Chapter 99 The Shattered Mirror 2
She stepped into his space, her chest heaving against the silk of her low-cut gown, her voice rising to a shrill, manic pitch that made the shadows at Ronan's feet snap and coil.
"When she realizes that while she was being broken in some gods-forsaken cellar, while she was screaming for a mate who never came, her 'King' was finding comfort in my arms? When she realizes you used her own agony as an excuse to bury yourself in me?"
She let out another sharp, broken cackle, her fingers curling into claws at her sides.
"She’ll hate you, Ronan! She’ll look at that mark on her neck in the mirror every morning, and she won't see your claim. She’ll see my face! She’ll feel my touch every time you try to reach for her!"
Ronan didn't flinch. He stood like a statue of obsidian, his gaze fixed on her with a clinical, detached coldness that was far more painful than a strike. But inside, the guilt he had been suppressing flared like an open wound.
"Your time here is up," Ronan announced.
"No!" She shrieked, her hands flying to her hair, pulling at the red strands until they were matted and wild.
The confident princess was gone; in her place was a woman unraveling at the seams. "You can't do this! I am the daughter of the South! I am the only one who truly knows you! You'll come crawling back when she fails you! When she realizes she’s not enough for a monster like you!"
"I doubt that will happen."
"You're choosing her?" Pandora wailed, her voice echoing through the corridors outside. "You’re throwing me away like trash for that... that little mutt?"
"I am choosing my Queen," Ronan said, his eyes flashing. "Something you were never meant to be.
Pandora’s breath hitched. A tear of pure rage escaped her eye, tracing a path through her perfect makeup. "She will never forgive you for what we did. Not when she realizes you used her pain as an excuse to touch me."
"Then I will spend the rest of my life earning that forgiveness," Ronan said, his voice lethal and quiet. "But you will not be here to witness it."
He released her abruptly, as if the very touch of her skin was an insult. He walked back to the window, his back to her once more, signaling that the conversation was over.
"You are leaving the palace. Today," he commanded. "You will return to the Southern Pack. If you set foot on Lycan territory again without my express summons, I will not send guards to escort you back. I will send an executioner."
"You can't do this," Pandora gasped, her voice trembling. "My father is an Alpha! This is a diplomatic insult!"
"Your father will understand that his daughter was found guilty of harassing the future Luna and Queen of the Lycans," Ronan said. "He can accept your return, or he can accept a declaration of war. The choice is his. Now get out of my sight before I change my mind about the mercy."
Pandora stood frozen for a moment, her chest heaving with a mix of humiliation and hatred. She opened her mouth to speak, to hurl one last venomous barb, but the shadows in the room suddenly surged, snapping toward her like a whip.
She shrieked and scrambled for the door, fumbling with the lock before tearing it open and fleeing into the hallway.
Ronan stood alone in the silence. He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the window. The victory felt hollow. He had removed the threat, but the poison was already in Elara’s system.
He could feel her through the bond—a distant, cold ache. She was in the bath, or perhaps she was already dressing for the dinner, but the wall she had built was thick.
"Elara," he tried to mindlink her, his voice soft, pleading.
No response. Just a cold, echoing silence.
He sighed, a sound of pure exhaustion. He had to face her at the royal dinner. He had to face her brother, the Beta of a ghost clan. And he had to find a way to tell her that the woman she was jealous of was nothing more than a ghost of his own darkest hour.
The door opened again, much more quietly this time. Matthew stepped in, his expression grim.
Ronan didn’t look at Matthew. He didn't want to see the reflection of his own guilt in his Emissary's eyes.
But he wasn't alone in his head.
"Traitor," Fenrir growled, the wolf’s voice a low, jagged saw against Ronan’s skull. "You should have come clean from the start. You chose silence over the bond."
"Quiet," Ronan rasped aloud, his voice sounding like grinding stone.
"She’s gone," Matthew said, stepping cautiously into the room. He kept his distance; the shadows around Ronan’s feet weren't just coiling—they were rising, taking the shape of wings. The Shadow King was leaning forward, pressing against the veil of Ronan’s skin, hungry for a target. "I saw her running toward the guest wing. I assume the conversation didn't go well."
"She's leaving the palace. See to it," Ronan said, his back still turned. He watched the courtyard below, his vision blurring as Fenrir’s predatory gold bled into his silver gaze. "I want her across the border by nightfall. No stops. No farewells."
Matthew nodded.
"What about the rogue?"
Matthew hesitated, the air in the room turning frigid as the Shadow King’s influence peaked. "He’s dead, Ronan. But not from the interrogation."
"He had a black-veined seal on his heart," Matthew said, his voice dropping. "The moment he started to talk about who sent him, the seal triggered. He withered away in seconds. It’s ancient magic. Dark magic."
Ronan’s eyes darkened. "The kind used in the Great War."
"Yes," Matthew said. "And there’s more. "Yes. Caspian... the White Wolf. He’s asking for a private audience with Elara before dinner. He says he has something that belongs to her. Something their ancestor left behind."
The possessiveness in Ronan’s blood roared. Fenrir howled in agreement, a sound of pure, territorial dominance. He had already lost Elara’s trust; he would not lose her to a "brother" who appeared like a ghost in the night.
"Tell him he can speak with her. But I will be in the room," Ronan commanded.
"He insisted on privacy, Ronan. He said the 'Shadow King's shadow' is too heavy for the truth he has to tell."
Ronan let out a low, frustrated growl, the floorboards beneath him frosting over. "I refuse to let my mate be alone with a stranger. If he can't talk to her in my presence, then I see no need for him to talk to her at all. He is a guest, Matthew. Not a King."
"Go to her," Fenrir urged, his claws scratching at the back of Ronan's mind. "You better make things right as soon as possible."
At the same time, in the west wing of the guest quarters.
The tension in the room was a living thing. Elara sat on the edge of a velvet chaise, her back as straight as a blade. Beside her, Liora and Faye stood like sentinels, their faces grim. They had seen the state Elara was in when she returned; they knew the silver-haired Queen was currently a powder keg of grief and fury.
Across from them, Caspian stood by the hearth. He looked both nervous and strangely regal, his pale eyes tracking the way Elara’s fingers dug into the velvet. He had no idea about the explosion between Ronan and Pandora. To him, the palace was simply a labyrinth of Lycan hostility.
Outside, the sound of heavy boots echoed—Ronan’s guards, or perhaps the King himself, pacing the hallway like a caged beast.
"He's angry," Caspian noted, his voice a low hum. "The Lycan King doesn't like being kept in the dark."
"The Lycan King has kept me in the dark for long enough," Elara snapped, her eyes flashing a dangerous, electric violet. Liora flinched at the coldness in her tone. "If he’s angry, he can wait. Now, tell me about this legacy. Tell me why you’re really here."
Caspian reached into his tunic and pulled out a small, leather-bound pouch. "I am here because our blood calls to the moon, Elara. Our ancestors didn't just leave us stories; they left us—"
Before he could open the pouch, a sudden, violent commotion erupted in the hallway. A woman’s shriek tore through the quiet of the wing.
"You'll regret this, Ronan! You'll crawl back to me!"
Pandora yelled as she ran towards her own chambers.
Inside the room, Caspian froze.
His breath hitched. His eyes, usually a calm, glacial blue, suddenly blew wide, the pupils swallowing the iris until they were black pits. He dropped the leather pouch, the items hitting the rug with a dull thud. He didn't look at Elara, Faye, or Liora. He looked toward the closed door, his body trembling with a sudden, violent recognition.
A low, guttural whine vibrated in his chest—a sound of raw, primal shock.
"Caspian?" Elara stood up, her anger momentarily forgotten. "What is it?"
The White Wolf didn't hear her. His inner wolf rose to the surface, snapping into a state of hyper-awareness as the scent of the screaming woman drifted under the door.
"That scent," Caspian whispered, his voice cracking. He looked at the door, then back at Elara, his face pale. "Elara... who is that woman?"
"That's Pandora," Elara said, her voice hardening. "She's..."
Caspian shook his head, his hands curling into fists as he felt the bond lock onto the woman in the hallway.
"No," Caspian choked out, his voice full of a horror that made Faye and Liora move back in alarm. "My wolf... he knows her. He’s howling for her."
He looked at Elara, his eyes shimmering with a desperate, frantic light.
"She’s my mate."