Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Royal Archives
The tribunal descended into chaotic pandemonium. Guards fled, nobles scrambled for the exits, and the council was forced into an emergency retreat behind the heavy iron doors of the inner sanctum.
In the quiet sanctuary of the royal library, lit only by a few sputtering candelabras, Ilira stood before a massive oak table covered in centuries-old maps and leather-bound genealogical charts. Aldrick stood beside her, his breathing heavy as he pressed a hand against his side where the dark rot continued to pulse beneath his uniform.
"You saw the chained wolf," Aldrick stated quietly, his gaze fixed on the flickering candlelight. It wasn't a question.
Ilira nodded, carefully placing her mother’s wooden pendant next to the ancient silver coin he had given her. "It’s the same entity I saw when I touched your wrist. The curse on your beast... it’s tied to the chains in the vision. Someone didn't just poison you, Aldrick. They anchored your soul to the underground prison of Blackstone."
"Maelor and the inner council," Aldrick growled, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. "For seven years, they convinced me my failing wolf was a natural affliction of the royal bloodline. They used my weakness to pass laws, seize northern territories, and silence anyone who asked questions about the missing bloodline of Queen Elenara."
"My mother knew," Ilira said softly, tracing the crescent-moon symbol carved into the wood. "That’s why we were hunted. That’s why our village was burned. She wasn't just hiding a runaway servant; she was protecting the last true heir to the ancient throne—the one person capable of unsealing the vault beneath the fortress."
A sudden, sharp crash echoed from the hallway outside the library.
Both of them froze. Aldrick reached for his sword, but before his fingers brushed the hilt, the heavy oak doors splintered inward.
A volley of black-feathered arrows rained into the room. Ilira reacted on pure instinct, a burst of silver light forming a shimmering barrier that deflected the projectiles harmlessly away.
From the smoke stepped Chancellor Maelor, flanked by a dozen elite shadow-guards clad in matte-black armor bearing no national crest. His expression was no longer panicked; it was cold, calculating, and dripping with malicious triumph.
"Magnificent," Maelor mocked, clapping his hands slowly. "Truly magnificent. To think the brat we missed in the Fens grew up to be such a formidable little pest. Unfortunately, Your Majesty," Maelor sneered, glancing at Aldrick, "your little alliance ends tonight. The council has already invoked emergency protocols. By sunrise, the throne will be vacant, and the new era of the northern packs will begin."
"You overestimate your safety, Maelor," Aldrick snarled, stepping forward despite the dark black veins spreading up his neck.
"Do I?" Maelor smiled, snapping his fingers.
From the shadows behind the chancellor, two guards dragged forward a frail, bloodied figure. Ilira gasped, her heart stopping for a fraction of a second.
It was healer Mara, barely conscious, her robes stained with dark crimson.
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"They wanted the key to the vault, Your Majesty," Mara whispered, coughing weakly as blood pooled on the stone floor. "Do not let them... take the Moonstone..."
Maelor drew a dagger and pressed it against Mara’s throat. "Drop your weapons, both of you. Or the old woman dies right here, and the secret of the vault dies with her."
