Chapter 24 Invitation
Whispers had already poisoned the chamber long before the council was formally called to order. They slid between stone pillars, sharp and unfiltered, no longer bothering with decorum now that the doors remained closed and the throne sat empty. Elders leaned toward one another, voices overlapping, irritation feeding irritation.
“...her scent is wrong!”
“I thought he would have disposed of her by now. Her scent never settled, even while unconscious—”
“Yes! Doesn't smell wolf or Lycan.” Someone spat, "she's an abomination!"
“Even the wards haven’t known what to do with it since the moment it arrived—”
A scoff cut through the low noise. The elder in the purple-and-silver council robe leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping irritably against the stone table. His mouth twisted into a mean, unimpressed curl as he spoke.
“Seven months,” he muttered loudly. “Seven months the king avoided this chamber, and now he returns with the scent of that thing in tow. Are we expected to accept it without question?”
A few elders nodded grimly. Others shifted, uncomfortable but unwilling to challenge him.
“That ‘thing’ has a pulse,” another snapped. “It breathes. It bleeds. Even fate recognized it.”
“Fate doesn’t make it fit to rule,” came the immediate retort. “If she isn’t Lycan or wolf, she cannot stand as mate, much less future queen.”
Two elders rose almost in unison, chairs scraping loudly against stone. “Enough,” one of them who was clad in a green robe with one braided hair hanging behind the head barked, eyes flashing. “All of you knew what the king endured. You watched him lose half the pack. You watched him shoulder the crown alone. And now that fate has finally given him a mate, you offer venom instead of congratulations?”
“Yes,” the second added, jaw tight as he aimed his staff at them. “You speak as if you have the authority to undo what the goddess herself bound. That is not caution. That is fear. You should just say you are pissed that none of your daughters caught the King's attention!”
"You-" the purple robes man hissed but didn't say anything. Obviously, fear sparked more anger.
“The wards react to her,” someone shouted. “They cracked when she passed them, or so I heard. That alone makes her dangerous.”
“And yet they didn’t reject her,” the defender shot back. “They adjusted.”
“Or they’re failing.”
“That thing should be confined until we understand her. She could be a spy or experiment under the nosferu for all I care.”
Suddenly, the doors slammed open.
The sound cracked through the chamber like a physical blow.
Ronan strode in, aura flaring the instant he crossed the threshold. His eyes were already glowing red, not bright, not uncontrolled, but deep and molten, like something burning behind glass. Fenrir was at the surface, not pacing but coiled, every instinct sharpened to a killing edge. The whispers died mid-syllable as the pressure hit, thick and suffocating, rolling outward in a wave that made several elders stiffen instinctively.
Ronan didn’t go to the throne.
He went straight for the elder who had spoken last.
Hands closed around the man’s throat in a blur of motion, lifting him clear off the floor. Stone cracked under Ronan’s boots as Fenrir surged fully forward, rage pouring through him unchecked. The elder’s face went purple, hands clawing uselessly at Ronan’s arm.
“Say it again,” Ronan snarled, voice layered with the wolf’s growl. “Call her a thing.”
"Y-your..." The elder choked, panic flooding his scent. “Maj—”
The grip tightened.
In Elara’s chambers, far removed yet bound by something neither of them fully understood, her chest seized painfully. Her fingers spasmed, knocking a plate askew as terror surged through the bond. She felt it then, raw and overwhelming, Fenrir’s hunger, the violent need to destroy whatever threatened her.
Ronan.
Matthew’s voice cut sharply through the chaos, mindlink snapping tight. "That’s enough. You kill him and you hand them justification."
Fenrir snarled back, furious. "He insulted mate."
"And he’ll answer," Matthew shot back, controlled but urgent. "Just not like this. Consider Elara."
That name anchored him.
Ronan’s chest heaved once, twice. Slowly, with visible effort, he loosened his grip. The elder collapsed to the floor, coughing violently, gasping for air as panic spread through the chamber.
Ronan straightened, eyes still glowing red, Fenrir pacing just beneath his skin now, restrained but not pacified.
“Anyone,” Ronan said calmly, too calmly, “who refers to my mate as a thing again will not survive the next warning. I will not repeat myself.”
Silence answered him.
He turned then, finally moving to the throne, sitting with controlled precision as Matthew took his place beside him, posture relaxed but eyes sharp, watching the room like a chessboard already half-lost.
The two elders who had defended Elara earlier stepped forward again, voices steadier now that the threat was clear. “We stand by our words,” one said. “This council should be offering respect. She is bound by fate. That is not something jealousy can undo.”
“And yet,” another elder muttered bitterly, “the queen is not present.”
Ronan’s jaw tightened. “My mother’s absence is not a topic for speculation.”
“Then at least reveal her to us,” someone pressed. “Let us see who we are being asked to accept.”
“No,” Ronan said flatly.
A ripple of unease followed.
“She is not yours to judge,” he continued. “She will not be paraded, examined, or measured against your expectations. She will step into this world when she is ready. Until then, this conversation ends.”
Matthew cleared his throat, stepping in before the tension could reignite. “There are other matters requiring attention. The Hunt approaches. Invitations have already begun circulating. Rival packs are watching our borders closely.”
That drew the room back into uneasy focus. Names were exchanged. Territories mentioned. Old grudges resurfaced. Through it all, Fenrir remained alert, growling low whenever a voice drifted too close to dangerous speculation.
Hours later, the council dispersed under strict warning.
Evening crept over the palace.
Ronan stood alone in his study, hands braced against the window frame as he watched the garden below. Moonlight spilled over manicured paths and silver-leafed trees. There, walking beside Arwen, was Elara.
She wore a flowing blue dress, pristine and soft, fabric catching the light with every step. Her silver hair had been carefully styled, falling over her shoulders like spun moonlight. She smiled as Arwen spoke, nodded at something pointed out among the flowers, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. It was practiced. Careful.
Fenrir surged, restless. "Go to her. I want to feel her. Let's touch her."
Ronan exhaled slowly. “No.”
She’s right there.
“I won’t force her,” Ronan murmured. “She’ll come to me when she’s ready. I don’t care if it takes months or years. I’ll wait for her.”
Fenrir huffed, dissatisfied but listening.
Below, Elara shifted, something making her pause. Slowly, she turned, eyes lifting toward the study window.
They locked gazes.
The moment stretched.
Ronan’s heart slammed hard against his ribs. Elara’s breath caught, eyes narrowing slightly as if unsure whether she was imagining him there. Then Arwen touched her arm, pointing out something in the garden, and Elara looked away.
Ronan didn’t move.
Behind him, the door opened.
Matthew walked in lazily, tossing a letter onto the desk. “Invitation,” he said lightly.
Ronan didn’t turn. “From who?”
There was a beat of silence.
Matthew’s tone shifted, just enough. “Northwood.”