Chapter 4 - THE ROYAL AUDIENCE
The Great Hall of the Northern Palace was designed to make visitors feel small.
Its vaulted ceiling stretched upward into shadowy darkness, supported by massive pillars of dark granite. Long banners bearing the sigil of the White Wolf hung motionless in the freezing draft. At the far end of the hall, elevated on a dais of black marble, sat the iron throne—a brutalist masterpiece of forged steel and dragon-bone that looked as though it had been hacked straight out of the mountain.
Liora watched from the shadows of a stone archway on the second-tier balcony, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Down below, the heavy oak doors groaned open, admitting a blast of frigid wind and a handful of travelers.
At the front walked Lord Casian Mordrek.
Four years had changed him not at all. He wore a tailored doublet of deep midnight-blue velvet, heavily embroidered with silver thread that caught the meager winter light. His dark hair was combed back with immaculate precision, and he wore that familiar, charming, predatory smile that had once been the prelude to Liora’s worst nightmares. Behind him walked two armed southern guards carrying heavy leather saddlebags filled with diplomatic parchment.
Casian strode down the center of the hall with the arrogant, self-assured swagger of a man who believed the entire world existed to serve his whims. He didn't bow deeply as he approached the dais; he merely dipped his head with practiced condescension.
King Draven sat upon the iron throne.
He wore his heavy black royal mantle lined with thick wolf fur. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, one hand resting lazily on the armrest of the throne. But his silver eyes were locked onto Casian with the terrifying stillness of a predator watching a mouse wander into an open trap.
"King Draven," Casian began, his rich, oily voice echoing off the stone walls. "It has been far too long. I bring greetings from the southern trade guilds, and formal petitions regarding the southern grain quotas which your border patrols have unreasonably delayed."
Draven didn't answer immediately. He let the silence stretch out, heavier and colder with every passing second, until Casian’s confident smile began to twitch at the corners.
"Grain quotas," Draven finally said, his voice deep and resonant. "Is that what brings a noble lord of the southern reaches all the way to the frozen edge of the world in the dead of winter? Or are you simply checking on your investments, Lord Mordrek?"
Casian’s eyes flickered with a brief flash of confusion, quickly masked by an amused chuckle. "I beg your pardon, Sire? Investments?"
"An Omega," Draven said smoothly, leaning forward, resting his chin on his knuckles. "A young woman who fled your estate four years ago, carrying nothing but the clothes on her back and the terror you so generously instilled in her."
The color drained entirely from Casian’s face. The charming, oily smile vanished, replaced by a sudden, rigid panic. He glanced around the empty hall as if looking for an escape route.
"I... I have no idea what Your Majesty is referring to," Casian stammered, his smooth composure cracking at the edges. "A runaway servant? Surely the King of the North does not concern himself with the domestic affairs of southern households."
"In my kingdom," Draven stood up slowly, his massive frame towering over the dais, "every soul breathing my air falls under my protection. And anyone who brings hounds to hunt my people inside my borders... finds out very quickly what happens when they cross the pack leader."
Casian took two steps back, his hand instinctively dropping toward the pommel of his ceremonial sword. "This is an outrage! I am a protected noble of the southern council! You have no proof, no jurisdiction—"
CLANG.
The heavy oak doors at the back of the Great Hall slammed shut of their own accord, bolted from the outside by unseen guards.
From the shadows around the pillars, a dozen royal guards stepped forward, their heavy halberds catching the torchlight with a synchronized, terrifying gleam.
Casian’s face turned white as chalk. He looked up toward the balcony—and for a split second, his eyes scanned the stone arches.
Up in the shadows, Liora held her breath. She gripped the stone balustrade so hard her knuckles turned white. For a terrifying second, she felt as though she were nineteen again, trapped in that dark hallway with no way out.
Then, a massive shadow stepped in front of her field of vision.
King Draven had descended from the dais with supernatural speed. He didn't use the stairs; he vaulted off the edge of the stone platform, landing squarely on the flagstones just ten paces from Casian. The impact rattled the windows and sent a shockwave through the hall.
"Look at me, Mordrek," Draven whispered, his voice carrying the terrifying, sub-audible resonance of an Alpha ready to rip the world apart.
May you like
Casian trembled, forced to look up into eyes that promised a very slow, very painful eternity.
"You came looking for something that belongs to you?" Draven asked, taking a slow, predatory step forward. "Let me show you what happens to people who steal from my house."
