Chapter 172

Chapter 172
Third POV

The Ironfang Federation Embassy sat in the diplomatic quarter of the capital city, a brutalist structure of dark stone and steel that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Security was tight—werewolf guards in military uniforms patrolled the perimeter, their eyes constantly scanning for threats, their postures radiating the aggressive confidence of soldiers from a nation built on conquest and domination.

At precisely 1400 hours the following afternoon, a nervous figure in an ill-fitting coat approached the main gate, clutching a leather document case against his chest like a shield. The guards' eyes narrowed as they took in Professor Thorne's disheveled appearance, the tremor in his hands, the desperate edge to his scent.

"State your business," the senior guard commanded, his hand resting casually on the weapon at his hip.

Thorne swallowed hard, his mouth dry despite the flask of liquid courage he'd drained before leaving his apartment. "I have information. About Princess Rhea Winterbourne. I was told to come at this time."

The guard's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—recognition, perhaps, or satisfaction. He spoke briefly into his radio, then nodded curtly. "You're expected. Follow me."

They led him through corridors that felt deliberately oppressive, the ceilings low and the walls close, designed to make visitors feel small and vulnerable. Thorne's wolf whimpered inside him, sensing the predatory atmosphere of this place, the barely contained violence that seemed to permeate the very air.

Finally, they reached an unmarked door. The guard knocked twice, then pushed it open without waiting for a response. "Your visitor, Your Highness."

Thorne stepped into what appeared to be a private office, and his breath caught in his throat.

Crown Prince Tyrant stood by the window, backlit by the afternoon sun so that his features were initially obscured. But as he turned, Thorne got his first clear look at the man who had been hunting Princess Rhea with such single-minded obsession.

He was tall—taller even than Commander Striker—with a powerful build that spoke of both noble breeding and brutal training. His features were aristocratic but cruel, with cold amber eyes that seemed to dissect everything they looked upon, searching for weaknesses to exploit. He wore an immaculate military uniform decorated with medals and insignia that proclaimed his rank and achievements, though rumors suggested many of those "achievements" were built on the broken bodies of those who'd displeased him.

"Professor Thorne," Tyrant said, his voice smooth and cultured, though something predatory lurked beneath the surface. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."

Thorne's hands tightened on his document case. "Your Highness. I... I have the information you requested."

"Do you?" Tyrant moved closer, and Thorne had to fight the urge to step back. The prince's Alpha presence was overwhelming, a pressure that made it hard to breathe, hard to think. "Let's see what you've brought me."

With shaking hands, Thorne opened the case and began laying out its contents on the desk. Photographs first—dozens of them, arranged in careful chronological order. Images of "Ray Winters" arriving at Zenith, training on the obstacle course, sitting in classrooms. And then the more recent ones, showing the intimate embraces with Striker and Wilde, the unguarded moments when the disguise slipped and feminine features became visible.

"The facial structure is consistent with Princess Rhea's official portraits," Thorne explained, falling into the familiar rhythm of academic analysis to steady his nerves. "The bone structure can't be altered by simple disguise. And here—" he pointed to a close-up of the princess's eyes, "—the violet coloration is unmistakable. It's a genetic marker of the Moon Goddess bloodline, present in less than one percent of the werewolf population."

Tyrant studied the images with intense focus, his expression unreadable. Then he reached for the official portrait Thorne had brought, holding it next to a recent photograph of "Ray" for direct comparison.

"The eyes," he murmured, something dark and possessive entering his tone. "Yes. I would know those eyes anywhere. I looked into them on our engagement night, saw the defiance there right before she—" He cut himself off, his jaw tightening with barely suppressed rage.

Thorne quickly moved on to the next piece of evidence, sensing the prince's dangerous mood shift. "I have medical records from the tournament incident. The treatment protocols used suggest female physiology, though the attending physician was careful to obscure specific details. And here—" he pulled out a sheaf of papers covered in his own handwriting, "—a complete timeline of her movements, her associations, her training schedule."

"She's been right under my nose this entire time," Tyrant said softly, almost wonderingly. "Playing soldier. Playing at being a man. Spreading her legs for not one but two common Alphas while I—"

He slammed his fist on the desk with such force that Thorne jumped, several photographs scattering to the floor. When Tyrant looked up, his eyes were blazing with a fury that made Thorne's wolf howl in terror, urging him to submit, to flee, to do anything to escape the wrath of this apex predator.

"She humiliated me," Tyrant continued, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "She scarred me. She ran from her duty and her rightful place at my side. And then she had the audacity to hide in some mediocre military academy, playing dress-up while her family spins lies about her whereabouts."

He picked up one of the photos showing Rhea laughing between Striker and Wilde, her face radiant with happiness, and something twisted in his expression. "And she looks happy. Content. As if she has the right to choose her own path, her own mates, her own future."

Thorne cleared his throat carefully. "The evidence is conclusive, Your Highness. Princess Rhea Winterbourne has been attending Zenith University under the false identity of Ray Winters for the past several months. She's formed... relationships... with two Alphas—Commander Kael Striker, a tactical instructor, and Jax Wilde, a fellow student."

"I know who they are," Tyrant cut him off coldly. "I've had my people investigating them since the tournament. Striker is military aristocracy, well-connected and skilled. Wilde is gutter trash who got lucky in the underground fighting circuits. Neither of them is worthy of breathing the same air as a princess of Winterbourne, let alone touching her."