Chapter 220 CHAPTER 220
The council chamber felt heavier than usual.
Ethan sat at the head of the long stone table, his presence steady, composed, but not without weight. The past days had carved something sharper into his expression, something quieter but firmer. This was no longer the man chasing shadows through corridors.
This was the king.
The remaining members of the Mooncrest council sat on either side of the chamber, their faces solemn, their attention fixed. One seat remained empty—Vaughn’s place had not yet been filled, and its absence lingered like a silent reminder of everything that had unraveled.
Before them stood the elders of Silverpine.
Richard, worn but composed.
Cedric, his posture less steady, though he tried to hide it.
And beside them, Sebastian, quieter than the others, his gaze lowered, no longer carrying the pride he once wore so easily.
The chamber doors closed.
Silence followed.
Then one of the Mooncrest elders rose, unrolling a scroll.
“The accused will now hear the charges brought against them under the laws of Mooncrest,” he announced.
The words echoed, formal, unyielding.
“Cedric of Silverpine—accused of unlawful enslavement, the concealment of an unregistered child, and the violation of kingdom law through failure to report the presence of said child to the crown.”
A pause.
“Alpha Richard of Silverpine—accused of knowingly harboring these crimes, failing to report them, and enabling continued violation under his leadership.”
The elder lowered the scroll slightly.
“You will be given the opportunity to respond.”
The silence that followed felt longer than it was.
Richard stepped forward first.
“Your Majesty, I accept my fault,” he said, his voice steady but heavy. “There is no excuse for what happened under my watch.”
His gaze lifted briefly toward Ethan.
“I did it for a friend,” he continued. “Cedric had longed for a child for years. When he found one… I chose to look the other way. It was wrong of me to look the other way, but I let my emotions get the best of me.”
A faint murmur moved through the chamber.
Richard did not stop.
“And when he later had his own child,” he added, “and I began to hear whispers… rumors of how the girl was being treated… it became harder to act.”
His voice dropped slightly.
“Because reporting him then would have meant confessing that I had failed from the very beginning.”
The weight of that truth settled into the room.
“I failed as an Alpha,” Richard said quietly. “And I am prepared to answer for it in whatever way the king deems fit.”
Silence followed.
Then Cedric spoke.
Cedric stepped forward, but this time, there was no resistance in his posture, no attempt to hold onto pride that had already crumbled.
“I have had time to think,” he began, his voice quieter than before, but steady in a different way. “Time to reflect on what I did… and what it cost.”
He paused briefly, his gaze lowering before lifting again, not toward the king—but toward the floor between them, as though the weight of his own words required grounding.
“I wronged the princess,” he said. “There is no other way to say it. I treated her as less than she was… less than she deserved to be. And in doing so, I did not just harm her—I placed my family, my friend, and my entire pack in a position they should never have been in.”
His eyes shifted then, briefly, toward Richard.
“This was my doing,” he added. “Not theirs.”
The chamber remained silent, but the air had changed.
“If the king finds it within his power,” Cedric continued, “I ask that whatever judgment is passed… falls on me alone. Let the guilt of what I began end with me.”
There was no plea in his voice.
Only acceptance.
“I do not know if the princess would ever wish to see me,” he said after a moment, his voice lowering slightly, “and I would not blame her if she did not. But if there ever comes a day when she allows it… I would like to apologize to her. Not as a formality. But for the suffering my actions—and my family’s actions—brought into her life.”
He fell silent then.
The council exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable.
One of the elders stepped forward again.
“And the matter of the witch?” he asked.
Richard answered this time.
“We did not know,” he said firmly. “Not until it was too late. And when we found out, we intended to report it to the crown.”
Another elder narrowed his eyes slightly. “Yet the king learned of it before you spoke.”
Richard lowered his gaze.
“That is true.”
There was a pause.
Then one of the Silverpine elders, older and visibly strained, stepped forward.
“Our pack is weakened,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet urgency. “The witch… she did more than deceive us. She drained our strength. Our guards are not what they once were.”
He hesitated briefly before continuing.
“The warriors who once stood strong enough to guard even the palace itself… they can barely stand now. If word spreads—if others learn how vulnerable we are—Silverpine will not be able to defend itself.”
His gaze lifted toward the Mooncrest council.
“We ask… not for leniency,” he said, “but for protection. Until we can stand on our own again.”
The chamber fell into a thoughtful silence.
Ethan leaned back slightly in his seat, his gaze steady, taking in every word, every shift, every truth that had been laid bare.
Then he rose.
The movement alone was enough to still the room completely.
“Cedric of Silverpine,” he began, his voice calm but firm, carrying easily through the chamber, “your crimes are not a matter of negligence. They are deliberate. You enslaved a child, concealed her existence, and denied her the protection of the crown.”
Cedric did not look up.
“For this,” Ethan continued, “you will be imprisoned under Mooncrest law. And you will serve under hard labor.”
A brief pause.
“For seventeen years.”
A ripple of tension moved through the chamber.
“You will endure the weight of the same labor you forced upon another,” Ethan added. “Let that be your judgment.”
Cedric closed his eyes briefly, but he did not protest.
Ethan’s gaze shifted.
“Richard of Silverpine.”
Richard straightened slightly.
“You failed in your duty,” Ethan said. “Not through cruelty, but through silence. And silence, in the face of wrongdoing, is still a crime.”
Richard bowed his head.
“However,” Ethan continued, “this is your first offense under the crown. And your history as a leader does not go unseen.”
The council murmured quietly among themselves before stilling again.
“You will remain Alpha of Silverpine,” Ethan declared. “But under probation.”
Richard’s head lifted slightly in surprise.
“Mooncrest will oversee your governance,” Ethan added. “Until it is certain that Silverpine stands not only stable—but just.”
Richard bowed deeply.
“I understand,” he said.
Ethan’s gaze moved once more.
“Sebastian.”
The younger man stepped forward slowly.
“It is not a crime to reject a bond,” Ethan said. “What stands against you is not law - but character.”
Sebastian swallowed slightly.
“I understand,” he said quietly.
A silence stretched between them.
Then Sebastian lifted his gaze, just enough to speak.
“My king,” he said, “I ask for permission… to speak with the princess.”
The words carried no pride now.
Only something quieter.
Regret.
“I wish to apologize to her properly,” he continued. “Not as an obligation. But because I owe her that much.”
The chamber stilled.
Ethan’s expression did not immediately change.
“That request will be considered,” he said at last. “The princess will be informed, and her consent will determine the outcome.”
Sebastian bowed his head.
“Thank you.”
Ethan turned his attention back to the chamber.
“The council’s decision stands,” he said. “Let it be carried out.”
His voice settled with finality.