The council chamber, once a bastion of reasoned strategy and tempered alliance, now bristled with silent accusations and fractured trust. Dust motes danced in the shafts of morning light that pierced the stained-glass windows, casting fractured gold across a room thick with unease. The subtle burn of cedar incense curled through the air, a poor mask for the scent of dread.
King Gwi sat at the head of the crescent-shaped table, cloaked in ceremonial black, his jaw set, gaze unreadable. Beside him, Queen Siera occupied the throne to his right—a gesture of unity, yet her presence felt like ice beside fire. Her posture was flawless, spine straight as a blade, hands folded atop her lap with a stillness that felt unnatural. Only the faint twitch of her fingers betrayed her restraint, nails biting into her palm hard enough to leave half-moon indentations.
Then, Lord Maren rose.
He did so with measured grace, like a viper uncoiling—slow, deliberate, utterly confident in the bite to come. His crimson robes whispered as he moved, the sigil of his house—a silver hawk—catching the light like a blade’s glint.
“My king,” he began, with a bow that was more performance than respect. “With the deepest regard for the crown, I must speak plainly today, for the blood spilled last night demands it.”
Every councilor turned toward him. Even those loyal to Gwi said nothing—watching, waiting.
“The attack within these very walls,” Maren continued, tone deceptively calm, “was not merely a tragedy. It was a declaration. And it begs a question too long deferred: Where does our kingdom’s true vulnerability lie?”
A beat passed. The air seemed to tighten.
He let the silence stretch before glancing to Siera—who had not yet acknowledged him.
“We were promised peace. Strength. Unity,” Maren said, his gaze flicking to the guards stationed at the doors. “Yet our enemies wore the silks of our nobility, drank from our goblets, danced under our banners—until they struck.”
Murmurs rippled through the room.
“And what should the people think,” Maren asked, voice rising like a slow wave, “when the beasts who tore through our halls resemble those we are commanded to trust?”
Everyone knew what he meant. No veil remained.
“Say what you mean,” Gwi said, his voice deep, almost graveled. The chamber went still.
Maren inclined his head. “Then I will. Your Majesty, it is no longer enough to dance around the truth. Your... heritage—once a secret guarded by a loyal few—is now a flame stoked by pamphlets and whispers. And in the wake of this breach, I must ask: Did they come because you failed to stop them... or because they were always meant to?”
A sharp inhalation echoed from one corner of the room.
Siera turned her head slightly then, just enough to glance at Gwi. Their eyes met—only for a second—but the emotion that passed between them was volatile. Grief. Doubt. Distance.
Then she looked away.
Maren’s lips curved ever so slightly. He pressed on.
“And what of the girl? This Lyn—the one who transformed during the attack. You protect her still. You defended her. Some say you shielded her with your body. Is that not... compromising your judgment?”
Still Siera said nothing.
But this time, her silence cracked like thunder.
Gwi’s fist clenched atop the table, and the old wood groaned under the pressure.
“You speak boldly for a man hiding behind innuendo,” the king said, rising slowly. His presence darkened the space around him. “But make no mistake: I will protect this kingdom. From all threats—foreign or domestic. Beast or man.”
“And I,” Maren replied, voice like ice, “will protect it from weakness masquerading as compassion.”
That was when Siera rose.
The scrape of her throne against the marble was soft but arresting. She stood tall beside Gwi, her figure regal, voice clear and sharp as cut glass.
“This is not the hour for division,” she said. “Nor for reckless accusations in public council. To fracture our court with such words is to hand victory to the very enemy we just bled to repel.”
There was no fire in her tone. No fury. Just cold command.
Maren bowed, though the glint in his eyes betrayed no contrition. “Of course, Your Majesty. I only voice what the people dare not say aloud. Fear is louder than silence these days.”
He sat, slowly, with the finality of a man who believed the damage was already done.
Siera did not sit again.
“We will not let fear govern us,” she said, her tone ironclad now. “This court must lead by example. We must show the people that unity is our strength—not silence, not suspicion.”
She swept her gaze across the council, pausing on each lord, each general, each trembling aide.
No one moved. Even Maren looked momentarily checked.
For a long moment, there was only the hum of breath and the rustle of shifting robes.
Then, slowly, councilors began to bow their heads.
Even Lord Maren offered a short, stiff nod—his smile gone.
The queen turned back to her throne, ascended the steps with quiet grace, and sat beside Gwi once more.
But the space between them still felt like a thousand miles.
Finally, Gwi spoke. His voice didn’t echo like it usually did. It sounded human. Small. Tired.
“You were quiet today.”
No accusation. No bitterness. Just the weight of observation, raw and stripped of armor.
Siera didn’t lift her eyes.
“There was nothing I could say that wouldn’t be turned into another weapon,” she replied, her voice smooth—but not cold. Just… controlled. Measured. Like she’d said it a hundred times in her head before now.
Gwi nodded once, slowly. He didn’t turn around. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, where the city stretched beyond the palace walls—still licking its wounds from last night’s terror.
“You were right,” he murmured. “They listen to you more than they ever will to me. And right now, they need someone they trust.”
It wasn’t self-pity. Just truth. The way a man admits rain is falling.
Siera stood, quietly, and walked a few steps forward. Her heels clicked softly on the marble, but Gwi didn’t move.
“That’s not what this is, Gwi.”
He let her words hang. Then:
“Isn’t it?”
He turned at last. The light caught the silver pendant at his chest—her pendant. The one she gave him when he was still just her shadow. Still hers.
“You didn’t look at me,” he said. Not wounded. Not angry. Just... disappointed. “Even when Maren questioned everything. You used to look at me when things went dark.”
That line struck too close. Her breath caught in her throat before she could stop it.
“I still do,” she said finally, voice gentler. “Just not where they can see.”
His brow furrowed. That old pain flickered in his eyes—the pain of being something people feared… even when he was fighting for them.
“Do you believe them?”
It was so soft she barely heard it. And yet the question landed like a stone thrown into still water.
Siera looked away.
A pause. Her breath hitched.
“I know you didn’t do this,” she said. “But everything else? Gwi… I don’t know where we stand anymore.”
That made him flinch, just slightly. His stance changed—shoulders tensed, fingers curling at his sides.
“Lyn was bleeding,” he said, almost defensive now. “I—she was—she could’ve—”
“I know,” Siera interrupted, and her voice was still calm. Too calm. “I saw.”
She stepped closer, and her next words were quieter.
“But after everything fell silent—after the chaos, after the screams—when the last werewolf was gone…”
Her voice cracked, just slightly. Just enough to make him freeze.
“You didn’t look for me.”
That stopped him like a blade to the chest.
“You didn’t even look.”
His eyes shut tight. Jaw clenched. Like if he just closed his senses hard enough, her words might not hurt so deeply.
“That’s not fair,” he murmured. But the defense rang hollow even to him.
“No,” she said, voice tight. “None of this is.”
The composure she’d worn like armor all day—at court, in front of the nobles, under Lord Maren’s eyes—fractured.
Just a breath. Just long enough for the ache beneath to surface.
“You think I don’t know who you are?” she whispered. “I was the one who found you in the wood, Gwi. Injured, barely conscious, still trying to shield me with your own body. You were bleeding, shaking, more wolf than man—and even then, you fought to protect.”
He looked down. His fingers twitched, as if recalling that bitter cold, that moment she touched him and everything changed.
“I was the one who dragged you from death’s edge,” she continued, her voice thickening. “I brought you into the palace when they wanted you killed. I stood before the court, before the king, before the gods if I had to—so they’d see you the way I did.”
She paused, breath shallow, the weight of those memories pressing hard against her ribs.
“You were my sword, Gwi. My shadow when it was too dangerous to walk alone. My strength when I had none left to give.”
Her voice trembled. “You were… my home. When even this palace felt like a stranger’s house.”
His head lifted, slowly. There was a tremor in his eyes now. Something helpless. Something broken.
“I still follow you,” he said, barely above a breath. “I never stopped.”
Their eyes met.
And for a moment—just a flicker—they weren’t king and queen, not weapons of state, not symbols of hope or fear.
They were just two souls. Bound by what they’d survived.
“I know,” she whispered, her lips barely moving.
Silence crept in around them—dense, heavy, suffocating.
“But loyalty isn’t the only thing between us anymore,” she said. “It’s everything we left unsaid. All the wounds we buried, hoping time would heal them. All the truths we swallowed because speaking them would’ve meant losing what little we had.”
He looked away. His shoulders sagged, like the weight of years had just settled onto his back.
“You think I love her.”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.
Only silence.
And that silence gutted him.
It was louder than any accusation, more damning than any word she could’ve spoken. It wrapped around his ribs like a vice and squeezed. He felt the breath leave his chest—not from pain inflicted by claws or swords, but from her silence, which meant she believed it. She truly believed he’d let someone else take the place that once belonged only to her.
The thought hit like icewater poured down his spine.
His stomach twisted. Shame and disbelief warred in his chest.
She thinks I chose someone else. She thinks I moved on.
She thinks I left her bleeding—inside—and didn’t look back.
He tried to speak, but the words caught. The grief in her eyes, the tired resignation in the way she stood—it crushed him. She hadn’t even needed to say yes. The absence of denial was her answer. And in that silence, something between them quietly died, it shattered something deep in him.
“I don’t,” he said, voice hoarse. “Not like that. Not the way I—”
He stopped himself.
Because the rest was too fragile to say aloud.
Because it would’ve broken her all over again.
Because the truth was still hers. Even now.
She swallowed hard. Her throat burned.
“Then what is it?” she asked, a thread of pain slipping into her tone. “What does she have that made you forget I was bleeding, too?”
A pause. “Just not on the outside.”
He inhaled sharply. As if struck.
His hand lifted—slowly, hesitantly—as if it might bridge the distance between them. But it stopped just before touching her. Hovered. Trembled. Then dropped like the gesture itself was too painful to finish.
“I haven’t forgotten you,” he said, and this time—this time—his voice broke. “I never could. You’re in every step I take. Every choice I make. But I—”
His voice collapsed into silence.
They stood there. Still. Unmoving. The ache between them a living thing.
He finally took a small step back, like retreating from something sacred.
“Lyn almost died,” he whispered. “If I hadn’t—if I hadn’t rushed, she would’ve.”
“I know,” Siera said, and it hurt her to say it. But her voice was gentle now. Raw. “You did what you had to do.”
He gave a faint, empty nod. Then: “So did you.”
He lingered a moment longer, staring at her like he might say something else—might ask for forgiveness, for absolution, for something neither of them could name anymore.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he bowed his head. Not the crisp gesture of a knight to his queen—but something softer. Sadder. A goodbye wrapped in reverence.
“Your Majesty.”
And then he turned and walked away, his footsteps quiet, heavy. The door closed behind him without a sound.
Siera didn’t move.
Her arms wrapped around herself—not cold, not posture. Just need. The ache of a soul who had given too much and received silence in return.
She didn’t cry.
But her eyes shimmered like glass about to crack.
And still… she didn’t call him back.