Chapter 8 - THE MARCH ON ASHTHORN
The return to Ashthorn Palace was not a retreat; it was an invasion.
Declan rode at the head of the surviving royal guards, his massive warhorse stepping heavily over the cobblestones of the capital. The news of the attack at the High Ridge Lodge had preceded them like wildfire. By the time the royal procession reached the massive iron gates of the citadel, thousands of citizens and pack members had lined the streets in stunned, breathless silence.
The council was waiting in the great throne room.
When the heavy oak doors blasted open, Lord Vane and his cronies stood on the dais near the obsidian throne. But their smug expressions vanished the moment they saw Declan.
The Alpha King looked like a god of war. His clothes were travel-stained, his shoulders rigid, and an aura of lethal, suffocating dominance filled the entire hall. Behind him walked Vivian, her chin held high, wearing a simple gown of deep midnight blue that matched the king's colors.
"Your Majesty!" Vane stepped forward, trying to maintain a facade of outraged authority. "What is the meaning of this armed procession? We received reports of a skirmish in the northern hills—"
"Silence," Declan commanded. The single word hit the chamber like a physical blow, forcing Vane to stagger back a step.
Declan walked up the steps of the dais, stopping directly in front of the throne. He did not sit. Instead, he turned to face the entire assembly of lords, elders, and high-ranking officials.
"For ten years, I have tolerated your plotting," Declan’s voice echoed off the vaulted stone ceiling, clear and merciless. "I have tolerated your whispered demands for bloodlines, your backroom alliances, and your quiet attempts to dictate who rules by my side."
"Your Majesty, you speak treason against the council!" Lordreth shouted from the side.
"Treason?" Declan’s lips curled into a cold, dangerous smile. He reached out and pulled Vivian forward until she stood right beside him on the dais, his massive hand resting securely on her waist. "Yesterday, assassins bearing the crest of the northern elders attacked my private residence. They attempted to kidnap the woman standing beside me."
A collective gasp swept through the crowded hall. Whispers erupted like a swarm of angry hornets.
"You conspired against the crown," Declan continued, his eyes locking onto Vane, who had turned a sickly shade of pale. "You believed that by eliminating her, you could force me into a political marriage of your choosing. You miscalculated."
"Proove it!" Vane stammered, his voice cracking with panic. "You have no proof—"
"I have the confessions of the survivors," Declan interrupted coldly. He raised his hand, and two elite guards dragged three battered mercenaries into the center of the hall, tossing them onto the marble floor.
Vane stared at them, and all color drained completely from his face.
"The council’s authority in Ashthorn is ended," Declan declared, his voice ringing with absolute finality. "Effective immediately, those involved in the conspiracy are stripped of their titles and banished beyond the northern border. Any pack that objects is welcome to challenge me here, now, on this floor."
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Dead silence filled the hall. No one moved. No one spoke. Against the sheer, terrifying majesty of the Alpha King, rebellion was nothing more than suicide.
Declan turned his head, looking down at Vivian. The harsh, predatory edge in his eyes melted away, replaced by a deep, unwavering devotion.
