that even mean? You’re going to hook me up to some machine and poke at my brain?”

Draven, walking closest, glances at me, his amber eyes softening. “It’s not like that, Lyra. It’s… a connection. Your mind to ours. It stabilizes us, keeps the madness at bay.”

“Great,” I snap, crossing my arms. “So I’m a walking therapy session for alien werewolves?”

Rhaekor, leading the way, doesn’t turn, but his shoulders stiffen. “Beastmen,” he corrects, his voice cold as frost. “And you’re more than a tool. You’re the only one who can do this.”

I roll my eyes, but the hum in my head spikes, and I wince, pressing a hand to my temple. It’s not just their emotions I’m feeling—grief, rage, ambition—but something deeper, like the signal from my lab, woven into their minds. It’s unnerving, like I’m not entirely in control of myself.

Cyen catches up, his steps light but deliberate. “You’re handling this better than most would, Lyra,” he says, his voice smooth, almost too smooth. “But you should know, the council’s watching. Especially my mother. She’s… particular about how this goes.”

“Your mother?” I stop dead, forcing them all to pause. “Matriarch Veyra? The one who looked at me like I’m a lab rat?”

Cyen’s smile flickers, a crack in his charm. “She’s protective of the empire. And me. Don’t take it personally.”

“Hard not to,” I mutter, resuming my pace. “She summoned me to some chamber like I’m on trial. What happens if I refuse?”

Rhaekor finally turns, his silver eyes piercing. “You won’t. Not because of the council, but because you’re not the type to let people die when you can help.”

His words hit like a punch, and I hate how right he is. I’m a scientist, not a savior, but the thought of them—him, Draven, even Cyen—losing themselves to madness… it twists something in me. I don’t respond, just keep walking, my heart pounding in time with that damn hum.

The hallway opens into a massive chamber, and my breath catches. It’s a cathedral of crystal and light, the ceiling soaring so high it feels like a sky. At the center is a circular platform, surrounded by floating orbs that pulse with blue energy. The air hums louder here, vibrating in my bones, and I realize it’s not just in my head anymore—it’s the room itself, alive with whatever tech powers this place.

Matriarch Veyra stands on the platform, her silver-streaked hair gleaming under the light. Her crimson robes flow like blood, and her emerald eyes lock onto me, sharp and unyielding. She’s flanked by two beastmen in dark armor, their faces hidden behind visors, but I feel their eyes on me, too. The weight of their scrutiny makes my skin crawl.

“Lyra Kael,” Veyra says, her voice cutting through the hum like a blade. “Step forward.”

I hesitate, glancing at Draven. He nods, his hand brushing my arm, a fleeting reassurance. Rhaekor’s expression is unreadable, but Cyen’s watching his mother, his jaw tight. I take a deep breath and step onto the platform, the orbs flaring brighter as I approach. The gown shimmers, catching the light, and I feel exposed, vulnerable, but I lift my chin. I’m not their pawn—not yet.

“Explain this,” I say, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “What’s a resonance session, and why do you need me?”

Veyra’s lips curve, not quite a smile. “Direct. Good. The resonance chamber amplifies your empathic abilities, allowing you to connect with a beastman’s mind. You stabilize their psyche, halting the madness that claims us. Without you, our empire falls.”

I swallow, my throat dry. “And if I say no?”

Her eyes narrow. “You won’t. The empire’s survival depends on you, and so does your own.”

“Threats already?” I snap, my anger flaring. “I was kidnapped, dressed up like a doll, and now you’re telling me I have no choice? I’m not your property.”

Draven steps forward, his voice low but firm. “She’s right, Matriarch. Lyra’s not a slave. She deserves to understand.”

Veyra’s gaze flicks to him, cold and assessing. “General Draven, your loyalty is noted, but this is not your decision. Nor yours, Prince Rhaekor.” She glances at Rhaekor, who’s silent but radiating tension. “The session begins now. Lyra, you will start with the Crown Prince.”

My stomach lurches. “What? Now? I don’t even know what I’m doing!”

“You will learn,” Veyra says, her tone final. She gestures, and the orbs hum louder, their light bathing the platform in blue. “Rhaekor, take your place.”

Rhaekor steps onto the platform, his movements precise, almost mechanical. His silver eyes meet mine, and for the first time, I see a crack in his icy facade—vulnerability, maybe even fear. “I won’t hurt you,” he says, his voice low, meant only for me. “Trust me.”

“Trust you?” I laugh, bitter. “I don’t even know you.”

But as he steps closer, the hum intensifies, and that pressure in my mind returns, sharp and electric. The orbs pulse faster, and I feel it—a tug, like a thread connecting my thoughts to his. His emotions flood in, raw and overwhelming: grief, sharp as a blade; duty, heavy as stone; and something else, a desperate need that makes my breath hitch.

“Lyra,” he says, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “Let me in.”

I want to pull away, to run, but the chamber’s energy locks me in place. My vision blurs, and I’m not just in the Nexus anymore—I’m in his mind. Snow swirls around me, biting and cold, and I see her—a woman with Rhaekor’s silver eyes, her face pale, her screams echoing as darkness swallows her. His sister, lost to madness. His grief crashes into me, and I gasp, my knees buckling.

“Stay with me,” Rhaekor’s voice cuts through, grounding me. His hand brushes mine, and the contact is fire, burning away the cold. I focus on it, on him, and the hum stabilizes, the chaos in his mind easing. But it’s not just him—I feel it changing me, too, like his emotions are weaving into mine, binding us.

“Enough!” Veyra’s voice snaps me back. The orbs dim, and I stagger, Rhaekor catching me before I fall. His touch lingers, his fingers trembling against my arm, and I see it in his eyes—possession, gratitude, something deeper I can’t name.

“You did well,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Better than I hoped.”

I pull away, my heart racing. “What was that? I felt… everything. Your sister, your pain—”

“It’s the resonance,” Veyra says, stepping forward. Her eyes are sharp, calculating. “Your mind is a conduit, Lyra. You take their chaos and give them clarity. But be warned: the deeper the bond, the more it will cost you.”

“Cost me?” I echo, my voice shaking. “What does that mean?”

She doesn’t answer, just gestures to the orbs, which flare again. “General Draven, you’re next.”

Draven steps onto the platform, his amber eyes locked on me. “Lyra, you don’t have to—”

“I do,” I cut in, my voice steadier than I feel. “If I don’t, you all go mad, right? Let’s get this over with.”

He nods, but there’s pain in his expression, like he hates putting me through this. As he takes his place, the hum surges again, and I brace myself. His mind hits me like a storm—rage, raw and searing, mixed with flashes of a woman, her face bloodied, her eyes lifeless. His love, lost to war. I choke on a sob, his grief mingling with mine, and I feel his tiger, roaring, clawing to break free.

“Lyra, focus,” Draven says, his voice a lifeline. His hand finds mine, rough and warm, and I cling to it, pulling his chaos into order. It’s exhausting, like wrestling a tidal wave, but when it’s done, his eyes are clearer, his breathing steadier.

“You’re okay,” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper. “You’re stronger than this.”

I nod, but my head’s spinning, and my body feels like it’s burning from the inside. The orbs pulse again, and I sense Cyen stepping forward, his charm masking something darker. “My turn, I presume?” he says, his smile sharp.

But before he can reach the platform, the chamber shakes, a deep rumble that sends the orbs flickering. Alarms blare, and Veyra’s composure cracks, her eyes darting to the holographic display. It flares to life, showing a fleet of ships—sleek, predatory, unmarked—descending on the Nexus.

“Rebels,” Draven growls, his hand tightening on his blade.

Rhaekor’s claws extend, his voice icy. “They’re after her.”

Cyen’s smile vanishes, and he steps closer to me, protective or possessive, I can’t tell. “Lyra, stay close.”

The hum in my head spikes, and that alien signal from my lab surges, louder, clearer, whispering words I can’t understand. My vision blurs, and I see him—Tyrian, standing at the edge of the chamber, his bioluminescent eyes glowing. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but his mind brushes mine, a current of hunger and secrets that pulls me under.

“Lyra!” Draven’s voice is distant, drowned by the signal. The chamber shakes again, and I feel it—a presence, not just Tyrian’s, but something older, colder, watching from the shadows of the Nexus.

The display crackles, and a new voice echoes, mechanical, ancient. “Omega-class Neuro-Empath, you were summoned for a purpose. Choose, or all will burn.”

The chamber doors burst open, and chaos erupts.