Chapter 61
THIRD PERSON POV
Days morphed into weeks, every dawn sketching the identical dismal vista of Ronan’s sentimental distress. The specter of he and Elara’s bond tormented him, a perpetual, eroding pain in his core. However, Marceline’s enigmatic phrases from that evening yet adhered to him, a constant annoyance below the facade of his sorrow.
What did she imply by that?
He rested on his throne, his stare locked on the twirling dust particles that waltzed in the sunlight rays streaming through the high vaulted panes of the throne room. His thoughts were a thousand miles distant, adrift in a labyrinth of unresolved inquiries.
“Alpha?” A keen voice pierced his daydream. Cael, his most reliable sentry, positioned before him, his typically acute traits carved with worry.
Ronan straightened, his gaze locking onto Cael’s, the bewilderment briefly set aside in the company of his dependable advisor. “Have you completed it?” He questioned, his tone abrupt, voice insistent.
Cael assented. Previously, Ronan had assigned him a covert probe across the whole Pack. Murmurs of any odd event, anything that might connect or link to the abrupt assault weeks prior and somehow tied to Marceline’s puzzling statements. Since that night, her phrases had haunted him, leading him to link fragments but it wasn’t sufficient to confirm anything.
He had truly wished that she intended something different and had no involvement with whatever occurred.
“I never inquired…” Ronan glanced up at Cael. “What became of Silas’s remains? Since that day it was found, I had overlooked it until now..”
“It was incinerated Sire,” Cael answered, his tone somber, the grief in his voice clear.
Ronan released an exhale, the burden of it substantial in the quiet that ensued. So much had transpired directly beneath his awareness and he lacked any hint or notion of it until now. And yet he still couldn’t link the fragments to form a solitary meaning from what transpired.
He abruptly rose. “I must proceed to the dungeon,” He stated to Cael who merely assented and trailed after him. His beta, Theron was also engaged probing other matters he had directed him to.
He needed to unravel the enigma and he needed to accomplish it swiftly before issues worsened. The notion of the rogue and his oddly timely self-destruction ate at him as he advanced nearer to the dungeon.
Ronan grasped that he had long forsaken some of the duties he needed to fulfill because he remained in a sentimental upheaval due to Elara.
As they proceeded, sentries inclined and separated before them, a mute proof of Ronan’s authority. The dungeons extended ahead, a vast maze of chilly rock passages and resounding spaces. The atmosphere lingered thick with the odor of moisture and hopelessness. He gazed at the captives that each enclosure contained, each awaiting judgment.
He shook his head and advanced toward the one he desired to view. The one that contained the rogue. He gazed at the vacant enclosure, a frigid void supplanted the existence of its previous dweller.
“For some causes I don’t sense like it’s self-inflicted,” Ronan whispered quietly.
Cael moved uneasily next to him. “Why would you state that Sire?”
“What sort of mystery would he have required to conceal for him to sever his own tongue?” Ronan questioned as he pivoted to confront Cael who appeared to ponder his phrases. “It doesn’t form any logic. It appears like someone else slew him to mask a mystery.”
“How can we reveal that, Alpha?” Cael questioned.
“That’s why I’m present.” He pivoted to confront the enclosure and crouched, his stare scanning the chilly ground. “Have one of the sentries unfasten the entrances.”
“Of course Alpha.” Cael assented and summoned one of the sentries who unfastened the entrances.
Ronan entered, his gaze examining the cell, Cael merely remained motionless. Then, a sparkle of something unanticipated captured his attention- a small fragment of something lodged in the coarse surface of the rock. It was a sliver of something shadowy and fragile. He crouched and retrieved it, examining it in his palm. It was a piece of what appeared to be a desiccated, shadowy material
“Cael,” Ronan summoned, his tone subdued, Cael crouched to inspect the fragment.
“Alpha,” he stated as his gaze settled on the fragment.
“Examine this. But covertly.” Ronan commanded.
“Of course, Sire.” Cael answered, his gaze narrowing in focus as he scrutinized the piece intently.
A few hours afterward. While Ronan was positioned in his study, Cael arrived. His expression somber.
“It was toxin. Alpha. A deadly one, that won’t deposit any evidence,” he stated, his tone subdued. “Evidently he did sever his own tongue, but that wasn’t the reason for demise as it would appear he was already perishing. He severed his tongue to accelerate his demise,”
“He severed his tongue to accelerate his demise…” Ronan echoed, his thoughts contemplative. “Then someone truly desired him deceased to hide a mystery. So they orchestrated his ‘self-destruction’.”
“Yes, Sire. Perhaps..” Cael’s tone faded.
Ronan lifted his brow. “Hm? Perhaps what?”
Before Cael could respond, Marceline arrived. Her arrival was flawless, nearly too ideal.
“You may depart.” Ronan dismissed Cael with an abrupt incline. He lacked any plan of allowing Marceline to overhear their talks. Cael inclined and then departed while Marceline settled across from Ronan.
“How are you?” She questioned, her voice as silky as nectar, her stare disturbingly fervent.
“The Rogue’s self-destruction was orchestrated,” Ronan declared flatly, his gaze lacking feeling. “He was poisoned and due to the agony he severed his own tongue to perish swiftly and evade torment.”
The instant the phrases escaped his mouth, Marceline’s meticulously built exterior collapsed. Her posture sagged, her gaze expanded, an expression of keen astonishment, nearly horror streaked across her features before she swiftly restored her poise. The change was rapid, but Ronan had already observed every aspect. The swift alignment of her posture, the subtle realignment of her stance- all indicated a meticulously restrained astonishment.
His doubts intensified.
“How sure are you?” She laughed, her tone revealing the faint quiver in her voice in spite of her effort at preserving her calm attitude. “The healer was sure he severed his own tongue and if he was poisoned…”
Ronan interrupts. “It signifies someone slew him to mask a mystery.”
Her respiration faltered as her gaze expanded, before either could utter. Theron rushed into Ronan’s study. “The Pack is under assault.”