Chapter 66 The Keystone’s Call
At the jagged edge of the camp, where the manicured tents gave way to the unruly rush of a mountain stream, Cierce stood with her arms tightly crossed. Beside her, Pandora looked as though she had swallowed a mouthful of bile, her refined features contorted into a mask of pure loathing.
"I thought your plan was foolproof," Pandora spat, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "I thought Elara would be out of our hair by dawn."
Cierce gritted her teeth, staring at her own reflection in the churning water. "I didn't exactly expect her to shift yesterday, did I? No one did. Besides, the horse was just meant to throw her off not actually kill her."
Pandora let out a sharp, mocking snort. "Well, she shifted. And now the Lycan Council is already whispering, deliberating on whether they’ll accept that stray as their Queen." The venom in Pandora’s tone was so potent that Cierce actually shivered. Pandora turned on her, her eyes flashing. "What do we do now? The horse didn't do its job."
"I don't know," Cierce muttered, her mind racing.
"I don't care where she goes," Pandora hissed, pacing the muddy bank. "Northwood, Ashwood, the bottom of a ravine. I just want her out of this palace. She is a stain on the court."
Cierce felt a surge of resentment. "Stingy bitch," she thought, though she kept her expression carefully neutral. She forced a thin, plastic smile. "If she goes back to Draven, I lose my place. I’ve worked too hard to be his favorite to let her take it back."
"I don't care about your domestic squabbles," Pandora snapped. "But our motives align. If neither of us wants her in our territory, then there is only one permanent solution. We kill her."
Cierce went still. She knew the risks, and she knew Pandora was the type to sacrifice an ally to save herself. "I will find a way to get rid of her," Cierce said slowly, "but you will be the one to execute it."
Pandora smiled inwardly. She saw right through Cierce’s attempt to hedge her bets, but she didn't mind. "Sure," she agreed easily. "As long as the job is done."
Unknown to both women, a shadow detached itself from the thick trunk of a nearby pine. The figure moved with supernatural silence, vanishing into the treeline without so much as a rustle of leaves.
\---
In the Northwood camp, the atmosphere was far less subtle. Draven was systematically thrashing his tent, his wolf, Varkai, having surged to the surface in a fit of feral pique. Red eyes glowed in the dim light as elongated claws shredded the heavy canvas walls.
"That bastard!" Draven roared, his voice more growl than human.
Rylan rushed into the tent, ducking a flying wooden stool. "Brother, stop! That scent... you smelled it too?"
"I know the scent!" Draven turned, his chest heaving. "Elara was the masked woman! All this time, she was right under our noses, playing us for fools."
Rylan clenched his fists, his face pale. "What are you going to do now?"
Draven smirked, a jagged, terrifying expression. "Isn't it obvious? I’m going to take my mate back."
"That is a death sentence," Rylan hissed, stepping closer. "I told you before, kidnapping her from the Lycan King's grip is suicide. Be rational, Draven! Besides, how are you so sure?"
Draven recounted the scene—the necklace, the silver hair, the way the scent exploded when the chain snapped. Rylan frowned deeply, his mind working through the politics. "I heard the horse she rode was poisoned with Nightshade-thorn. That’s what prompted the shift. Who do you think did it?"
Draven didn't answer. He turned to the tent opening, staring out at the distant royal pavilions. Varkai rumbled in the back of his mind, "If it’s that person, they’ve known about her since the beginning."
Draven didn't care about the 'who' or the 'how' anymore. He didn't care about the rules of the Great Hunt or the sovereignty of the Lycan King. Elara was his. He would drag her back to Northwood by her silver hair if he had to, and he would make sure she never left him again.
\---
Back in the Royal Tent, the air was significantly warmer. Ronan stood close by, a silent sentinel while Liora and Faye tended to Elara.
"I haven't seen the Queen in a while," Elara remarked, breaking the silence.
"She got held up with the Council," Ronan replied, his voice a low hum of comfort. "She’ll be here shortly."
Elara nodded, closing her eyes as Liora finished fixing her braids and Faye smoothed the silk of her sleeves. Once they were finished, Elara felt the hollow ache of hunger in her stomach. "I’d like to have my breakfast now."
Ronan stepped back politely. "I’ll leave you to eat in peace."
"Wait," Elara blurted out, her cheeks flushing instantly. "I... I would like to eat with you."
Ronan blinked, his golden eyes widening in surprise. Behind them, Liora and Faye caught each other’s gaze, trading secret, knowing smiles.
Elara cleared her throat, nervously tucking a loose silver strand behind her ear. "I mean, you don't have to. I just thought..."
"I would be honored to have breakfast with you," Ronan said, his voice softening into a genuine smile.
Liora and Faye bowed quickly. "We will go get the meal, Your Grace," they chirped in unison, scurrying out to give the pair privacy.
As the tent flap settled, the silence became thick and awkward. The domesticity of the moment felt heavier than any battle. Inside Ronan, Fenrir began to pace. "I want to talk to her," he demanded. "I want to talk to Lyra."
Inside Elara, Lyra was already pushing forward. "He is right there. Let me out."
Before either could resist, their wolves took the reins. Elara’s eyes bled from silver to a brilliant, shocking blue, while Ronan’s golden gaze deepened into a molten glow.
Fenrir smirked, his posture shifting into something more predatory and confident. "Why, hello there..."
Lyra tilted her head, a playful, regal light in her eyes. "Hey, handsome. It’s been too long since you let the King off his leash."
"He's stubborn," Fenrir rumbled, his voice a low vibration. "But he can't ignore the pull. Not when you're looking like that."
Lyra purred, a sound that seemed to vibrate through Elara's very bones. "Good. Let him struggle. It makes the victory sweeter."
The moment was brief, a flickering exchange of ancient souls before Ronan and Elara fought back for control, their eyes returning to normal just as the maids returned with trays of fruit, roasted meats, and honeyed bread.
By the time they finished the meal, the tension had eased into something more comfortable. Elara set her fork down and looked at him. "What happens next? In the hunt, I mean. I still want to participate."
Ronan wiped his mouth with a linen handkerchief, his expression turning serious. "As the name implies, we hunt. Today is the second day, which means we won't just be looking for stags. And we won't be the only ones out there. The other Alphas and their elite warriors will join the fray."
Elara pursed her lips. "Not just stags?"
"No," Ronan explained. "We use the Great Hunt to flush out rogues and other threats. We find them and take care of them before they can reach the borders of the settled packs. A 'purification act,' if you will." He paused, his gaze darkening. "But with the vampires being so quiet lately, yet constantly lurking... we need to be extra careful."
Elara understood the gravity in his voice. "I see. Then I’ll stay behind with the other Lunas this time. I don't want to be a distraction."
Ronan smiled, genuinely impressed by her maturity. She was acting different this morning—less like a victim and more like a woman finding her footing. It’s a good thing, Fenrir hummed in approval.
Suddenly, Ronan’s expression shifted. He went still, his head tilting as he received a mindlink. “Ronan, come to the eastern stables,” Matthew’s voice rang in his head. “We’ve found a lead on the Nightshade-thorn. We know who provided the poison.”
Ronan’s jaw tightened. "I enjoyed breakfast, Elara, but I have to attend to something urgent."
Elara felt a pang of disappointment, but she forced a bright smile. "Oh. Of course. I’ll go meet with the Lunas or spend the day reading."
"You can do whatever you wish," Ronan said, standing up. He gave her one last, lingering look before striding out of the tent.
Elara sank back into her chair, a soft, dreamy look crossing her face. For the first time in her life, she felt like a young girl in love rather than a prisoner of fate. "Faye? Liora?"
"Yes, My Lady?" the maids asked.
"I feel like... I won't regret this," Elara whispered.
Faye giggled, adjusting a tray. "Of course not, My Lady. The King is quite literally under your spell."
But the peace outside the tent was already shattering.
As soon as the fresh air hit Ronan’s face, the dark, foreign voice roared in his skull. He groaned, doubling over and clutching his head as a blinding pain seared through his temples.
"Finally," the voice hissed, cold and ancient. "I have found the Keystone."
Ronan’s eyes didn't turn gold. They flickered into a terrifying, abyssal red, and thick black veins began to surge around his eyes like a spreading plague. His nostrils flared, and he turned back toward Elara’s tent. He looked hungry but not with the protective hunger of a mate, but with the hollow, starving gaze of a predator looking at a source of power.
He struggled, his fingernails digging into his palms until they bled. "Fenrir..." he choked out, but even his wolf felt small against this new darkness.
Ronan dragged his leg against the dirt, fighting the urge to storm back inside and claim the energy radiating from Elara. With a final, guttural roar of agony, he threw himself away from the tent and shifted mid-air. His massive Lycan form hit the ground with a thud, and he sprinted toward the deep woods, trying to outrun the thing inside him.
Inside the tent, Elara froze. The "home" scent of cedar and rain she had been basking in had suddenly changed. It was now sharp, metallic, and carried a scent of rot that made her skin crawl.
Her heart began to race. "Ronan?" she whispered to the empty air.