The council chamber emptied slowly, elders filing out in hushed clusters, their robes whispering secrets against stone. Kael remained where he stood, fists clenched at his sides, the sigils of past Alphas staring down at him like silent judges.
Riven broke the silence first. "They cornered you."
"They ambushed me," Kael corrected, voice low and tight. His wolf paced beneath his skin, irritated, restless. Not confused—angered. "This was decided long before I set foot in that chamber."
Riven's gaze flicked to the door through which Malrec had exited. "The elder moved too confidently. This marriage isn't about heirs alone."
"No," Kael said. "It's about control."
Darian, Thorne, and Kieran shifted as one, alert to the tremor in their Alpha's voice. Kieran spoke carefully. "The palace is unsettled. Servants whisper. Warriors grumble."
"Let them," Kael replied. "I will not pretend this was my will."
The doors creaked softly.
Isolde returned.
She did not announce herself. She didn't need to. Her presence pressed into the room like silk drawn tight over steel. She stopped a respectful distance away—close enough to be heard, far enough to appear obedient.
"Alpha," she said, inclining her head. "My father asked me to ensure your comfort during this… transition."
Kael turned slowly. His amber eyes pinned her in place. "You mean to ensure my compliance."
Isolde smiled faintly, unoffended. "Compliance is a harsh word."
"So is coercion," he said.
Her gaze lingered on him, unflinching. "Harsh truths often require soft delivery."
She took one step closer.
Kael felt it immediately—not a pull, not recognition—but a pressure, deliberate and practiced. Her perfume brushed his senses, layered and intentional. His wolf bristled, tail lashing in agitation.
"Do not test me," Kael said quietly.
"I wouldn't dare," Isolde replied, voice smooth. "I only wish to ease what cannot be undone."
"Nothing is undone," he snapped. "Not yet."
A flicker—something like amusement—passed through her eyes. "You are Lycan Alpha. You endure. You adapt."
"I resist," he said. "When resistance matters."
Their gazes locked. The air between them tightened—not with desire, but with challenge.
Isolde exhaled softly. "Then we will learn each other's limits."
She turned and left, silk whispering after her like a promise—or a threat.
Across the palace, unrest simmered.
In the servants' wing, Lyria folded linens with careful precision, her fingers moving on instinct while her thoughts tangled. Voices drifted around her—sharp, angry, afraid.
"Another wife?"
"An elder's daughter?"
"They'll bleed us dry."
Lyria said nothing.
She felt it again—the ache she couldn't name. Not jealousy. Not envy. Something quieter, heavier. The knowledge that choices were being made above her station, yet their consequences pressed down all the same.
She carried the folded linens toward the eastern corridor—and nearly collided with him.
Kael caught the edge of the bundle before it fell, his hand brushing hers.
The world stilled.
His touch was warm. Solid. Too real.
Lyria's breath caught as she looked up. His eyes were darker than before, storm-lit amber, shadowed by anger and restraint. She pulled her hand back at once, heart racing.
"My—my apologies, Alpha," she said, lowering her gaze.
Kael's wolf surged—not in recognition, but in reaction. The agitation sharpened. His senses flared. Her scent wrapped around him—clean, unadorned, unsettling in its simplicity.
He released the linens. "You're not at fault."
Their eyes met again. Just for a heartbeat.
"Are you… well?" she asked before she could stop herself.
The question surprised him.
So did the way it eased something tight in his chest.
"I am… occupied," he said carefully.
Lyria nodded, stepping aside. As she passed, Kael felt it—the awareness, the pull without a name—tug at him again, insistent and wrong-footing.
He watched her go, jaw tight.
Not her, he told himself. Not now.
High above, in a quiet solar overlooking the inner court, Elder Malrec poured wine and waited. Isolde joined him moments later.
"You pushed too hard," she said lightly.
Malrec smiled. "He will bend."
Isolde lifted her cup, eyes distant. "He will resist."
"Then you must be patient."
She sipped, thoughtful. "I am."
Below them, the palace breathed—angry, watchful, alive with secrets.
And in its corridors, alliances shifted, resentments took root, and a Lycan Alpha stood between duty and a disturbance he could not yet name.
Lingering Suspense:
That night, as Kael stared out over the moonlit gardens once more, his wolf stilled—ears pricked, senses sharpened—aware of a presence moving quietly through the palace.
Closer than before.
And not by accident.