Chapter 61 The fragile seal
As soon as Elara and Ronan’s silhouettes vanished behind the wall of ancient pines, the high-strung energy at the campsite shifted. The grand spectacle was over for now, and the remaining Alphas, Betas, and Lunas retreated to the central pavilion to endure the wait.
Inside the main strategic tent, Matthew spread a heavy parchment map across the central table. Silas, Draven, and a handful of other Alphas crowded around, their scents clashing in the confined space. Matthew traced a finger along a jagged ridge.
"The King and his ma—" Matthew caught himself, his jaw tightening for a fraction of a second. "His guest will be taking the marked terrain. The northern flagged sector is off-limits until the signal fire is reinforced."
Silas didn't miss the slip. He leaned over the table, his eyes narrowing. "Mate? So the rumors are true? The Lycan King has found his fated match, and she turns out to be some scentless kid?" Silas let out a grunt of pure disdain. The idea that his daughter was being sidelined by a nameless nobody was an insult he could barely swallow.
Draven, who had been leaning against a tent pole in brooding silence, finally spoke. "Isn't it a bit strange for the King’s 'guest' to accompany him on the sacred first hunt? Usually, that spot is reserved for an emissary or a Luna."
The room erupted into low, suspicious murmurs. If the masked lady was truly the future Queen, why was Ronan keeping her identity draped in shadows while parading her in public?
Draven’s lips curled into a smirk as he locked eyes with Matthew. "Unless, of course, the Lycan King is hiding something we wouldn't approve of."
Matthew’s hand flattened against the map, the wood of the table creaking under the sudden pressure. He didn't just look at Draven; he looked through him. A cold, suffocating aura began to bleed from Matthew, thick with the authority of the Crown.
"I don’t recall asking for a census on the King’s personal life," Matthew said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, predatory silk. "The fact that you think yourselves bold enough to demand an itinerary of his plans is... daring. Historically, that kind of 'concern' tends to end in a very short, very permanent conversation with an executioner."
The temperature in the tent seemed to drop. Several Alphas instinctively flinched, their wolves whimpering at the back of their minds. Draven’s left eye twitched, his smirk faltering as he gave a stiff, shallow bow.
"I meant no disrespect to the Emissary," Draven muttered. "I was merely expressing concern for the King's safety."
“Shut up, Draven,” Rylan’s voice hissed through their private mind-link, sharp with panic. “Matthew is just as lethal as Ronan. Do not bait the man holding the leash while the King is away.”
Draven didn't look at Rylan. “He won't touch me in front of the other packs. He’s not that stupid.”
Rylan mentally face-palmed. Draven was playing with fire in a room full of gunpowder.
\---
In the Lunas' section of the pavilion, the atmosphere was no less toxic. Pandora reclined on a pile of plush furs, a glass of dark wine dangling from her fingers.
"Inappropriate doesn't even cover it," Cierce snorted, adjusting her silk shawl. "To think he would go for the first catch with that nameless girl. It's an insult to tradition."
Lunea, the Luna of the Ashfall pack, shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "I don't think it's wrong, though. If the rumors are true and she is his mate, then it's only right the future Queen goes with him."
Pandora’s head snapped toward her, her eyes flashing. "Future Queen? Mate? Lunea, I think the mountain air is making you lightheaded if you think that girl is suited for a throne."
Cierce wore a mask of bored indifference. "I doubt the King would settle for... that... when Lady Pandora is right here. He’s likely just trying to make her jealous. They’ve been close since they were pups, after all."
The other Lunas hummed in agreement, eager to stay on Pandora’s good side. Pandora didn't join the chatter; she just stared at the tent’s exit, picturing Elara lost, bleeding, or better yet, erased.
She caught Cierce’s eye and gave a small, sharp nod. Cierce leaned in, her voice a mere ghost of a sound. "Is it ready?" Pandora whispered.
"The horse will soon experience the joy of running on clouds," Cierce replied with a dark, knowing smile.
Deep in the woods, the world was a cathedral of green and gold. Ronan and Elara rode in a comfortable silence, the only sound the soft thud of hooves on damp earth. Ronan’s bow was ready, his eyes constantly scanning the brush while Fenrir, his inner wolf, paced restlessly. Shift, Fenrir prodded. Let her run with us.
Ronan ignored him, his focus split between the hunt and the woman beside him.
"Focus on the trees, Ronan," Elara said, noticing his gaze. "I'm not going to bolt. I don't even know where I am."
"Where did you learn to ride like that?" Ronan asked, watching her easy posture.
"Hector taught me," she said, her voice softening at the memory. "When I was younger. He used to say I had a natural seat."
Ronan felt a pang of gratitude for the man who had looked after her. "He taught you well. You look like you were born in a saddle."
Elara looked at him and smiled.
Suddenly, Elara’s ears twitched. "Something’s there," she whispered.
Ronan’s instincts flared. She had heard it before he did. Moments later, a magnificent white stag stepped into the clearing, its coat gleaming like pearl against the shadows.
But as the stag appeared, the spot on Elara’s neck where the vampire had touched began to burn. “Elara,” Lyra’s voice was jagged. “Something is wrong. I don't feel right.”
Elara’s vision blurred. The green of the forest seemed to bleed into a dull, pulsing grey. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog, her eyes locking onto Ronan as he raised his bow.
He released the arrow. It was a perfect shot, taking the stag cleanly in the neck. The animal collapsed, thrashing in the dirt for several agonizing seconds before falling still.
Ronan turned to Elara, an expectant, proud look on his face, waiting for her reaction. But the praise never came.
Elara was deathly pale. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and her hands were shaking so violently she could barely hold the reins.
"Elara?" Ronan hopped down from his horse, his heart climbing into his throat. He walked toward her, reaching out. "Are you okay?"
She gulped, her eyes wide and fixed on the pool of dark, steaming blood spreading from the stag’s neck. Her pupils were dancing, flickering between their usual hazel and a terrifying, hungry red.
"I'm... thirsty," she rasped, her voice sounding like a stranger's.
"Thirsty?" Ronan started to reach for his canteen, but before he could move, Elara’s mare let out a blood-curdling shriek.
The horse’s eyes rolled back, turning a milky, possessed black. It reared up, bucking wildly. Elara screamed, clinging to the pommel, but she couldn't take her eyes off the blood on the ground even as the horse began to thrash.
With a violent bolt, the mare went berserk, sprinting into the thickest part of the woods at a suicidal pace.
"ELARA!" Ronan roared.
He didn't hesitate. He shifted mid-stride, his clothes tearing as the massive charcoal wolf took his place. He sprinted after her, his paws churning the earth.
“MATTHEW!” Ronan’s voice exploded through the pack-link, laced with a terrifying blend of rage and panic. “Get the warriors out here! Now!”
Matthew’s voice came back instantly, sharp with alarm. “What happened? Did the rogues hit?”
“The seal!” Ronan snarled, his muscles straining as he tried to catch the blurring shape of the horse. “The seal on Elara has been tampered with and they’ve poisoned her horse. Move!”
Matthew’s shock echoed through the link. “What?!”