Chapter 90: Fear of the nobles
The throne hall of Lycanthria was filled with low voices and tension. Elders stood in their usual positions, some leaning on staffs, others holding scrolls they had not yet opened. Guards lined the walls, silent and alert. At the center of it all, King Alaric sat on the throne.
He looked exhausted. The tiredness in his eyes was impossible to miss. Dark circles sat heavily beneath them, and his shoulders were slumped as though holding himself upright required effort. His hands rested on the armrests, fingers stiff. He had not changed into ceremonial clothing. He wore a simple dark tunic beneath his cloak, the collar loose, his hair uncombed.
Trovald stood close to the throne, concern written plainly on his face.
"You should not be holding court today," Trovald said quietly. "You look unwell."
Alaric shook his head once. "I am fine."
"You said that yesterday," Trovald replied. "And the day before."
Alaric exhaled slowly. "I did not sleep. That is all."
Trovald frowned. "You have not slept for nights. The dreams—"
"They are dreams," Alaric said, sharper than intended. "Nothing more."
Trovald hesitated. "When do you plan to visit the temples for cleansing?"
Alaric looked away. "Soon."
"That is not an answer."
"There is too much to deal with at the moment. I cannot disappear into temples while the kingdom is unstable." Alaric replied.
Trovald opened his mouth to speak again, but before he could, the elders’ whispering among themselves became loud. The sound spread across the hall, growing louder as speculation replaced patience.
The doors opened. Aveloria entered the hall, her expression serious. Behind her, Theron, Galen, and Lucien walked, each alert and focused. Their presence shifted the energy in the room. The whispers faded as attention turned toward them.
Before Aveloria could speak, another figure entered quickly from the entrance. The young general from the marketplace strode forward, armor still marked with dust. He bowed deeply.
Alaric straightened slightly. "Speak, Lancelot."
The general lifted his head. "Elder Strega is dead."
Silence fell.
The name hung in the air, unfamiliar to some, unsettling to others. Elders exchanged looks, confusion mixed with unease.
"Strega?" one elder asked quietly. "That name has not been spoken in years."
The general nodded. "His body was found in an alley near the market."
"How come?" another elder asked.
The general hesitated. "He was not killed normally. His veins were blackened. Blood drained through the eyes and mouth. A knife was left in his chest."
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the hall.
"A wanderer," someone said.
"It has to be," another replied.
Fear spread quickly.
"They are inside the city."
"They are targeting us."
"They are coming for nobles."
"They have a plan."
Voices overlapped. Panic rose.
Alaric said nothing. His vision blurred slightly. His hands trembled where they rested. Strega. The name echoed painfully in his thoughts.
Strega had been one of his closest advisors. One of the few voices he trusted after Lyra died. A man who had stood beside him during the early days of his reign, when grief had clouded his judgment and the crown had felt heavier than he believed possible.
Strega had warned him.
Alaric remembered the night clearly. Strega had come to his study, unannounced, his face pale and drawn.
"You must cancel Eirene’s coronation," Strega had said.
Alaric had laughed then, tired and irritated. "You are letting dreams rule you."
"They are not ordinary dreams," Strega had insisted. "I saw darkness tied to her. I saw the kingdom break."
Strega had been gifted with dreams since youth. He had served at the temple as a scholar for years before Lyra’s mother granted him a royal mantle. His visions were trusted. His words carried weight.
But Alaric had dismissed him. He had believed Strega was acting out of loyalty to Lyra, unable to let go of her memory. He had even told Eirene about the dreams.
"We should pray at the temples. Dreams are signs." Eirene had said calmly. She had claimed to spend days there, praying for the kingdom.
Then the rumors had begun. Whispers of Strega touching young female wolves. Accusations brought to court. Witnesses. Evidence presented. Alaric had felt cornered.
He had stripped Strega of his title and sent him to the darkest dungeons. He had not heard from him since.
And now Strega was dead. Guilt tightened in Alaric’s chest. He remembered Strega begging him, swearing his innocence. Remembered turning away.
What if there were others? Innocent wolves who have been punished for crimes they did not commit. What if Eirene had planned it all?
Alaric’s breathing grew uneven.
"My mates and I have a solution," Aveloria said firmly.
Her voice cut through the chaos. The elders fell silent.
"First," she continued, "we must protect the smaller packs under our rule. The wanderers will strike them first because they lack armies."
She paused. "My mates and I will leave to locate their cells and destroy them before they reach Lycanthria or other smaller packs."
"That will not happen," Alaric said, coughing lightly. "I need you here."
"Father—"
"It is too dangerous. You are needed in the palace." Alaric said.
"We cannot send soldiers to die while we sit safely," Aveloria replied.
"We will send spies," Alaric insisted. "We will gather information first."
Trovald nodded. "We already have some locations. A southern cell was destroyed recently."
"That does not change anything," Aveloria said. "I will not stay behind."
Theron stepped forward. "She is right. We should—"
The doors burst open.
Eldric rushed in, sweat on his brow, panic clear on his face. "I am sorry to interrupt," he said quickly. "My son has been bewitched."
The elders murmured.
"Marek is not himself," Eldric continued. "He shifts between guilt and control. I believe Rowena has done this."
"Where is he?" Theron demanded.
"He fled. I do not know where." Eldric replied.
A harsh cough tore from Alaric’s chest. The sound echoed through the hall.
"Please help me find my son."
Alaric coughed again, harder this time, and black blood spilled from his mouth. Gasps followed.
"Father!" Aveloria rushed forward.
Alaric tried to stand to speak, but his legs gave out. He fell forward from the throne and collapsed onto the floor.
The hall erupted in alarm.
