Chapter 80
THIRD PERSON POV
The Lycan King was no longer in the Lycan realm.
The words hit Ryker like a war-hammer to the chest, a savage, intoxicating blow that flooded every vein with raw, molten ambition. The messenger who delivered them was still panting, eyes blown wide with terror and exhilaration, but to Ryker the man might as well have been a herald blowing silver trumpets. This was the moment. The crack in the wall he had waited years to pry open. The single, perfect chance to seize what had always been his.
Ryker, elder brother to Kael, the reigning Alpha of the great Lycan pack, had never accepted the order of things. Resentment had rooted so deep inside him it had fused with bone and blood. He hungered for the throne the way starving wolves hunger for meat: constantly, violently, without shame. Power, respect, fear; those were the currencies he understood, the only ones that mattered. And he was certain, bone-deep certain, that every scrap of it had been stolen from him by lies and betrayal.
Years ago his own father had banished him. The old king had looked upon Ryker’s ruthless schemes, his willingness to burn the world if it put him on top, and declared him too dangerous even for Lycan kind. Too treacherous. Too monstrous. Ryker had been stripped of title, of honor, of home, and thrown out like a diseased cur. The humiliation still burned hotter than any brand. It fed him. It sharpened him.
His brother Kael (golden boy, soft-hearted fool) had inherited everything instead. Kael, who had once offered mercy, who had reached out with pathetic, trembling hope that Ryker might repent, might change. Ryker had smiled, bowed his head, and lied through his teeth. Mercy was weakness.
Empathy was a blade turned inward. He hated Kael for possessing the one thing Ryker had never been able to fake.
So he waited. He schemed from the shadows with the patience of something ancient and spider-like. Every plot, every whispered alliance, every knife sharpened in the dark had collapsed into failure. Kael, damn him, had finally cut contact entirely and warned Ryker to stay gone. Ryker had only smiled wider. He could wait. He was very, very good at waiting.
Until now.
“My lord.” A young guard, Brian, dropped into a bow so low his forehead nearly scraped the stone floor as he entered the dimly lit study. Ryker sat behind a vast, antique desk carved with snarling wolves and crowned heads; a relic plundered from some long-dead monarch, a constant reminder of what should have been his.
“What?” Ryker’s voice cracked like a whip. He had no tolerance for hesitation, no warmth for anyone, not even the loyal. Arrogance rolled off him the way storm clouds roll off mountains. Inside his chest, his wolf stirred: massive, black as pitch, eyes like twin furnaces. Man and beast were identical in their hunger.
Brian kept his gaze fixed on the floor. “Lord Kael has left the palace. He crossed into the werewolf realm at dusk. Quietly. But our eyes inside saw him go. The throne…” He swallowed hard enough for the sound to echo. “The throne sits empty, my lord.”
Ryker rose in one fluid, predatory motion. Scrolls and maps avalanched from the desk and scattered across the rug like dead leaves. A smile (beautifully terrible) split his face, lighting his sharp features with something unholy.
“Empty,” he repeated, tasting the word. “How generous of my dear brother to finally step aside.”
His laugh rumbled low, a sound that made Brian’s knees shake.
Ryker crossed the room in three strides, boots ringing against stone. From a drawer he drew fresh parchment, a pot of ink black as his wolf’s pelt, and a wolf-hair brush. The strokes came fast, vicious, precise; every letter carved with years of hatred and calculation. When he finished, he folded the note once, sealed it with crimson wax, and held it out.
“Take this to Fenrir,” he ordered, voice dropped to a growl that vibrated in the bones. “Tell him the long wait ends tonight. Tell him the throne is ripe. Tell him we take it back.”
Brian clutched the letter, bowed again, and fled as though the shadows themselves chased him.
Ryker turned to the huge oil portrait dominating the far wall: his father in full regal splendor, crowned and cloaked, eyes stern even in paint.
He lifted his chin, meeting that painted gaze without flinching.
“Look at me now, old man,” he said softly, every word dripping acid and promise. “You threw me away. Called me unfit. Weak blood, you said. Well, keep watching from whatever cold hell you’re rotting in.” His smile returned, slow and vicious. “Your precious realm is about to kneel to its true king.”
He raised one hand and brushed imaginary dust from the frame, almost tender.
“And his name is Ryker.”