Chapter 188 Chapter 188

Chapter 188 Chapter 188
Jolene
The grand study on the third floor has always felt like the beating, wooden heart of the palace.
It’s a strange, seamless collision of centuries: heavy ironwood beams overhead, massive floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the snow-capped eastern peaks, and a roaring hearth big enough to roast an ox. 
Thick, plush bear pelts and faded tapestry rugs cushion the grey slate floors, while a modern leather sofa and sleek brass reading lamps sit right beside an ancient stone table mapped with leather-bound war charts.
The air smells of burnt pine resin, old tobacco, and the warm, golden steam rising from the stoneware teapot sitting between us.
I wonder how many meetings going back how many centuries took place in this ancient old room. It feels as if the entire palace must have sprung up around this place.
I sit tucked into the corner of the leather sofa, a thick wool blanket draped across my lap, my hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate. 
Merrick is standing directly behind me, one massive, heavy hand resting on my shoulder, his thumb stroking my collarbone in a steady, protective rhythm that keeps my heart from hammering out of my chest.
Across the low tea table, King Valerius sits back in an oversized wingback chair. Up close, without the shadows of the courtyard obscuring his face, he looks less like a myth and more like a man forged out of mountain granite. His silver hair glints in the firelight, and the deep, pale scars crisscrossing his jawline look like old lightning strikes carved into stone.
A young man, with old eyes.
I wonder how ancient those scars are, and if they still give him pain.
Standing near the hearth, leaning against the carved mantle, are the two Ultimas. 
Apollo is casually tossing an unlit pipe between his hands, looking completely at home in his dark linen tunic. Beside him, Astraea floats, or stands so weightlessly she might as well be floating, her pale, luminescent gown casting a soft, starlight glow over the polished stone hearth.
Next to her the golden Ultima looks almost… ordinary.
"I still find it offensive that you insist on drinking dried flowers, Sister," Apollo drawls, catching his pipe and offering Astraea a sly, crooked grin. "We used to drink crushed pomegranates and fermented honey when we entered a King's hall."
Astraea doesn't even look at him, her golden eyes fixed serenely on the dancing flames. "We drank crushed pomegranates because you insisted on acting like a barbarian, Apollo. Some of us developed refined palates in the third millennium."
"Refined?" Apollo snorts, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. "You drink rain water and morning dew, sister. You’re a glorified houseplant."
"Ignore them," Valerius rumbles, his deep avalanche of a voice cutting cleanly through the godlike bickering. 
He sets his heavy ceramic cup down on the table with a quiet thud. His pale ice-blue eyes slide over to me, holding a quiet, intense weight that makes the breath catch in my throat. 
"They have been bickering since the first dawn. It is their nature."
I clear my throat, shifting slightly on the cushions as Hope gives a light, inquisitive kick against my belly. "You knew Sten. Merrick's father?" I ask with a whisper.
Valerius’s rugged features soften just a fraction, a ghost of a smile touching the corner of his scarred mouth. "I did. Sten of the North was the closest thing I had to a brother. In the old days, before the world grew small and men started drawing borders on paper, we fought side by side against the first shadow beasts."
"What was he like?" I ask, tilting my head back to glance up at Merrick.
Merrick’s jaw tightens slightly, but his grip on my shoulder remains warm, steady, and grounding.
"He was an iron pillar," Valerius says quietly, staring into the flames. "Silent. Unyielding. He held the Northern Line for close to three centuries of famine and rogue wars without ever raising his voice. But when he spoke, the mountains listened."
"And then he... left?" I ask, probing gently into the subject that had been bouncing around my head since I met my mate. 
He never speaks of his father or his mother, and I always got the distinct feeling that he didn’t want to talk about them. 
"I don't quite understood how Merrick became king," I admit. “If his father is also immortal, shouldn’t he still… be here? Or… did he retire?”
Merrick’s hand tightens on my shoulder, and through our bond I feel a wave of sorrow that robs me of my breath.
“He went to the death valley,” my mate says in a low, mournful voice.
“Whu- what is the death valley?”
"It is the way of the original Lycans, Jolene," Valerius explains, leaning forward, resting his thick forearms on his knees. "When a born Lycan reaches a certain age… when the centuries accumulate like lead in our bones, and the wild beast inside grows weary of the physical world, we do not wither away in a bed. We do not decay."
He sure has a flair for the theatrical, I muse.
Valerius raises one large, weathered hand, turning his palm upward.
"We Lycans reach a time where we feel like we no longer belong to this earth," he continues smoothly. "When that time comes for a King, he surrenders his crown to his heir and walks into the deep, untouched wilderness - the death valleys of the high mountain ranges. 
“Where we go, whether we truly die or we simply surrender our souls to meet the Goddess on the star planes, no one knows. But it is a solemn, sacred departure. A return to the ether from which we sprung."
"Sounds like a dramatic way to avoid retiring to a beach house," Apollo chimes in from the mantle, flicking a tiny spark of golden sun fire from his thumb. "Personally, I'd prefer a villa in Greece with a grape arbor."
"You don't have a soul to surrender to the Goddess, Apollo, you insufferable fool," Astraea says calmly, not bothering to turn around. "You are an idea given flesh. When you grow weary, you simply sleep in the sun."
“I bask in the sun like a lion," Apollo smirks. “A glorious way to rest.”
I look back at Valerius, my mind piecing together the ancient puzzle. "So Sten didn't die in battle. He chose to go?"
"He grew weary of this life, and he chose to pass the crown to his son when he knew Merrick was ready to carry it," Valerius nods firmly. "And now, he stands as the King of the North, with a sun fire Queen at his side."
“Yep, that’s my girl,” Apollo says and raises his pipe in my direction.
“She carries a piece of me within her too,” Astraea says in a chilly, almost lofty voice, that makes my insides grow cold.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Astra, your wolf, is of my line,” she answers.
“Uh- but- how?”
“I am Apollo’s sister.”
I frown and look over my shoulder at Merrick. He sighs and runs a massive hand over his face. “It’s… complicated. Humans call it genetics.”
I settle back in my chair to find the old King looking directly at me, his gaze sweeping over my bump with an expression of profound, ancient reverence.
"When Astraea told me that Apollo's blood had awakened in a human-born girl," Valerius says softly, "I did not believe it. I thought the sun line had burned out when the Fae gates collapsed. But seeing you now... feeling the hum of Astra’s aura vibrating through your skin..."
He bows his head slightly toward me across the small table.
"You are not an accident, Jolene. You are the bridge between what we were, and what we must become to survive this war."
The room falls into a quiet, heavy silence, broken only by the crackle of the hearth and the steady, comforting thud of Merrick's heart beating right behind my head.
I take a slow, deep breath, letting the warmth of the tea and the weight of his words settle into my bones.
We have a shadow well to destroy at the iron mines, and a war creeping toward our front gates. 
“Oh,” I say after a while, my voice shattering the uncomfortable silence. “I thought I was only supposed to save the werewolves.”