Chapter 86 Awake
The silence of the infirmary wasn't peaceful; it was a thin membrane stretched over a scream.
For two days, Ronan had sat unmoving, a King reduced to a sentinel. He had watched the violet-tinged static of the Shadow King pulse between their beds, a predatory hum that vibrated in his own marrow. He could feel her fading—a slow, agonizing leak of light he was helpless to stop.
Then, the membrane snapped.
A wave of ancient, freezing energy exploded from Elara’s body. It wasn't the chaotic violet of the Shadow King, nor the warm gold of the Lycans. It was a sharp, crystalline red—the color of a royal mantle drenched in blood.
The shockwave shattered every glass partition in the wing, frying the monitors until the room plunged into a flickering, emergency gloom.
Elara’s back arched off the bed, her skin flushing with a sudden, terrifying heat. Ronan lunged forward, ignoring the searing static to grab her shoulders. "Elara! Stay with me!"
Her eyes snapped open—not hazel, but a deep, obsidian red. She gripped his forearms with a strength that made his bones groan.
"Hector," she gasped.
The name hit Ronan like a physical blow. Even as relief flooded him, a sharp, irrational wave of jealousy surged through his chest. Hector. In the middle of a supernatural awakening, with the Shadow King clawing at his vitals, she had woken up with another man’s name on her lips.
"Elara? Are you alright?" Ronan asked, his voice strained as he fought to shove the jealousy down.
But Elara wasn't looking at him. Her mind was a whirlwind of crimson halls and obsidian thrones. "He’s alive," she breathed, her voice trembling. "Hector... he’s alive."
She looked at Ronan, expecting him to argue, to tell her that the man who raised her was dead and buried at Northwood. But he didn't. He didn't say a word. Her brows furrowed as she watched the guilt flicker across his face. "Don't tell me..."
Before she could demand the truth, the heavy doors swept open. Arwen rushed in, her beige coat fluttering in the mild breeze of the drafty wing. She hurried to the bedside, her face a mask of relief. "Thank the goddess you're awake! You've been out for two days, Elara."
"Two days?" Elara blinked, dazed. To her, the Obsidian Spire had felt like thirty minutes.
Morrigan followed closely behind, her eyes scanning the structural damage to the room. "I felt the energy leak from all the way in the library," she remarked dryly. "Heavens, it’s going to cost a fortune in crystals to fix these cracks."
Elara’s gaze darted around the room, searching. Ronan, still battling his internal demons regarding Hector’s "death," realized immediately who she was looking for. "Faye and Liora are still receiving treatment," he said quietly. "They were seriously injured during the Red Moon. They’re stable, but they need time."
"Oh," Elara murmured, her heart sinking. Then, the fire returned to her eyes. She turned back to Ronan. "Did you know? That Hector was alive?"
Ronan hesitated for a heartbeat too long. Elara shook her head, a cold sense of betrayal washing over her. "You knew. Why did you let me talk to an empty grave? Why did you let me carry that guilt?"
She felt played. Just when she thought the wall between them was finally down, she found another foundation of lies.
“Calm down, Elara,” a voice suddenly stirred in her mind. It was Lyra, awake at last after what felt like an eternity of dormancy. “He tried to tell you then, remember? But you insisted on talking to the dirt beneath that oak tree. You weren't ready to hear it.”
Elara went silent, unable to argue. It was true. But she made a mental note to dig into the details later.
Ronan opened his mouth to explain, but his head snapped toward the door as Matthew’s voice rang through a frantic mindlink: “Ronan, the palace felt that burst. The Council is in an uproar. They’re demanding an urgent meeting—now.”
Ronan snarled under his breath. "The old men are truly jobless. Rather than finding anything better to do with their time, they act like gossiping fishwives around my business."
He was about to refuse the meeting when the doors burst open again. This time, it wasn't an invitation. Silas and Elder Varick strolled in, their gazes filled with undisguised disdain as they looked at Elara sitting on the stone bed.
"It wasn't enough that the King brought a stray from Northwood into the Royal Wing," Varick said, his voice dripping with venom. "Now we find he is harboring a monster. An abomination of the Great War that should have been locked away centuries ago!"
Silas stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. "With all due respect, Your Highness, not only are you holding a monster, but you intended to make her Queen while my daughter, Pandora, remains sidelined?"
Elara rolled her red eyes, muttering under her breath, "Silas really won't stop until he shoves Pandora into your bed, will he?"
“The audacity of these mutts,” Lyra snarled in her head.
Ronan cleared his throat, his hand sliding over Elara’s. "I don't owe you an explanation," he said, his voice dropping into a register that made the floor vibrate. His eyes began to flicker between molten gold and the black of the Shadow King. "The last I checked, I am the King. I specifically ordered that no one enter without an invitation. It seems you’ve gotten tired of living."
His aura rolled off him in suffocating waves of killing intent. Elara reached out, patting the back of his hand.
The touch was simple, but it acted like a circuit breaker; Ronan’s shoulders relaxed, and the darkness in his eyes receded just enough to be manageable.
Silas and Varick clenched their fists, their faces reddening with suppressed rage, but they didn't dare move.
Arwen stepped in, her voice cool and authoritative. "This is not the way to present your worries, Elders. I expected you to know better than to ambush a recovering patient."
Ronan spared a glance at Silas. "I had no idea you were still in the palace, Silas. I specifically ordered all Alphas to return to their packs to manage the Red Moon fallout."
"How could I sleep peacefully," Silas snapped, "knowing my daughter was locked away in this palace like a criminal?"
"Locked?" Elara asked, looking at Ronan.
Ronan didn't look at her. He simply shook his head at Silas. "Would you rather I locked her in the dungeon for the attempted murder of—" he caught himself, nearly saying his mate, "—of Elara?"
Varick, whose obsession with the Great War bordered on insanity, stepped forward. "The Great War erupted because the balance between Wolf, Witch, and Vampire was tilted by bloodlines like hers! And now she walks around like she owns the palace, oblivious to the fact that her very existence is a curse to the Lycan race!"
"The Great War is over, Varick," Ronan whispered, the sound carrying a lethal edge. "But if you want a new one, you are standing in the right place."
Silas, sensing the killing intent was seconds away from becoming a bloodbath, held up a hand. "Fine. Let the matter be properly discussed in the court session tomorrow. Let the other Elders and Lycan Lords decide what to do with the abomination."
"She is not an abomination," Ronan growled.
Elara felt the sting of the word, but she didn't flinch. She looked Silas dead in the eye, her obsidian-red gaze burning with a new, ancient confidence. "If they want to discuss my fate tomorrow, then I will be there."
"No," Ronan said firmly. "No one is 'deciding' your fate."
Elara smiled softly at him, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "I have to go, Ronan. I have to prove to these old jags that I’m not just an abomination. I’m a force to be reckoned with."