Chapter 97

Chapter 97
Darren's POV

They came expecting a throne.

I could see it the moment the southern alphas entered the hall—the way their eyes lifted, searching for height, for dominance, for a place where one man would stand above the rest. Their shoulders were squared, their steps measured. They wore power like armor, thick and familiar.

And they found nothing.

No raised seat. No banners of rank. No crown.

Only a wide room with a circle of chairs, already half full.

One of them laughed under his breath. Another frowned openly.

“This is it?” the tallest alpha said, his voice carrying easily. “This is where decisions are made now?”

I felt the old instinct stir in my chest. The reflex to step forward. To straighten my spine and remind them who I was. Who I had been raised to be.

Alpha. Heir. Commander.

My hands curled at my sides.

Then I remembered why that part of me no longer ruled.

“Yes,” I said calmly. “This is it.”

They turned toward me. Recognition sparked in their eyes, followed by something harder.

“You,” the tall alpha said. “Darren of the Moonbound. We thought you’d be… higher.”

A few people shifted uncomfortably. I didn’t.

“I’m exactly where I need to be,” I replied.

He scoffed. “So the stories are true. You let the curse girl dismantle your rule.”

That did it.

Not the insult to me—but to her.

I stepped forward before I could stop myself, heat rising fast and sharp. The bond between us pulsed, not urging control, but restraint. A reminder, not a command.

“She has a name,” I said evenly. “And she doesn’t rule anything.”

That gave them pause.

One of the other alphas leaned forward. “Then who does?”

No one answered right away.

That silence stretched. It was uncomfortable. Honest.

Finally, a woman from the river district spoke. “We decide together.”

The alphas laughed.

“That’s not how packs work,” the tall one said. “Someone leads. Someone enforces.”

I nodded. “That’s how they used to work.”

“And what happens when someone breaks the rules?” he pressed. “When trade fails? When borders are crossed?”

I felt every eye turn to me. This was the moment they wanted—the moment I would reclaim the role they understood.

The enforcer.

I took a breath.

“We talk,” I said. “We argue. We adapt.”

“And if that fails?”

“Then we fail,” I answered. “And we learn.”

Murmurs spread through the room. Anger. Fear. Doubt.

The tall alpha’s lips curled. “That’s weakness.”

I met his gaze. “It’s risk.”

“Same thing.”

“No,” I said quietly. “Weakness is pretending control prevents loss.”

He stepped closer, voice dropping. “You’re going to get people killed.”

The words hit harder than I expected.

For a moment, I saw it—blood on stone, bodies I couldn’t protect, the weight of leadership crushing down like it used to. The old fear whispered that he was right. That without command, everything would fall apart.

Then I remembered every life lost under absolute rule. Every order that couldn’t be questioned. Every silence enforced by fear.

“No,” I said again. “I’m going to let them live without asking permission.”

The room went still.

The tall alpha straightened. “Then I challenge this system. Here. Now.”

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the hall.

Old law. Old ritual. One alpha claiming dominance through force.

My body reacted before my mind did. Muscles tensed. Power surged. This was familiar ground.

I could end this quickly.

I closed my eyes.

And stepped back.

Gasps erupted.

“I won’t fight you,” I said.

The alpha stared. “Coward.”

“Maybe,” I replied. “But I won’t prove my worth with blood.”

He turned to the others. “You see this? He’s abandoned the pack way.”

A voice rose from the back. “No. He’s changing it.”

Rider.

He stepped forward, his presence steady, grounded. Not challenging—supporting.

“The challenge isn’t accepted,” Rider said. “Because there’s no throne to fight for.”

The tall alpha looked around. No one moved to support him. Some looked relieved. Others unsure.

“This is a mistake,” he said finally. “Your people will turn on you.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But it will be their choice.”

He left without another word, his companions following.

The door closed behind them with a heavy finality.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then the room erupted—not in cheers, but in voices. Questions. Arguments. Fear laid bare.

I sat down, suddenly exhausted.

Alora caught my eye from across the circle. She hadn’t spoken once. She hadn’t needed to.

Later, when the hall finally emptied, I found her by the window.

“You could’ve stopped him,” she said softly.

“I know.”

“Do you regret it?”

I thought about the old version of myself. The one who would have fought without hesitation. The one who believed strength meant dominance.

“No,” I said. “I regret every time I didn’t step back sooner.”

She smiled—not proud, not relieved. Just understanding.

That night, alone in my room, I felt the weight of what I had done settle fully.

I had refused power.

Not because it wasn’t offered—but because it was no longer mine to take.

And for the first time, that didn’t feel like loss.

It felt like honesty.

Tomorrow, more challenges would come. More people would test the limits of this fragile thing we were building.

But tonight, I slept knowing that I had chosen restraint over instinct.

And that choice, more than any title, would shape what came next.