The early morning light filtered through the cracks in the palace walls, spilling a soft, golden sheen over broken marble and scorched stone. Siera moved through the hushed corridors like a shadow among ghosts. The attack had passed, but its echo lingered in the very air—a weight pressing against the walls, clinging to every surface.
Behind her, as always, Catelyn followed silently. The secretary’s presence was a constant—neither overbearing nor idle, but ever attentive. She held a thin stack of reports close to her chest, already updated on casualties, damages, and whispers from the city. Her bun was still perfectly tied, but blood stained the hem of her gown, a mark from when she had shielded a young noblewoman during the chaos.
Siera did not speak. She didn’t need to. Catelyn remained a step behind, her eyes flicking occasionally to the queen’s hands, to the tightness in her jaw, to the stillness in her breath. Siera looked composed—always composed—but Catelyn had served her long enough to read the signs beneath the surface.
As they passed a hall where soldiers worked in silence, repairing a torn archway, Siera paused. Her gaze fell on a young soldier no older than eighteen, his arm bandaged and brow slick with sweat as he attempted to lift a piece of fallen stone. His lips were pressed tight, his eyes red. Siera stopped beside him. She didn’t speak, but her presence alone caused the boy to look up in startlement.
She met his eyes. A long moment passed. Then she reached forward and placed a hand gently on his shoulder. The gesture was brief, but it anchored the boy’s trembling spirit, and his back straightened as if her touch lent him spine. Without a word, she moved on.
Catelyn exhaled slowly. She needed that moment. And so did he.
They turned a corner, and that was when Siera saw it—by the shattered remains of a once-tall window, a single shard of glass rested on the stone. It glinted in the sunlight, its fractured edges catching the light like a broken jewel. She paused. The world reflected in the shard was distorted, twisted, surreal.
Siera knelt, fingers brushing the cool edges. Catelyn watched, quiet, her arms tightening around the scrolls she carried.
“A perfect metaphor, isn’t it?” came a voice behind them.
Both women turned—Eros stood at a polite distance, arms behind his back, his usual charm subdued by the weight of the morning. He looked tired—more than tired. His coat was neatly buttoned, but dirt smudged the hem, and a thin bandage peeked from beneath his left sleeve.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, his voice quieter now.
“You didn’t,” Siera said, rising and brushing her hands together. She gave him a nod of acknowledgment.
Their eyes lingered on each other for a moment—neither soft nor hard. There was a weight between them now, unspoken but undeniable. Catelyn watched with a steady gaze, then looked away with practiced diplomacy.
“The courtyard is ready,” she said gently, changing the subject. “The nobles and commanders await your words.”
Siera nodded and turned to walk. Catelyn fell in step on her left; Eros walked on her right, a respectful distance apart, like a diplomatic escort. Together, they passed through the outer halls, where palace staff bowed silently and commanders straightened their backs as they passed. Eyes followed the queen’s every step.
The courtyard opened up before them—sunlit but heavy. Nobles lined one side, armored soldiers the other, and beyond the columns, citizens had gathered to listen, fear and hope mingling in their faces. The stone beneath Siera’s feet bore scorch marks from the battle. Even now, the faint scent of blood and ash lingered in the breeze.
Catelyn moved ahead first, checking the podium, unrolling a scroll just in case the queen needed it. But Siera ignored the notes. She had no need for them.
She climbed the few stone steps and placed both hands on the podium. Her grip was firm, but Catelyn, standing just beside the dais, noticed the faint tremor in her fingers. Eros, behind the crowd but within sight, watched her silently, his hands clasped behind his back.
Meanwhile away from the crowd, the air hung heavy, thick with smoke that had long settled but still lingered in the cracked stone. Though the sun had risen, light barely reached this forgotten wing of the palace. The windows here were broken, covered in soot and ivy; the floor was littered with shattered roof tiles, dust, and feathers from long-gone birds who once nested in the rafters.
Gwi stood alone beneath the arch of a crumbling balcony, half cloaked in shadows. His back pressed against the cool stone wall, but even that couldn’t temper the heat churning beneath his skin—the heat of shame, of failure, of something ancient in his blood that had begun to stir again.
Below him, the courtyard unfolded like a living tapestry.
The people had gathered: soldiers in tarnished armor, nobles in muted velvets, commoners still bearing the soot of last night on their faces. Even the breeze seemed cautious, stirring only the edges of broken banners and flapping lanterns that hadn’t been fully replaced. Marble tiles were still blackened from fire. Some corners of the courtyard were veiled behind hastily erected linen drapes—hiding the worst of the bloodstains.
And there she was.
Siera.
She stood on the central platform erected beneath the royal sigil, framed by fractured columns. Her gown moved gently in the wind. She looked unshaken—no, unbreakable.
Gwi’s breath caught. Not from awe.
From grief.
“People of Hwon,” Siera began, her voice carrying like iron across the courtyard. “What happened last night was a betrayal of peace. A violation of our sanctuary. But let it be known—it was not the end. It was a beginning.”
The crowd quieted further. Even the banners fluttering in the wind seemed to still.
“The werewolves that infiltrated our home sought to bring us to our knees. They sought to divide us through terror. But we stood.” Her voice did not rise, but its force was undeniable. “You stood. Our soldiers, our commanders, our people—each of you fought back. And we endured.”
She spoke without notes, without pretense. Her words were sharp and clean, like the edge of a sword honed for battle. But Catelyn, watching closely, could see the shadow beneath them—the guarded tone, the tightness around her mouth.
Siera continued. “From this day forward, security will be increased across the kingdom. Patrols will double at the borders. The palace itself will be fortified. The safety of our people is not negotiable.” She paused, letting the silence ring. “We will not wait for terror to strike. We will meet it head-on. Together.”
A murmur of agreement swept the crowd. Nobles nodded, some even placing fists over their hearts. The soldiers straightened their backs. But Siera remained still. Her shoulders were straight, her chin high—but her eyes, to those who knew her well, were clouded with something deeper.
“I know you are afraid,” she said. “But fear does not rule us. We do.”
Her final words hung in the air, suspended in the breathless silence of the courtyard.
Then the applause began—soft at first, then growing in strength. Catelyn stood slightly behind her, her expression unreadable but proud. Eros gave a single nod, his eyes never leaving Siera’s face. But he did not smile.
“Let this day not be remembered for the terror that visited our gates,” she said, her voice carrying without tremor, “but for the strength with which we endure.”
Her words struck like tempered steel. The kind that didn’t just protect—it cut. She wasn’t speaking as someone who survived the night. She was speaking as someone who had already buried it and moved forward.
As the applause continued, Siera stepped back. Her hands lowered from the podium, and as they fell to her sides, Catelyn’s sharp eyes caught the tremble again—just a flicker, but there. Siera turned quickly, descending the steps with quiet precision.
Catelyn moved beside her.
“Well said,” she murmured, just loud enough for Siera to hear. “They needed to see your strength.”
“They saw what I gave them,” Siera replied, her voice low. “What I have left.”
They walked in silence for a beat, before Eros fell in beside them again.
“You were magnificent,” he said quietly. “But you don’t have to carry all of this alone.”
Siera didn’t stop walking. “I do,” she said. “That’s what queens do.”
Catelyn’s hand brushed Siera’s sleeve—a small reminder that she was not alone, no matter what she believed. Eros, sensing he had reached a wall she wouldn’t let down, fell into thoughtful silence.
The courtyard faded behind them, the people returning to their lives, buoyed by her words. But within Siera, the quiet war continued—the weight of crown, country, memory, and loss grinding like stone within her chest.
And somewhere far behind, in the same hallway as before, the single shard of glass still rested in the light—silent, sharp, and broken.
Gwi swallowed. The back of his throat burned.
She didn’t look toward the balcony. She didn’t need to.
She’d known he wouldn’t stand beside her.
He had no place there—not today. Not when the ache in his chest told him one truth louder than any cheers from below:
“I should have protected her.”
His claws had torn through werewolf flesh. His roar had echoed through the halls. His fangs had been bared not at the people—but for them.
But still, Siera had been forced to fight.
He had seen her—, clothes torn, blade flashing. He remembered the way her eyes had met Lethea’s, not in fear but fury. The same eyes now looking out at the people, calm and clear.
He hadn't saved her from that.
He hadn’t saved Lyn, who now lay in the infirmary—bones broken, blood lost, her werewolf form revealed for all to see.
And Lycaon...
The werewolf lord’s voice still echoed like ice down his spine:
“This is just the beginning.”
Gwi’s fingertips curled against the stone ledge, cracked and rough beneath his palm. His nails itched to extend again. His beast stirred beneath the surface, growling not at the world—but at him.
Beside Siera stood Catelyn, unflinching, ever the shield. Her gaze swept the crowd like a hawk with wings folded. Behind them stood Eros, elegant and distant, the perfect noble. He did not speak, did not move—but he stood there.
With her.
And where was Gwi?
In the shadows.
Watching like a broken sentinel.
Wearing the title of king, but feeling like an echo of the one who used to be worthy of her trust.
He remembered the pendant she had given him long ago, tucked beneath his collar. Its chain now felt like a chain in truth—an anchor around his neck. He clutched it beneath his tunic, feeling the cool shape dig into his palm.
It used to give him strength. Now, it only reminded him of what he couldn't be.
"Perhaps I was never meant to rule. Only to protect her. And I failed at both."
“Your Majesty.”
A voice stirred him.
Thierry, his secretary, had approached quietly, as he always did—too respectful to interrupt, too wise not to. The man held a sealed scroll in hand, his expression unreadable, but the slightest tension in his brow spoke volumes.
Gwi didn’t look at him. His eyes remained on Siera. “Report.” Thierry walked across the polished stone floor and laid the scroll on the desk, but didn’t open it right away. “The soldiers have resumed sweeps through the lower quarter. Casualties are being tended to in the western infirmary. And… regarding the trail.” Gwi turned, his full attention settling on the man now. “Ryu?” Thierry nodded slowly, unfurling the scroll. “He took a unit into the forest west of Hollowshade. At your queen’s request.” Gwi’s brow tensed at the phrase—your queen. He didn’t correct it. “There were tracks. Deep claw marks. Drag patterns. Some kind of rendezvous or abandoned ground.” Thierry tapped a mark on the scroll. “But at this point here—” He pointed toward a shaded patch by the drawn forest’s edge. “Nothing. No trace. No footsteps. No scent. It’s as if the trail just… vanishes.” Gwi stepped forward, eyes narrowing. "What about Ryu?" Thierry’s pause said enough. A cold pressure curled behind Gwi’s ribs. Not panic. But something adjacent. A note of wrongness. Ryu was not only a skilled fighter—he was one of the most resourceful trackers in the kingdom. If even Thierry’s elite couldn’t follow him, something had shifted. “Do we have any indication of foul play?” Gwi asked. “No blood,” Thierry said. “No evidence of battle. The others with him… their trails return. They lost him and returned to base on your queen’s orders. She did not want the search spreading blindly.” Gwi paced, his boots echoing in the hollow chamber. Then, finally, he stopped by the hearth and rested his hand against the cold stone. “I could have followed him,” he thought. Thierry, still waiting, finally spoke. “Shall I prepare a team to investigate the trail further?” “No,” Gwi said. “Not yet.” “But if he—” “He’s alive.” His voice was firm. Thierry gave a small nod. “You believe he found something?” “I believe,” Gwi said slowly, “that whatever Ryu vanished into… was meant to be hidden. He wouldn’t disappear without reason. If he followed something… it’s because he saw what we didn’t.” He didn’t add what we were meant not to see. Still, something gnawed at his gut. Not fear for Ryu’s life, no. Gwi believed in his strength. But the nature of the silence—the suddenness of that trail’s end—felt familiar.
He clenched his jaw. “Send word to the outer scouts,” he ordered. “Discreetly. If there’s an unnatural crossing point, I want it marked, not entered.” “Yes, Your Majesty.” As Thierry turned to leave, Gwi looked back once more toward the window. The courtyard was empty now. Siera had gone. Her words still hung in the air like the last breath before winter. And he still hadn’t spoken to her—not since the attack. Not since Lyn had fallen into his arms, bleeding and broken. He hadn’t gone to her—not because he feared what the people thought. But because for the first time in a long, long while… He feared what she saw when she looked at him.