The heavy oak door stood firm against Vivian's persistent knocks, its age-old frame groaning softly under her repeated fists. She rapped her knuckles again, harder this time, the echo thudding down the lavish hallway like a judge's gavel in a quiet courtroom.
Inside the chamber, Tristan sat perched on the edge of his bed, his body tense and rigid, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles gleamed bone-white against the soft velvet bedspread. His heart was thundering inside his chest, each beat more violent than the last, the anger inside him simmering like a boiling cauldron threatening to overflow. His mind played and replayed the scene with Lucius in the alley, the blood, the way Vivian pulled him back, the way she dismissed the entire incident with a mocking smile. Shame crawled beneath his skin like insects, scratching and relentless.
"Tristan," Vivian's voice floated through the thick wood, sharp at first, commanding. "Open this door at once."
He said nothing. His chest rose and fell in erratic rhythms, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
There was a pause. Then, her tone softened. A lull in the storm. The commanding mother disappeared, replaced by the doting one, soft and syrupy. She began to hum. That melody. The one she used to sing to him when he was a child wrapped in blankets, shivering with fever. The one she used when he had nightmares about being left behind.
"My precious son," she whispered, as if her voice could reach through the wood and unravel the knots in his heart. "Everything I do... it's for you. You must understand. I'm only protecting you. Protecting your future. Orion can't have what should be yours."
At the mention of Orion's name, something snapped inside Tristan. His rage, once a cloud without direction, suddenly focused into a piercing spear. Orion. It was always Orion. The golden boy. The whisper of the prophecy that haunted their halls. The reminder that someone else might take what was supposed to be his.
He shot up from the bed, the mattress springs groaning in protest. He stomped to the door, fists still clenched, the fury in his blood hot and alive. With a rough jerk, he unlocked the door and flung it open.
Vivian stood just outside, wearing her most motherly expression, soft eyes, parted lips, and hands folded gracefully at her waist. But Tristan saw beneath it. The calculation in her gaze. The pride in his anger. Her smile widened when their eyes met.
Before Tristan could say a word, she stepped forward and pulled him into a warm embrace. He stiffened in her arms.
"My brave son," she murmured into his hair, her voice a velvet trap. "Trust me. Everything is under control."
Tristan's arms remained at his sides, unmoving.
"Just... just don't hurt Celeste," he rasped after a moment, his voice barely above a whisper. His throat was dry. Saying her name felt like exposing a wound. "She won't be a threat. I promise."
Vivian leaned back slightly, cupping his cheek. Her eyes sparkled, but the light within them wasn't warm,it was sharp, like glass. "Are you sure, my dear?"
Tristan hesitated. Then, with a reluctant nod, he said, "I'm sure."
She smiled wider, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "Then you have nothing to worry about."
But Tristan's stomach twisted.
Meanwhile, across the kingdom, in the modest shadows of their crumbling home, Celeste's family sat huddled together. The remnants of the broken door leaned against the wall like a gravestone, a monument to the humiliation they'd suffered. Their single candle flickered weakly on the crooked table, casting elongated shadows that seemed to whisper fears no one dared speak aloud.
Harper sat on a frayed cushion, her eyes red from crying, her face blotchy and pale. She kept wringing her hands, over and over, until her knuckles were raw.
Celeste sat beside her sister, rubbing her back in gentle circles. "It wasn't your fault," she whispered.
Their father crouched near the hearth, feeding it with the last of their wood. The flames were meager, more smoke than heat, but they clung to it like it was their last hope.
Then came the knock.
Three gentle taps.
They all froze. Celeste's breath caught in her throat. Her mother moved instinctively in front of the children, shielding them as if she could absorb whatever danger waited outside.
Another knock. Louder this time. Insistent.
Celeste's father rose, moving slowly to the door. His hand trembled as he reached for the handle. He opened it just a crack, then his face slackened with surprise.
Standing there was Garrett.
The young man looked nervous, shifting from foot to foot, glancing over his shoulder as though being followed. He held a bundle wrapped in cloth. Steam rose from it, and with it, the smell of roasted meat and warm bread.
"Garrett...?" Celeste's voice broke from the shock.
He stepped in quickly, shutting the door behind him. "I can't stay long. If anyone sees me here, it'll be bad for me, and for my mother."
He set the bundle down on the table. The family crowded around it, eyes wide with disbelief. There was meat. Fresh bread. Sliced fruit. A small bottle of sweet syrup.
"This is..." Celeste's mother choked, unable to finish.
Before they could ask, Garrett stood tall, brushing off his pants. "It's not charity. It's from the possible future king."
"Tristan?" Celeste asked, stunned.
Garrett didn't answer as he wasn't listening. He looked to the door, then back at Celeste. "Take care of yourselves. Please."
And with that, he was gone.
The door creaked as it swung shut behind him. Celeste held the food bundle against her chest. She stared at the door for a long time, her thoughts racing.
Tristan. Of course.
But somewhere, deep in her gut, a thread of doubt tightened.
Back in the palace, Lucius's family stood where the chandeliers sparkled like fallen stars and the floors gleamed with polished pride.
Vivian stood before them, regal and radiant, a queen in all but title. Her crimson gown shimmered under the torchlight. Her fingers, adorned with rings, stretched forward to accept the gift they presented.
An ancient goblet. Gold-inlaid, crusted with rubies. It was said to have belonged to the very first Alpha, passed down through generations. Its presence alone was a statement of unwavering loyalty.
Lucius's father bowed lower.
"Our loyalty to you and your son is unbreakable," he said solemnly. "We ask only for your continued guidance... and for the boy to be remembered when Tristan rises."
Vivian took the goblet in both hands, holding it up to the light.
"He will be remembered," she said. "Loyalty like yours will not be forgotten."
Lucius, standing silently beside his father, wore a bandage across his swollen cheek. His eyes, however, held no gratitude, only cold fury.
Vivian noticed. She met his gaze with a smile.
"Boys will be boys," she said lightly, echoing her earlier lie.
Then she turned, holding the goblet close. The firelight danced against its surface, reflecting in her eyes like tiny flames.
"Whatever it takes," she whispered. "No matter the cost."
And as she disappeared down the corridor, the goblet clutched tightly to her chest, the shadows stretched longer across the palace walls-echoes of the storm that was no longer coming.
It had already begun.