The door had closed with a whisper, but it echoed in Gwi’s mind like a final verdict.
He walked, and walked, and didn’t know where he was going. The weight of his cloak was nothing compared to the weight in his chest. Her silence had spoken more than anger ever could.
She had once screamed at him when he was reckless. Had thrown a goblet once when he’d returned wounded. She had cared, so vividly, so fiercely. But now?
She had looked at him like a stranger. And that was worse than any blade he’d ever faced.
Gwi reached a quiet corridor, shadowed and narrow. The lanterns here were dim, barely clinging to life. He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and exhaled a breath that trembled as it left him.
His hands were still shaking.
She thinks I love Lyn.
That wasn’t the truth—not in the way she believed. But what did it matter anymore? The distance between them had grown too vast. Not just because of Lyn. Because of everything they had buried. Everything they refused to say for too long.
And yet, even now, his feet itched to turn back. To run to her and say it. Say everything. That he still dreamt of her voice. That her laughter used to be his shield against the world. That no matter what the crown demanded of him, no matter what others believed—
She was never replaced.
She was never forgotten.
She was still his home.
But words were fragile. And their hearts—bruised and worn—could not survive another fracture.
He shoved off the wall, jaw tight, shoulders squared. And though every step forward felt like betrayal, he moved toward the east wing.
Toward Lyn.
Because no matter what else had been said, no matter how broken he was—Lyn had nearly died because of him. And he could not ignore that.
Not now. Not ever.
In the queen’s chamber, Siera stood still long after he left.
The fire in the hearth had died to embers. Shadows stretched long across the floor, wrapping around her like vines of cold regret.
She hated that her voice had trembled. Hated more that she had let it. She was a queen—a survivor. But with him… she had been Siera again. Not a crown. Not a title. Just Siera.
And she had cracked.
Every part of her wanted to believe him. To believe he hadn’t chosen someone else. That Lyn wasn’t the quiet, lingering ghost between them. But belief was dangerous. It let hope in. And hope was the cruelest weapon of all.
He’d said she was in every step he took.
Then why did every step lead him further away?
She pressed her hands to her chest, feeling the space where his presence used to rest. Where she used to find comfort, knowing he would always be near.
But not anymore.
Now, it was just silence.
And the sound of her own heartbeat, quietly breaking.
Elsewhere in the palace, Gwi pushed open the door to Lyn’s chamber.
She lay still, paler than before. A healer was replacing her bandages and bowed quickly at his arrival before slipping out. The air smelled faintly of crushed herbs and blood beneath linen. Gwi stood beside her for a long while, watching the rise and fall of her chest.
Gwi sat beside the bed where Lyn lay still.
His posture was slack with exhaustion, yet he didn’t move. He hadn’t spoken a word since entering—had only collapsed into the wooden chair beside her and stared.
His eyes never left her.
A thousand thoughts churned beneath them. Guilt. Fear. Regret. Confusion.
But none made it to his lips.
He didn’t reach for her hand. Didn’t whisper apologies. Didn’t confess what haunted him.
He just sat.
Watching.
Waiting.
As if the silence might somehow grant him peace.
Outside, the castle lay in disarray. But here, time had slowed to a crawl.
A tremor passed through his fingers, then stilled. He blinked—once. Twice. Then leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed. The quiet pulled him deeper into its cold embrace, until—without realizing—he drifted into sleep, jaw clenched, breath shallow.
Beside him, Lyn's fingers twitched.
Just once.
Then stillness again.
A beat later, her eyes opened. Not fully—just a sliver.
The light caught the dark of her gaze. She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Only stared upward.
And said nothing.
_____________
Deep beneath the merchant district, in an old wine cellar long abandoned by its owner, torches burned behind sealed stone walls. The flames cast shadows on half-masked faces, cloaks, and embroidered cuffs. Nobles, merchants, retired generals. And at the head of the room—Lord Maren.
His voice was calm. Measured. But in his eyes burned ambition.
“You saw it,” he said, circling the makeshift table. “You all did. The queen did not defend him this time.”
A murmur passed through the room.
“She who once silenced me with a single glare—now speaks in half-tones. Withdrawn. Quiet.” Maren let his fingers trail along the wood. “It is not weakness. It is acknowledgment. She sees it too. Our king has lost control.”
“She didn’t speak against him,” one of the younger nobles countered.
“She didn’t need to,” Maren replied smoothly. “Silence speaks volumes when it comes from her.”
Another voice chimed in, low and sharp. “The city burns. And the people whisper in the alleys—about werewolves, about fear. The camaraderie competition ended in blood. That was to be our unifying moment, and instead it’s become a reminder that we are vulnerable.”
Maren nodded. “Exactly. We’ve let a beast wear a crown too long. But now… now we have the chance to show the kingdom a different future.”
He stepped forward, unrolling a parchment.
A petition.
“To the nobles. To the people. A call for signatures. Across every district and house. From coin to crown. If we gather enough—if we show the strength of our unity—then even the queen herself cannot ignore the will of the realm.”
Murmurs of approval rose louder.
“We strike not with steel, but with parchment,” Maren continued. “We do not name ourselves traitors. We name ourselves reformers. Loyal not to the king—but to the kingdom.”
He raised the parchment higher, eyes gleaming in the torchlight.
“We begin tomorrow. Across the markets. The barracks. The temples. Quietly. Strategically. And by the end of the fortnight, the cry will be heard even in the highest tower: Dethrone the Wolf King.”
____________-
he sun rose behind a veil of smoke.
The once-clear skies of Hwon were gray now—tinged by the aftermath of the attack and the simmering unease it left behind. News traveled fast. Faster than truth. And in the silence that followed disaster, whispers became scripture.
Siera stood on the balcony of her solar, unmoving, her shawl loose around her shoulders. Below, the palace courtyard buzzed with activity—healers transporting the wounded, guards posted in doubled shifts, aides carrying scrolls, messages, and unreadable expressions.
But it was the murmurs she heard beneath it all. Faint. Discreet.
“Where was the king during the first strike?”
“He protected the girl. Not the queen.”
“Is he still one of us?”
And worse:
“Would the werewolves have dared come this far if he didn’t believe the king weak?”
Her fingers curled tightly around the balcony’s edge. The stone was cold and steady beneath her grip, but it did nothing to ease the weight pressing on her chest.
Behind her, footsteps. Unhurried. Familiar.
“You haven’t eaten,” Eros said gently.
She didn’t turn. Her eyes remained on the courtyard below.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I didn’t ask if you were,” he replied, his tone warm but unyielding. “Only told you what I noticed.”
Siera closed her eyes. The silence between them was quieter than it should’ve been. And in that silence, she felt the edges of herself strain.
“You should’ve left with the other kings.”
“I’m not most kings.”
Siera let her silence be her reply.
Eros stepped beside her. Close, but not too close. He didn’t reach for her. Didn’t intrude. His presence was like the hearth that stayed burning long after everyone else had left.
“I know you’re trying to hold the walls together,” he said. “But even stone cracks when it’s made to carry a city.”
She finally turned toward him, her face unreadable but pale from fatigue. “Do you know what they’re saying?”
“Yes,” he answered. “I do.”
Her eyes searched his face, but it wasn’t accusation she sought. It was something else. Something uncertain. “Then why do you stay?”
Eros paused, then said quietly, “Because I’ve seen what it looks like when people start pulling pieces of a kingdom apart and no one fights to stop them.”
His words were not about Gwi. Not entirely. They were about her.
And she knew it.
She closed her eyes for a brief moment. The breath she drew was shallow.
“You don’t owe this place anything,” she whispered.
“No,” he replied. “But I owe you.”
At that, Siera looked away, as if the weight of his loyalty was heavier than betrayal. Her voice, when it returned, was cool. “There are rumors now. That I’ve begun favoring you.”
“I’m aware.”
“That I’m considering another king.”
He hesitated. “And are you?”
The question lingered in the air—dangerous, intimate.
Siera didn’t answer.
Because she didn’t know what the answer would cost her.
He looked at her. Really looked.
“I’m not here for power, Siera. I’m here because you looked like you were drowning and no one else noticed.”
Her lips parted. The faintest tremor ran through her, quickly hidden.
Instead, she turned sharply, crossing to the table where Lady Catelyn had left a sealed scroll. Her fingers trembled slightly as she broke the wax and read. Her expression hardened.
It wasn’t just a report.
It was a petition.
Elegant language, wrapped in treason.
“A gentle reconsideration of Hwon’s future leadership.”
“The queen’s recent silence suggests her confidence has waned.”
“Let the will of the people speak, and let the crown heed.”
Dozens of signatures.
Old nobles. Mid-tier councilmen. Guild leaders. District heads. Even a few former military aides. Enough to form a wave—if not yet a storm.
Siera’s throat tightened.
“Catelyn,” she said flatly, “how far has this spread?”
Catelyn bowed low. “Three districts as of this morning. We believe Lord Maren is behind the movement. But they’re careful. They’re not calling it rebellion—only reform.”
“Cowards rarely call their treason by name,” Siera muttered.
Then Catelyn added carefully, “Some of the signatories… were once your vocal supporters, my queen.”
A blade between the ribs would have hurt less.
Eros moved behind her. “They’re using you, Siera. They’re reshaping your silence into consent.”
“And what am I to do?” she said, low and bitter. “Defend a king they already believe is broken?”
“You don’t have to defend him,” Eros replied. “But don’t let them use you to hang him, either.”
She looked at him—long and deep.
And for the first time, doubt flickered across her face.
“I don’t know if the people are wrong.”
Eros didn’t recoil. He didn’t judge. He only asked, gently, “Do you believe he’s failed?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then said nothing.
That silence said enough.
Catelyn shifted uncomfortably but did not interrupt. Outside, the morning bells rang again—shrill, echoing down the city streets.
And in a shaded corner of the noble district, far from the palace, Lord Maren’s private hall was alive with candlelight and schemes.
He sat at the head of a long table, surrounded by figures cloaked in velvet and ambition.
“She hasn’t denied the rumors,” Maren said, swirling wine in his goblet. “That alone speaks volumes.”
“The queen is careful,” murmured one noble. “She’s not one to act rashly.”
“Exactly,” Maren smiled thinly. “And if she remains silent, it means she is watching. Considering. Waiting.”
Another figure leaned forward. “And the king of Dam? The foreigner?”
Maren smirked. “A convenient contrast to our beast of a king."
Laughter murmured around the table. "He also once almost became our king, her ex fiance.”
One advisor unrolled a parchment. “We’ve expanded petition efforts to the east market and artisan guilds. The speech frames it as a people’s movement. Non-violent. Civic. Popular.”
“And the soldiers?” someone asked. “Will they follow?”
Maren’s eyes gleamed.
“They’ll follow the queen. And if she stays silent long enough... they’ll follow where her silence leads.”
The candlelight flickered.
Outside, the city of Hwon braced for another day.
But something unseen was shifting.
Not loud. Not violent.
Just cracks in the stone, hairline at first. Spreading underfoot.
Until one day—
The ground would give way.