The council chamber was unusually full, the nobles whispering behind gold-trimmed sleeves and steel-plated armor. Flickers of sunlight from the high windows fell onto the polished floor in trembling shapes, as if even the sun itself had grown uncertain. The scent of ink and wax clung to the air, heavy as iron.
At the center sat King Gwi, spine straight, eyes fixed ahead, but still as stone. The dark fur lining his regal coat did nothing to soften the shadows carved under his eyes—shadows deepened not just by sleepless nights but by a gnawing doubt he hadn’t known he could feel again.
He could hear it.
The doubt.
Even in the breathless hush of the chamber. It breathed beneath the surface, between the heartbeat gaps of the murmuring council. It hung on them like fog.
Then came the sound of boots.
Measured. Deliberate.
Lord Maren stepped forward with a scroll in hand, sealed in a violent scarlet. His silver robes swayed with each step, his expression carved from marble—proud, righteous, gleaming with satisfaction.
“Your Majesty,” he began with an exaggerated bow, “and honored councilors.” His voice had the venom of courtesy soaked in old wine. “The Kingdom of Hwon can no longer ignore the truth that has clawed its way into our hearts.”
Gwi’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Beside him, Siera sat down in silver and violet, her hands clasped in front of her like a lock holding back stormwater. Her face was unreadable. Too still.
“A petition,” Maren continued, raising the scroll, “signed not by rebels or fanatics, but by merchants, priests, commanders—and yes, even nobles—has arrived at this very hall.”
He broke the seal.
“It calls for the abdication of King Gwi.”
The silence that followed was not just still—it was suffocating. A long, terrible moment where the very air seemed to pause in its movement.
Siera’s fingers twitched—barely—but did not unclasp.
Maren cleared his throat and began to read, his voice slow and precise, a vulture circling the dying:
“For the safety of Hwon, for the trust of its people, and for the sanctity of our traditions—we, the undersigned, urge the High Council to remove a king whose blood belongs not to man, but beast. A king who deceived his people. Who opened the gates to werewolves. Who brought war to our palace.”
The parchment rustled as he lowered it. Not a soul moved.
Gwi didn’t blink.
A minor noble to the side fidgeted, then looked down in shame as if caught praying to the wrong god.
“This is not personal,” Maren said softly, almost kindly, a smile tugging the corner of his lips. “This is what the kingdom demands. What Hwon needs. A ruler who is... wholly human. Loyal to the crown. Loyal to the people.”
The words didn’t strike like arrows.
They settled like ash.
Gwi stood slowly, the movement so controlled it might’ve been painful. His cloak slid from his shoulder with a whisper. Every eye turned to him.
He did not speak right away.
And when he did, his voice didn’t thunder—it cracked.
“I bled for this kingdom,” he said, gaze distant. “Before I wore a crown. Before I ever knew what blood ran beneath my skin. I bled for the people. For the borders. For peace.”
He swallowed once. The chamber didn’t move. His throat was dry as scorched earth.
“And now I am told that peace is broken... because of me.”
He turned toward her.
Siera.
But she didn’t meet his gaze. Her eyes remained locked ahead, her mouth a still line, hands still clasped, still quiet, still distant.
He felt it. As clear as the moment he was first called monster.
She couldn’t look at him.
He inhaled, the sound harsh, then steadied himself.
“I will not argue my right to rule,” he said quietly. “Not today. Perhaps I’ve already failed. And if this council decides I must step down…” His voice caught just slightly. “Then I will.”
Gasps bloomed across the chamber like a sudden wind in dry grass.
Even Maren blinked.
But before the moment could solidify—
“No,” said Siera.
The word rang like the strike of a sword drawn.
Every head snapped toward her.
She stepped forward—not beside Gwi, not near him, but a calculated measure apart. Her face remained cold, but her tone had steel in its veins.
“You are wrong, Lord Maren,” she said. “You speak of loyalty, yet forget what it means.”
Maren narrowed his eyes. “I forget nothing.”
“You treat loyalty as if it were bred into bone. But loyalty is choice. Action. Endurance. This king—” her voice didn’t falter, but it didn’t soften either “—stood between this palace and death. And you think a petition can erase that?”
The words were sharp, eloquent—but Gwi could feel it.
They weren’t words of love.
They weren’t even trust.
They were strategy. Duty. Control.
“Replace him,” she went on, “and the next time a wolf comes, you’ll wish you still had claws of your own.”
Maren’s mouth thinned. “You defend him still?”
She turned her eyes to him, and Gwi felt his breath halt.
“I defend the realm,” she said, voice low. “And I don’t trust you to lead it.”
Another hush.
Another blow, this time not to Maren, but to him.
Because she still wouldn’t look at him.
Her words had come like blades—not toward him, but never for him.
He knew her well enough to know what she hadn’t said.
She hadn’t denied the accusation.
She hadn’t spoken of his worth.
She’d spoken of use. Of what he could be.
And when she turned slightly—not toward him, but away, spine still royal and shoulders still composed—he felt it.
The crown he wore was heavier than before.
And she—
She wore hers like armor.
Not for him.
But against the world. And perhaps, now, even against him.
Maren, lips tight, tried to regain his footing. “Then shall the council vote, Your Majesty? Let us see if your faith is shared by the lords you sit with.”
The murmurs swelled. Some nodded, others fidgeted. A few avoided eye contact altogether.
Siera didn’t flinch. “You may vote.”
A hum passed through the room, confusion rippling behind the sudden calm of her voice.
“But,” she said, eyes cold and deliberate, “know this—your vote does not bind me. Not in this hall. Not in any.”
Gasps followed.
“By Hwon’s law,” she continued, “the throne answers to the crown, not to clamor. And the crown—” she touched her signet ring, glinting with royal sapphire “—rests with me. You may speak. But I alone decide who sits beside it.”
The weight of those words crushed the room.
Some nobles lowered their heads. A few looked stunned. Even Maren, for the first time, looked uncertain.
Gwi, still standing, couldn’t look at her. Not now. Not when every syllable felt like a blade wedged deeper into the place where her trust had once lived.
The vote happened anyway.
Split.
Uneven.
Not a landslide for Maren—but enough to show the kingdom was bleeding faith.
But it didn’t matter.
Because Siera had already turned and left the chamber.
And Gwi—after a long, aching pause—followed.
The doors of the old solar room groaned shut behind them, sealing the world out with a thud that echoed too loud for comfort. The chamber was bathed in fractured light—beams slipping through tall, narrow windows, slicing the dust-laced air into golden shards. The throne room had once been a place of solace, a sanctuary of shared strategy and stolen glances.
Now, it felt like a tomb.
Siera stood with her back to him, spine rigid beneath her silver mantle, arms folded tight as though keeping herself from cracking open. Gwi’s boots creaked against the floor as he stopped several paces behind her, his hands clenched and shaking at his sides.
“You saved me,” he said finally, voice rough with unshed ache. “But you didn’t protect me.”
She didn’t turn. Just inhaled, shallowly. “Would you have preferred I stayed silent?”
“I would have preferred the truth.” His voice rose—not loud, but hoarse. Bruised.
A beat. Then, she exhaled slowly, bitterly. “You wouldn’t have liked it.”
His jaw tightened. “Say it anyway.”
She turned then, and the look in her eyes nearly knocked the breath from him. Not coldness—no, worse. Weariness. That kind of quiet grief that doesn’t scream or tear, just… stays.
“I don’t know,” she said, barely above a whisper, “if you should still be king.”
The words didn’t explode. They settled in the air like ash. And Gwi, who had stood through war and blood and whispered treason, staggered inwardly under the weight of them.
He blinked once, twice. Then: “Then why didn’t you let them take it from me?”
Siera’s jaw moved—she didn’t speak at first. When she did, it came in pieces, sharp as glass. “Because Maren would tear this realm apart with ambition. Because the kingdom still bleeds and cannot afford more wounds. Because I couldn’t let the vultures feast on what’s left of us.”
Her hands tightened at her sides. “And because,” she added, voice breaking slightly, “I’m still trying to understand what you are.”
Gwi’s shoulders drew up, as if trying to shield himself. His throat bobbed.
“I’m not the same as Lycaon,” he said. “You know that.”
Her eyes flickered, then dimmed. “No. You’re not. But I don’t know how much of him lives in you.”
That struck deeper than anything Maren had said.
Gwi stepped forward before he realized it, closing the space like a man walking toward a cliff. “Do you really believe I would betray you? After everything? After all we’ve—”
“I don’t know what I believe anymore!” she snapped, and the room jolted. The air cracked with the force of her restraint failing for one moment.
She turned from him, pressing her hands to her face, her shoulders rising with the pressure of something she couldn’t—wouldn’t—let herself feel.
Behind her, Gwi stared. “Siera…”
“I stood by you when they whispered.” Her voice shook. “When they doubted. When they called you monster behind your back. I told them you were a man I trusted. That your blood didn’t define you.” She looked over her shoulder, eyes glistening now. “But you kept secrets from me. You let me walk blind into danger. You looked me in the eye with silence when I asked you to speak.”
Gwi’s lips parted—no defense came.
“And now…” she stepped closer, but only to narrow the space between their hearts, not their bodies. “Now the realm questions if the crown belongs on your head. And I—” she faltered, voice a whisper now, “I don’t even know if I recognize the man who used to kneel beside me before battle.”
“I would have died for you,” Gwi said, hoarse. “Before the crown. Before the truth. I still would.”
She closed her eyes. “You already did.”
His breath caught.
“The man I trusted…” she opened her eyes slowly, “he died somewhere between your silence and your shame. Or maybe he’s just buried too deep to find.”
A pause, and he looked at her then—really looked. Her eyes were tired. Her mouth tight with restraint. And something in his chest began to collapse, slowly, painfully.
Gwi took a shaky breath. “I thought I could carry it. All of it. My blood, the throne, the fear. But it’s starting to hollow me out, Siera.”
Silence stretched, trembled.
“I know,” she said finally. Her voice was soft. Too soft. “And that’s what terrifies me.”
She turned then—fully this time—and walked past him.
Not storming.
Not fleeing.
Just… leaving.
And Gwi, alone in the golden hush of the throne room, did not follow.
Because part of him feared she might be right.
And the part that didn't…
…no longer knew how to speak loud enough to matter.