Chapter 5 - THE CRACK IN THE SOUTHERN ARMOR
The echo of King Draven’s boots on the granite floor sounded like a death knell.
Casian Mordrek swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly as he tried to claw back his composure. He was a man accustomed to wealth, legal loopholes, and the cozy protection of southern magistrate courts where gold could buy any verdict. But this was the northern reach—a place where laws were carved into ice and enforced by claws.
"Sire, you misunderstand," Casian forced a thin, trembling smile, his hand still clamped defensively over the jeweled pommel of his sword. "This is a gross overstepping of royal jurisdiction. The girl—Liora—was bound to my house by legal indenture and domestic contract. Under southern code, a runaway servant is little more than escaped property. If she has sought refuge here, she is in direct violation of cross-border treaties."
Up on the balcony, Liora’s chest tightened. She took a half-step backward into the shadows, a cold wave of dread washing over her. He’s right, a terrified voice whispered in her mind. In the south, nobles owned everything—land, debt, and bodies.
Draven stopped three paces away. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"Contracts are written on paper, Lord Mordrek," Draven said softly, his silver eyes locking onto Casian with paralyzing intensity. "Paper burns easily in the north. And property? In my palace, the only things that belong to me are the walls, the stone, and the breath of those who walk beneath my roof. You walked into my domain and brought the stench of a slaver with you."
"I demand my property returned!" Casian snapped, his facade of aristocratic calm finally shattering under the immense psychological weight of the Alpha’s presence. "Or the southern council will—"
"Will what?" Draven cut him off, a lethal edge slicing through his tone. "Will you send more merchants to bribe my guards? Will you write angry letters while your trade routes freeze over and your ships rot in my harbors?"
Draven took another step forward, the sheer physical pressure of his Alpha aura forcing Casian to stumble backward until the heels of his boots hit the edge of the dais.
"You have thirty seconds to drop your sword, empty your pockets of every southern writ you brought into my palace, and walk out those doors," Draven whispered, his voice vibrating through the stone. "If you take thirty-one seconds, I will let my wolf decide whether your skin makes a suitable rug for my winter hearth."
Casian looked at the ring of royal guards closing in, their halberds gleaming in the torchlight. He looked at Draven’s face—completely devoid of mercy, carved from pure, unyielding frost.
With a trembling hand, Casian unbuckled his sword belt and let it drop to the stone floor with a heavy, clattering thud. He pulled a thick stack of parchment documents from his doublet and tossed them onto the flags.
"You will regret this, King Draven," Casian hissed, his face red with humiliation and fear. "The southern lords will not let this insult pass."
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"Tell them to come," Draven replied, turning his back on him with casual dismissal. "I prefer my enemies when they try to bite me."
Guards roughly grabbed Casian by the shoulders, steering him toward the heavy oak doors and casting him out into the freezing northern wasteland.
