Chapter 3 - The Mockery of the Second Trial
By dawn, the palace was a hornet’s nest.
Word had leaked out, as secrets always did in a castle made of stone and gossip. By sunrise, high-ranking pack members were crowding the Great Hall, their faces twisted in outrage, demanding answers, blood, and a public demonstration to prove the previous night's anomaly was nothing more than a mechanical glitch or a dark curse cast by a cunning slave.
Kieran, seated at the head of the raised dais with his arms crossed over his broad chest, looked immovable. Standing beside him, trembling in a borrowed, ill-fitting woolen tunic, was Allora.
She had not slept a wink. The West Luna Chambers had been luxurious—a sprawling suite of velvet drapes, gilded mirrors, and a plush feather bed—but to Allora, it felt like a cage designed to fatten a lamb for slaughter.
"We will settle this now," Elder Rothschild announced loudly, stepping before the assembly with a self-righteous sneer. "If the throne was truly activated by divine will, then let the Goddess speak again. We have gathered the seven remaining noble daughters of the high bloodlines. They will sit upon the throne in order of rank. If the chair remains dark—as it has for three centuries—then last night was merely a corrupted spell, and this imposter will face justice."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the hostile crowd.
Kieran turned his dark, unreadable gaze toward Allora. "Do you consent to the trial?" he asked quietly, low enough that only she could hear.
What choice did she have? "I don't have a choice," she whispered back.
"Good girl," he murmured, a strange undertone in his voice. "Climb the steps."
The first noble daughter stepped forward—Vivien Ashford, a haughty beauty whose family owned half the northern timberlands. She swept up the dais with an air of absolute entitlement, tossed her meticulously curled blonde hair, and dropped regally onto the white stone seat.
One second. Five seconds. Ten seconds.
Nothing. The stone remained dull, grey, and utterly dead.
Vivien stood up, her face flushing crimson with humiliation as she scurried back into the crowd amid muted snickers.
One by one, the other six noble daughters took their turn.
Lady Cecelia of the River Pack. Lady Morgana of the Mountain Clan. Even the fierce, sword-training daughters of the inner council.
Seven women. Seven proud, pure-blooded, highly trained noblewomen.
Seven dead, unresponsive stones.
Whispers began to shift from angry defiance to a low, terrified murmur of superstition.
Finally, Elder Rothschild turned a venomous glare toward Kieran, then pointed a trembling, arthritic finger at Allora. "Your turn, street rat. Let's see if your cheap parlor trick works twice under the light of day."
Allora’s knees felt like water. Every eye in the hall—hundreds of fierce, judgmental wolves—was locked onto her. She wanted to turn and run, to throw herself out the stained-glass window, to vanish into the dirt where she belonged.
She took a breath, lifted her chin with a sudden, desperate spark of defiance, and walked up the steps.
She sat down.
For a heartbeat, the room held its collective breath.
Then, the throne erupted.
It didn't just glow; it exploded with a blinding, terrifying pillar of silver-blue light that shot straight up toward the vaulted ceiling, cracking the air with the sound of distant thunder. The sheer pressure of the celestial energy blasted outward in a physical shockwave.
Vivien Ashford, standing too close to the edge of the dais, shrieked as the invisible force caught her skirt and hurled her violently across the marble floor into a cluster of folding chairs.
Panicked screams filled the hall. Nobles scrambled backward, shielding their eyes from the agonizing brilliance, some dropping to their knees in sheer, primal terror.
"She’s a witch!" someone screamed from the back. "A dark sorceress! Kill her!"
"Silence!" Kieran’s voice roared through the hall, carrying the absolute, bone-shaking authority of an Alpha King. The entire room froze instantly.
Kieran stood up, walked slowly up the stairs, and stood beside the glowing throne. He looked down at the trembling, wide-eyed servant girl, then turned his gaze to the pale, trembling councilmen below.
"The throne has now chosen her twice," Kieran declared, his voice cutting through the heavy silence like a razor. "You called it a glitch. You called it a trick. The Goddess has answered your doubt with thunder."
"She cannot be our Luna!" Elder Rothschild cried out, his voice cracking with desperation as he pointed a shaking finger at her. "She is a nobody! She has no pack! She has no bloodline! She cannot even shift!"
That cruel, undeniable truth struck Allora in the chest harder than any physical blow. Her breath caught, and tears of pure humiliation spilled over her eyelashes. It was true. She was broken. A hollow shell pretending to be a wolf.
Kieran noticed the way her shoulders slumped, the way her breath hitched. A dark, dangerous shadow crossed his storm-gray eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word, a sudden, unnatural drop in temperature froze the room.
The torches along the walls flickered, turning an eerie shade of blue-violet.
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A voice echoed from the shadows near the vaulted ceiling—dry, ancient, and rattling like bones in a jar.
"The throne has not chosen a mistake, Alpha. It has merely reclaimed what was stolen."
