Chapter 8 - The Cleansing of the High Council
The morning sun broke over Blackstone Fortress not with the harsh, oppressive heat of the Blood Moon, but with a crisp, revitalizing northern chill that cleared the lingering scent of wolfsbane and fear from the courtyards.
Inside the Grand Council Chamber, the atmosphere was suffocating. The massive oak doors stood wide open, guarded by loyal northern veterans wearing the silver-wolf crest. Seated around the polished obsidian table were the surviving members of the high council—elderly lords and noble advisors who had spent years whispering treasonous mandates behind Maelor’s shadow.
At the head of the table sat Queen Ilira.
The silver crown rested regally upon her brow, catching the morning light that poured through the stained-glass windows. She did not wear the heavy, intimidating armor of ancient warlords, nor the ostentatious jewels favored by the former nobility. Her simple yet striking attire radiated an effortless authority that made every corrupt lord in the room squirm beneath their heavy velvet collars.
To her right stood King Aldrick, his arms crossed over his broad chest, a quiet, amused smile playing at the corners of his lips as he watched the councilmen sweat.
"Lord Vane," Ilira’s voice cut through the heavy silence like a polished blade. It was calm, rhythmic, and carried an undeniable resonance that vibrated in the chests of everyone present. "You look unwell this morning."
Lord Vane, a portly noble with a reputation for selling out eastern pack lands to rogue syndicates, swallowed hard. He forced a stiff, nervous bow. "Your Majesty... we are merely shocked by the sudden... transition of power. Maelor acted independently. We were merely—"
"Quiet," Aldrick said softly, though the single word carried the weight of an avalanche.
Ilira raised a hand, and the heavy oak doors behind the councilmen slowly creaked shut.
"For seven years," Ilira continued, leaning forward slightly, "you hid behind archaic laws and manufactured trials. You traded in stolen bloodlines, suppressed true northern heritage, and poisoned the King’s beast from the inside out to maintain your grip on the treasury."
She slid a thick stack of parchment across the table—ledgers recovered from Maelor’s private chambers detailing every bribe, every fabricated decree, and every secret execution ordered by the council.
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"You have two choices," Ilira said coldly. "Step down from your titles, surrender your lands to the crown for public redistribution, and live out your remaining days as common subjects in the outer valleys... or stand trial alongside Maelor for high treason and face the shadow-wolf."
The color drained entirely from Vane’s face. Beside him, two junior advisors immediately stood up, tearing off their council pins and slamming them onto the table before bowing deeply and fleeing the room. Within seconds, the rest of the corrupt lords scrambled to surrender their seals.
