Chapter 81
THIRD PERSON POV
Two days had slipped away since Ryker sent that shadowed summons racing through the wilds—calling in every oath-bound killer, every gold-hungry blade, every exiled wolf who still carried his mark burned into their souls. They were the ones the packs had spat out, the ones who had nothing left but teeth and grudges, and he had kept them starving for this exact moment. He had fed them hate the way a butcher feeds dogs raw meat, and now the leash was coming off.
“My Lord,” Fenrir rumbled, dropping to one knee so hard the stone seemed to groan under him. The torchlight carved his ruined face into something demonic—one eye a black pit, the other glowing like a coal dragged from hell. The air in the war-room turned thick just from him breathing it.
Ryker walked a slow circle around the kneeling giant, letting the silence stretch until it felt sharp.
“My brother,” he said, voice soft as a knife sliding from its sheath, “has gone chasing pretty words and foreign handshakes. Left the gates wide, left the throne cold.” He stopped behind Fenrir, close enough that the heat of his words brushed the man’s neck. “A throne doesn’t like being empty, Fenrir. It starts to beg. And I have waited long enough to answer.”
Fenrir’s scarred lips peeled back from his teeth. “Then we give it what it wants.”
Ryker’s smile was all edges. “We give it everything. When Kael comes home with his treaties and his smiles, he’ll find the city already licking my boots. And you, old friend—my oldest monster—you’ll stand at my right hand, second only to the king.”
Fenrir’s single eye flared with raw, naked want.
“But the palace guard—” he started, cautious now, “they’ll die for him. Every last one.”
Ryker turned with lazy grace and flicked a hand toward the corner where the shadows were deepest. A figure stood there, hooded and still as grave dirt, black cloth swallowing the light. The torches dipped lower, as if afraid. Even Fenrir jerked—he hadn’t felt the stranger until the air itself betrayed it.
“That,” Ryker said, savoring every syllable, “is why my brother’s diplomatic tour is about to suffer an unfortunate… extension. Permanent. Irrevocable.”
Fenrir’s gaze snapped between his lord and the silent thing in the corner. “My Lord… what is that?”
Ryker waved the question away like smoke. “All you need to know is that Kael will not be coming back to save anyone. The realm will be mine. And anyone who misses the old king will learn exactly how sharp my lessons can be.”
The hooded figure never moved, never spoke, but the promise of death poured off it like frost.
Ryker’s eyes burned cold and ancient.
No mercy.
No retreat.
Only the crown.
The training yard was a frozen slaughter pen.
Wind screamed across the open ground, flinging ice like broken glass. Ryker stood in the center, cloak snapping like a war banner, watching three of his best try to kill him with blunted steel.
They were fast.
He was faster.
“Come on!” he roared. “Fight me like you mean it!”
The first man lunged. Ryker slipped inside the arc, caught the wrist, twisted—bone exploded with a wet snap. The soldier hit the ground screaming.
The second came high. Ryker ducked, drove his shoulder into the man’s gut, flipped him over a hip, and stomped on the back of his knee until something popped like wet wood.
The third actually managed to nick Ryker’s cheek—a thin line of blood.
Ryker laughed, wild and delighted, and broke the man’s arm in two places before kicking him into the frost.
He turned, breathing hard, blood on his teeth.
“Fenrir!”
The giant was already there.
“These,” Ryker spat, “are not wolves. These are pups mewling for milk. I want killers. I want men who wake up smiling because they dreamed of screaming. Bring them to me.”
Fenrir bowed until his forehead scraped stone. “It will be done.”
Ryker stalked back toward the keep, servants scattering like birds before a hawk. On the wide stone steps a young maid knelt scrubbing frost from the stairs, sleeves rolled high, gown soaked and clinging to every line of her. Steam rose from the hot water; steam rose from her skin where fear met cold.
She felt him looking and froze, rag dripping in her white-knuckled grip.
Ryker stopped three steps above her. Close enough to smell the soap on her hands and the terror underneath.
Power wasn’t the throne. Not all of it.
Power was the way her breath stopped.
Power was knowing she wouldn’t run.
He took one more step down.
“My Lord.”
Adrian’s voice cut across the yard, calm but edged.
The advisor stood at the foot of the stairs—slim, sharp, the only man Ryker had ever bothered pulling out of a fire.
Ryker didn’t turn. “Not now.”
“The northern companies have arrived,” Adrian pressed, unflinching. “And the palace whispers just came in. You will want to hear them.”
Ryker stared at the girl a moment longer. Her shoulders shook harder than the wind could account for.
He smiled, slow and cruel, then climbed the rest of the stairs without a word.
Adrian watched him vanish into the dark, then looked down at the maid. The neckline of her gown had slipped with the scrubbing, revealing the frantic flutter of her pulse at her throat.
“Learn to cover yourself,” he said quietly, almost gently, before following his master inside.
Loyalty was a chain forged in blood and debt.
And Adrian had never found the link weak enough to break.