Chapter 130: DIVIDED TABLE

The council chamber was dimly lit—candles guttering in wrought-iron sconces, shadows curling like smoke along the stone walls.

The long oaken table in the center was surrounded by elders, warriors, and chosen advisors, every one of them summoned urgently after the Moonfire Vigil, no one smiled, not even Fiona.

Michael stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, his Alpha presence tangible. Beside him sat Fiona, her gaze unreadable but piercing. The seat meant for their son—still too young for council—remained symbolically empty.

At the opposite end sat Beta Gareth, He had not spoken yet. Neither had Elder Rowan, nor the Warden of Laws, Callix. But the tension said enough, it was Councilwoman Mara who finally broke the silence.

“Lucan’s return… was no accident.”

“No,” Michael agreed coolly. “It was calculated.

Orchestrated to divide the pack in public and I won't pretend it didn’t shake the lines.”

“He never should’ve been allowed on sacred ground,” growled Doran, one of the warrior elders. “Tradition forbids—”

“Tradition also claims that blood cannot be denied,” Councilwoman Mara interrupted. “You know the rite, a descendant of the Moonstone line may not be cast out without a formal trial of legacy, that rule has never been overturned.”

Michael’s jaw clenched. “That rite hasn’t been invoked in three generations for a reason, it nearly tore the pack apart last time. We’ve evolved beyond blood claims.”

“Have we?” came a voice from the shadows.

Gareth leaned forward at last, folding his hands.

“I don’t trust Lucan. But I also won’t ignore what I saw tonight. He carries Moonstone blood—and the crowd knows it, you all felt it when he spoke.”

“He’s a viper,” Fiona said sharply, “He doesn’t want the throne, he wants to discredit our son before his future begins.”

Callix, the Warden, sighed and looked toward the center of the table, “And yet… if we refuse the trial, we risk appearing afraid of it. That would only strengthen Lucan’s position among the undecided.”

“Cowards,” Doran snapped. “He is not the Eclipse Child, he is not the heir we trained to lead us, he’s a phantom crawling out of the grave with a smile and an agenda.”

But Rowan, old and silent until now, finally spoke. “He is not the heir we chose but the laws—our laws—were written in blood and stone and if we break them now, what will our heir inherit? A throne built on fear.” Silence fell again.

Michael looked at Fiona, her fingers were clenched beneath the table, but she nodded once, barely.

He turned to the council. “Very well,” he said, each word heavy.

“Let Lucan have his trial of legacy.”

Murmurs rose like thunderclouds.

“But hear me now,” Michael continued, voice steel-edged. “This is not a game, this is not a popularity contest or a speech war. If Lucan dares stand before the ancestors and the spirits of our line—he will be measured.”

“And if he fails…” Fiona added coldly, “he won’t walk away unmarked.”

A quiet descended—final grim. The date was set, seven days, seven trials, seven truths to uncover whether Lucan was heir—or heretic.

Outside, the wind howled like a warning and somewhere far beyond the walls, Lucan smiled.

( The First Trial )

The Trial of Legacy was not a spectacle, it was older than any Alpha's reign, older than even the Bloodstone Throne. It was a ritual of memory, where bloodlines stood bare before the pack’s ancestors—watched by spirits, judged by truth, and stripped of lies and for Lucan, it began at dusk.

He stood barefoot in the ancient circle carved into the stone floor of the Temple of Ashes. Runes flickered around him, glowing faint silver under the moonlight.

Elders stood on each side, The pack watched from the shadows beyond.

At the far edge, Fiona stood, arms folded, her jaw tight. Michael was at her side, expression unreadable between them, their son—the true heir—watched with wide, simmering eyes.

Lucan turned slightly, as if sensing them, his smirk was small.

“Let the first trial begin,” Rowan announced.

A hush fell over the fire pit at the center flaring high, casting dancing lights on the walls.

Trial One: Memory of Blood.

A priestess stepped forward, carrying a bowl of sacred water and a shard of obsidian. Lucan knelt as she passed the blade over his palm. Blood dripped into the bowl, swirling with light the air trembled.

Then—images began to form in the flames. A younger Lucan, abandoned, beaten, taken in by rogues. Raised in brutality, taught to hate the name “Moonstone.” Another image—of him standing over a fallen warrior, his hands bloodied, the crowd stirred.

Fiona’s wolf snarled beneath her skin.

But then came another memory—of a young Lucan, clutching a worn cloth marked with the Moonstone sigil. Sleeping with it every night, even in exile… he had remembered.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, Rowan turned, voice solemn. “This is the memory of blood and by that memory… he is of Moonstone descent.”

Michael didn’t move, Fiona did one step forward, one glance at the flames. She didn’t speak—but her eyes said enough.

This isn't over.

That night—Fiona paced the floor of their war room, a map stretched across the long table. Michael stood at the window, arms crossed, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight.

“He passed the first trial too easily,” she said. “The memories were real, but chosen, controlled.”

Michael turned. “He knew exactly what to show.”

Fiona nodded. “We can’t let him manipulate the rest, I want extra guards around the Heir, night and day. No one sees him without clearance—even wolves we trust.”

“And if Lucan tries to get close?” Fiona’s voice went ice cold.

“Then we remind him who carries the Alpha bond.” Michael stepped forward, placing a hand on hers.

“I’m having Lysandra brought in,” he said. “If this trial becomes mystical, she’ll see through his illusions. No one reads magic like she does.”

Fiona finally allowed a breath but her wolf still clawed inside.

“I want our son to see everything,” she whispered.

“The truth, the danger, the games are being played around him. He has to learn now.”

Michael nodded slowly. “Then let’s make sure he survives the lesson.”

Meanwhile… In a hidden alcove below the Temple, Lucan wrapped his bleeding hand in linen, his expression unreadable.

A figure stepped from the shadows—Marla, the old healer who had once warned of the boy’s power.

Lucan didn’t look up.

“Did you place the charm before the trial?” he asked.

Marla nodded. “It will keep their seers from seeing too clearly.” “But Fiona… she’s watching too closely, her instincts are too sharp.”

Lucan smiled faintly. “Then we’ll have to blind her with fire.”

TBC