The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the palace courtyard, its golden light filtering through the lattice of the west wing barracks. The scent of smoke, steel, and pine lingered in the air as Talon Ashwynd, a royal guard, leaned against one of the stone archways, his deep forest green gaze sharp and still.
He had served the royal guard for over a decade, long enough to see kings rise, queens sharpen into steel, and princes grow into wolves. But in the past four years, there has been a slow rot, something deeper than politics or posturing. It lingered in the walls like mold, in the silence before orders were given.
It lingered in Councilman Rowan Theralis, who has risen in his position.
Talon's eyes narrowed.
Down the corridor, half-shrouded in torchlight, he watched Councilman Rowan emerge from a narrow stairwell leading from the underhall—an area few used since the imprisonment of Lenore de Ebonmere.
'Strange.' Talon noted. A councilman hasn't taken a secluded entrance to the gallows unless accompanied by a guard or royal family member. And yet, there he was. Unaccompanied.
Rowan's steps were quick, clipped with nerves. His head jerked slightly as he glanced behind him.
But he didn't see Talon.
The councilman paused beside a scrawny servant boy handling linens, no older than fifteen, and pressed a folded parchment into the boy's hand before fishing two silver coins from his pocket and dropping them into the boy's other hand. His voice was hushed, but Talon caught the tail end of it.
"—no detours. Pass this message along quickly. No one else."
The boy nodded quickly, then darted off.
Rowan exhaled and straightened his council open robes, adjusting the silver sash and matching brooch at his shoulder—a wolf's head, the symbol of his house. He smoothed a hand down the front of his deep green and black doublet, then turned and strode toward the council wing.
Talon did not move.
Only when Rowan was gone did he push away from the stone pillar, face unreadable. This wasn't the first time he had seen Rowan act strangely. Four years ago, when accompanying the royal family alongside other guards, the day Lady Viranna was murdered, Talon had been one of the guards stationed outside the western wing. He remembered the clamor, the blood—the scent of it, the cries. He remembered how Rowan's arrival—too fast, so clean. And he remembered the silenced screams of Lenore as she was dragged away. Her cries during her steadfast judgement.
He'd believed—like most—the verdict at the time.
But that belief had begun to erode, slowly but steadily.
Now he opened a small leather-bound journal tucked into the inside of his armor and scratched another note in sharp script:
Rowan—seen in underhall stairwell before council meeting. Unusual behavior. Private message sent via servant. Time: forth bell.
Talon closed the book with a snap and slid it back into its place. He would keep watching. Not for anyone in particular.
But for the truth as it crept over.
~
Darius sat in the grand council chamber beside his brothers. The long obsidian table gleamed beneath the crystal chandeliers overhead. The afternoon light filtered weakly through stained-glass windows, casting fractured patterns of red and gold across the room. The Lycan King Alaric sat at the head, his broad shoulders squared with the weight of rule. Beside him, Severin sat composed, Corvin pensive, and Darius—though attempting nonchalance—seethed with boredom.
Octavian, one of the King's most senior advisors, droned on about trade deficits and magic stones and contraband slipping through the eastern borders. Darius' mother, Queen Morganna, was notably absent, was said to be tending to urgent matters of diplomacy elsewhere.
"There have been murmurs from the northern provinces," Octavian said, adjusting the parchment in his hand. "Concerns of rogue sightings increasing along the spine of the Greythorn Mountains. The nobles are asking for a show of control."
"Hence the banquet," King Alaric rumbled. "An opportunity to show strength. Unity. That the Moonspire kingdom has nothing to fear."
"A distraction," Severin muttered, barely loud enough for Darius to hear.
Corvin nodded, fingers steepled. "It might work. Nobles, lycan alike, prefer feasts to fires."
Rowan entered, smooth as silk, his stride unhurried. But Darius immediately caught the shift in the air. Rowan was late. Again. Everyone was already seated.
"So good of you to grace us," Corvin said without looking up.
"We feared the morning sun had proved too harsh for your delicate sensibilities," Severin added dryly.
Darius, eyes narrowing, tilted his head and sniffed. Beneath the usual crisp spice of Rowan's dreadful cologne was something else—faint, but distinct.
It was sweet.
Familiar.
His lip curled slightly, but he said nothing.
Rowan, ever unbothered, took his seat with the ease of someone immune to shame.
King Alaric's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Enough. There are more pressing matters."
He gestured to the scribe to continue reading a list of preparations for the upcoming banquet.
As discussions resumed—guest lists, security enhancements, arrangements for emissaries—Darius leaned back, arms crossed, his mind a whirl of suspicion.
The scent hadn't lied.
Why was Lenore's scent on him?
His jaw ticked something primal. Whatever Rowan had done before entering this chamber, he had done it somewhere he shouldn't have been.