Chapter 183 – The Feast of Mercy
Alaric
Perfection is not an accident, it’s a habit I force on the world.
The hall gleams because I told it to. Marble spilled from the mountains into these floors. Candles were made fat to throw the right kind of light. Banners were stitched wide so necks must lift to see them. Men kneel better when they’ve already strained their spines to look up.
No weapons tonight, as per my decree. Wolves without teeth are pleasant dinner guests. Music smears across the air, a slow court waltz played by servants too well trained to meet my eyes. Roasted meat, clove, wine as black as the plans I have for Eli.
I built the scent of this evening note by note. This is how power sings.
I sit where I belong. In the center, raised above the masses, adored. The stage I designed will carry the performance I authored. The future delivered on a silver platter and washed down with their blood.
Kieran sits at my right, pretending his spine isn’t made of reeds. All his mother’s beauty, none of my leadership acumen.
He glances down the table at the Blackthorn dogs like a beggar trying to remember if he once owned the street he sleeps on.
I fed him, I clothed him, I let him breathe my air, and he still came to nothing. Now he dares to sit at my right as if he earned the seat. Ungrateful whelp. If he speaks out of turn I may have him gagged, purely to restore the acoustics of obedience.
Across from him is Ronan Vale. Blackthorn’s slab of stone. The wolf who believes in peace like a drunk believes in virtue.
His shoulders are broad enough to block out the torchlight, his expression carved from stone. I could almost admire him if admiration weren’t so close to respect. They forget patience was invented by those of us who could afford to make others wait.
The Omega. Eli. Neat, collared, head bowed just enough to suggest humility without committing to it. He thinks obedience is a cloak he can shrug off when the weather changes.
Last night he pretended to tremble and then pretended not to. I enjoyed both performances. When I own him, I will decide which one the world sees. In private he’ll always be trembling.
I rise and the hall stills. As is my due.
“My friends,” I begin, smiling into the hush, “Tonight we dine in the name of peace. For too long our packs have led separate existences. Let us eat together and remember that blood is best shared when it flows in the same direction.”
They hesitate a fraction of a breath before laughing. I feel heat climb my throat and widen my smile instead. Baring teeth is for later.
“To cooperation,” I lift my glass, “And to the joining of our strengths.”
Ronan nods with the expression of a man swallowing bile. His Omega copies him, polite to the point of insult. Kieran’s hand trembles around his cup and I pretend not to see what a weakling I sired.
Music swells. Dancers slide between tables, masked, painted, silks the exact shade of arteries. Entertainment makes good camouflage; guests forget they’re the second course if you give them a first to applaud.
I sip my wine and study the invisible edge of my plan. Fifty men behind sliding panels, blades kissed with oil, breath measured. I pay well. They will earn it tonight.
Candles gutter. The dancers turn. Ronan’s gaze slides to me and sticks like a burr. He smells the storm coming, but he didn’t write the weather. I’m the only god in these halls.
The dancers twirl closer to the dais and the candles gutter. Ronan’s gaze flicks over to me, tension radiating from his hulking frame.
I lift my glass again and call out loudly, “Let us toast to the future.”
The signal we agreed upon.
Panels slide aside and warriors armed to the teeth spill out. They move fast, blades flashing as they head toward the main table. Gasps can be heard around the hall. Silvercrest guards at the doors remain in position. They know not to interfere.
I remain seated, crossing an ankle over a knee. Carnage is art. One should view it from the correct distance.
Kieran shouts, something thin and useless, his chair scrapes backward. Blackthorn surges to their feet with their hands empty and their faces righteous. It’s almost too sweet to bear.
Ronan bows his head and for a heartbeat I think he’s praying to whatever primitive god Blackthorn keeps in a box.
Then he says, quiet as law, “Mercenaries. You will not harm anyone here today. Return to your homes.”
The sound punches the room from the inside.
The command isn’t loud, but the force rolls outward, invisible and absolute. My ears ring. My teeth ache. Every mercenary stops mid-stride. Not in hesitation. They completely cease to move.
One blade rests a hair from Kieran’s throat, a scream fossilized between mouth and breath. Another body hangs mid-lunge, all muscle and intention, turned into a museum exhibit. Dozens of paid killers, frozen because a stranger told them to be.
The Alpha Voice does not do this. It can bend a mind for a breath. Force a handful to kneel, but it cannot command an entire room.
“Release them,” I say. The tone I choose is mild. I do not feel mild. I feel like sweeping the food from the table and beating Ronan to death with a golden plate.
Ronan looks at me. “You should have stayed away from my mate, Alaric.”
He doesn’t use his commanding voice on me and it still feels like his hand is on my throat, thumb pressing down just to let me know he could.
The mercenaries begin to move away from their marks, toward the doors. My guards, suddenly forgetful, open those doors as if they were born to usher.
“Get back here and do what you were hired for!” My voice comes out raw, a rip down the center. They walk past me as if I don’t exist. The hall I own refuses to echo me.
This can’t be happening. I won’t allow it. I’m in charge. Not this barbarian. “Stop!” I scream again, but my hired swords keep walking.
Eli rises behind his Alpha and threads their fingers together, posing like the soft origin of a collapse.
Of course he’s the key. If I had gotten my hands on him, I would be emperor of the world by now. My mages will answer for their incompetence. As soon as this disaster is fixed.
If I’d been aware of Eli’s ability to bestow this power, I would have razed Blackthorn to the ground and dragged him back here by his hair months ago.
“Father.” Kieran dares me to recognize him.
“You planned this with him?” The question tastes like wormwood. The bitterness not just coating my tongue, but filling my entire being.
“Yes,” he says, steady as a sermon. “I had to choose the pack over you.”
I want to tear his tongue out and hold it up as Exhibit A. Instead, I smile a little, too many teeth. The betrayal burns cold first, then catches flame.
Around us, my guests shrink back, some crawling under tables, others frozen in place by fear. My beautiful hall smells of terror and spilled wine. I will not stand for this.
“Guards,” I say, voice pleasant because I have always preferred cruelty to be well-dressed, “Arrest them.”
The line of men along my walls performs an impressive statue impression. Their eyes flick like minnows toward Kieran, toward Ronan, away from me. I deigned to make them and they dare to look elsewhere for instruction.
Ronan steps forward and the air changes pitch. He doesn’t even address me. He turns to my son. “It’s your choice.”
Kieran meets my gaze without flinching. Without shrinking in on himself like he’s supposed to. He looks at me like a man who believes he’s my equal. The absurdity of it all is staggering.
“You asked me once what kind of Alpha I’d be,” he says quietly. “One who doesn’t kill for amusement.”
“You think you can take Silvercrest from me?” I ask, because it is important to record the joke for posterity.
Ronan’s answer is quiet, but it shakes the hall. “We’re not taking anything. We’re disinfecting the rot.”
The impudence of his answer is astounding. A Blackthorn cur daring to throw a word like that at someone as illustrious as myself is pure effrontery.
Ronan looks at me like a magistrate turning to the worst liar in the dock. “You set the trap,” he says. “But you forgot who you invited to dinner.”
I should leap the table and tear his throat out with my own teeth, but I have lived long enough to know which instincts ruin silk.
That doesn’t mean rage will curdle into quiet surrender. I allow it to explode like a spoiled cask.
“You fools!” I roar. “Do you know what you have done? Do you know who you have insulted?”
The room answers with a silence so thick it feels like contempt.
“Kieran,” I spit, each syllable a lash, “You ingrate. You ungrateful bearer of my name. Do you think this is bravery? This is idiocy. You sit at my table, you wear my riches like a trophy, and you choose to stab me in the back?”
My chest beats in time with the fury, a drum that demands an audience. My throat works. I refuse to be made small in front of these mice.
I seize the nearest goblet and hurl it to the ground. Not because it will wound, but because it will make a noise that proves I am still the storm.
It shatters. Wine arcs like blood and I laugh. Bcause if I cannot command the air, I can at least make it acknowledge me.
“Traitors!” I howl. “Traitors and cowards! You will remember my name when you taste what I do to those who defy me.”
There is no humility here, no quiet coming-to-terms. There is only a colossal fury that refuses to accept the possibility of defeat.
“This is not the end,” I tell them, voice lowering until it is a promise and a threat braided together. “You will all bend again. I am not done. I will take this hall back piece by piece, tooth by tooth, until you beg to be put out of your misery.”