Chapter 30 Beneath the palace
Soon, they arrived at the palace.
The gates closed behind them with a heavy finality that made Elara’s shoulders tense. She didn’t realize she’d been bracing herself until the sound echoed through the courtyard.
Liora and Faye escorted her straight to her chambers. No detours. No questions. Their presence flanked her like living walls, their steps quiet but deliberate.
Arwen peeled away to walk with Ronan, her voice already low and urgent as they disappeared down another corridor.
Elara didn’t look back.
Inside her chambers, steam rose gently from the bath. Another set of maids moved quickly and silently, helping her out of blood-stained clothing, lowering her carefully into the warm water.
She sat still.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t relax.
The water lapped softly against the porcelain as if nothing had happened.
After a while, she turned her head toward Liora and Faye. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
Both women looked at her at the same time.
“For putting you through that,” Elara continued. “If I hadn’t insisted on going out—”
Faye smiled, quick and easy, as if the square hadn’t nearly turned into a grave. “It’s alright, my lady.”
Liora nodded. “It’s an honor to serve you.”
Elara exhaled slowly. “But still… the King would have—”
She stopped herself. Didn’t finish the thought.
Liora understood anyway.
Her expression softened just a fraction. “Even if we were to die,” she said calmly, “to die by the Lycan King’s hand would be an honor.”
Elara stared at her.
That was… not comforting.
Lyra stirred, unimpressed. "That’s dramatic. Effective, but dramatic."
Before Elara could respond, pain flared sharp and sudden through her shoulder. She sucked in a breath, wincing despite herself.
One of the maids froze. “I—I’m sorry, my lady. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” Elara said quickly, but the ache throbbed again, deeper this time.
Liora stepped closer at once. “Let me see.”
The maid gently shifted Elara’s shoulder. Skin bloomed into view—already darkening, a purplish mark spreading beneath the surface.
But it wasn’t a simple bruise.
The shape was wrong. It was too defined. Almost like the impression of a creature’s head pressed into flesh.
"What is that?" Elara let out a nervous laugh. “I didn’t even feel that.”
Then paused.
“Oh. That must have been when that man brushed past me.”
Faye’s smile vanished.
She leaned in closer, eyes narrowing as she examined the mark. “That’s not a normal bruise.”
“It doesn’t hurt much,” Elara insisted, touching it lightly. “See? I didn’t even bleed.”
Lyra agreed, unconcerned. "Could be nothing. People bruise weird all the time."
Liora straightened. “We should call the healer.”
“No,” Elara said immediately. Too quickly. “Please. I don’t want more people staring at me. It’s just a bruise.”
Faye hesitated. “My lady—”
“I’m fine,” Elara repeated. “Really.”
The argument went back and forth quietly. Eventually, Liora exhaled, clearly unhappy, but nodded. “If it changes color. Or burns. Or spreads.”
“I’ll say something,” Elara promised.
She hoped she meant it.
By the time she was dressed again, the tea service had arrived. The cups sat untouched on the table, steam curling into the air.
No one moved to pour.
Ronan was still furious and the palace walls gelt his rage.
\---
Deep beneath the palace, the dungeon did not echo.
It swallowed sound.
Stone walls pressed inward, damp with age and iron. Torches burned low along the corridor, their flames bending slightly as if the air itself resisted movement. Chains clinked softly when guards adjusted their stance, the sound sharp in the quiet.
Six dungeon guards lined the chamber walls, evenly spaced, armor darkened with old stains. Each of them stood rigid, eyes forward, hands resting on weapon hilts. None spoke. None shifted.
They did not look at the rogues.
They looked at Ronan.
Three rogues hung chained to the wall opposite him, wrists bound high, ankles shackled, bodies bruised and bloodied. Their breathing was uneven. One had his head bowed, dark hair plastered to his face. Another stared defiantly ahead, though his eyes kept flicking toward the exits. The third trembled outright, jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth.
Ronan stood several paces away.
Still.
Silent.
Fenrir paced beneath his skin, a low, relentless presence. Not snarling. Not thrashing.
Waiting.
“You crossed my borders,” Ronan said at last, his voice calm enough to be unsettling. “You attacked my territory in daylight.”
No response.
“You disrupted the safety of my people,” he continued. “You spilled blood on my streets.”
One of the rogues spat to the side, blood splattering against stone. “Your streets aren’t special.”
The temperature in the room dropped.
Not magically. Instinctively.
The guards stiffened as Ronan’s aura rolled outward in a slow, crushing wave. The torches guttered violently, flames shrinking as if starved of air. Stone groaned faintly, a deep sound that vibrated through bone.
The rogue’s bravado faltered.
“And you laid hands on my mate,” Ronan said, "on my future Queen."
The word mate struck like a blade.
Two of the rogues jerked visibly. The third froze completely.
Matthew, standing to Ronan’s right, folded his arms tighter across his chest. His wolf pressed forward beneath his skin, hackles raised, teeth bared in silent agreement.
“She’s not your Queen,” the defiant rogue snapped, voice cracking. “And she’s not—”
The pressure slammed down.
Ronan did not move.
He did not raise a hand.
His Luna power slipped.
Just enough.
The air became unbearable.
The rogues cried out as the weight crushed them downward. Chains rattled violently as all three were forced to their knees, bodies bowing despite restraints. One screamed, the sound strangled and raw. Another gagged, blood spilling from his mouth as his chest compressed painfully.
Even the guards staggered.
One dropped to a knee before catching himself, eyes wide with barely concealed terror. Another braced a hand against the wall, jaw clenched as sweat broke across his brow.
Matthew sucked in a sharp breath.
“Ronan,” he said quietly.
The pressure eased.
Not gone. Just controlled.
The rogues collapsed forward, gasping, coughing, shaking.
“You will speak carefully,” Ronan said evenly. “Or you will not speak at all.”
Fenrir snarled approval, satisfied for the moment.
Matthew stepped forward a half pace. “Who ordered this?”
The rogue in the center laughed weakly, the sound broken. “No one ordered us.”
Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “Then you’re either lying or you’re stupid.”
The rogue lifted his head with visible effort. “We followed the scent.”
Silence.
Ronan’s gaze sharpened. “Explain.”
“The moment she crossed into public space,” the rogue said between labored breaths, “it was everywhere. Wide. Clean. Different. Like a beacon.”
Matthew stiffened.
Fenrir went still.
"Wide radius," Matthew’s wolf thought grimly.
Matthew mindlinked Ronan instantly, "If low-level rogues can sense her that clearly—"
"So can anyone with sharper instincts," Ronan finished.
Another rogue coughed, panic creeping into his eyes now. “We didn’t even need to look for her. She walked right into it.”
The dungeon guards exchanged uneasy glances.
Ronan took one slow step forward.
“And who else has been looking?” he asked quietly.
The rogues hesitated.
That was a mistake.
Ronan’s aura surged again, sharper this time. The pressure snapped downward like a hammer. One rogue screamed outright, body convulsing as his chains dug into flesh. Another sobbed, head slamming back against the stone.
“Say it,” Ronan commanded.
“Northwood,” one gasped. “From Northwood’s side. Someone important.”
Ronan stopped.
Matthew swore under his breath.
"It better not be who I think it is." Fenrir exploded, rage tearing through Ronan’s control.
The dungeon shook.
Stone cracked audibly this time. Dust rained down from the ceiling. The guards dropped to their knees as the pressure became overwhelming. One covered his head instinctively, breath coming in ragged bursts.
“Say his name,” Ronan growled.
The rogue’s eyes rolled back for a moment before snapping forward again. “Draven!”
The name echoed.
Matthew’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. “Of course.”
Fenrir’s fury roared unchecked now.
He hunts what’s ours.
Ronan forced himself to step back, drawing the power inward with brutal discipline. His breathing was controlled, but heavy.
“So,” he said coldly, “Draven smells opportunity. The Nosferu are already circling. And now her presence announces itself to anyone with half a predator’s sense.”
Matthew nodded grimly. “And the Hunt opens our territory to every pack.”
“On my land,” Ronan said.
“Plus, his masquerade invitation still stands,” Matthew added.
Fenrir snarled low, "Too many predators. Not enough shadows."
Ronan turned his back on the rogues.
“This was not an assassination,” he said. “It was a probe.”
One of the rogues laughed weakly, hysteria creeping in. “You’re learning fast.”
Ronan did not turn back.
“Separate them,” he ordered the guards. “No contact. No mercy. I want every name they’ve heard. Every route they used. Every scent they followed.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the guards responded in unison, scrambling to obey.
Chains clanked as the rogues were dragged away, their earlier bravado gone, replaced with terror and broken sobs.
Matthew lingered. “And Elara? You need to talk to her about the invitation.”
"I will talk to her." Ronan answered without hesitation. “But for now, she does not leave my sight.”
Fenrir agreed instantly. "Never again."
The dungeon doors slammed shut behind them.
And far above, in the quiet of her chamber, Elara traced the strange bruise on her shoulder, unaware of just how loudly the world had begun to hear her.