Chapter 26
Wolfe
“The Price of Truth”
The High Table meeting had already begun when I slipped into the hall with Bastian and Alaric.
With everything burning down around us, this was the last place we should’ve been.
This meeting was my uncle’s pissing parade—his chance to sit at the head of the table and remind every House exactly who held the leash. And he was still mad as fuck at me for refusing the marriage arrangement with the princess of Thalyrius.
Of all the problems closing in, I should’ve been hunting down a way to keep my girl—which meant protecting her family. It pissed me off that I was no closer to solving it.
I came to this Godsforsaken performance for one reason: appearances. People asked fewer questions when you gave them the illusion of stability. Even when everything was rotting beneath your feet.
The fire in the hearth burned low, throwing restless shadows across the walls like it could sense the agitation under my skin.
Bastian, Alaric, and I sat together at the long wooden table. Dreynthor and the members of the Houses surrounded us, a circle of polished smiles and sharpened teeth.
Despite the unrest spreading through the kingdom—despite the raids—Dreynthor spoke warmly about the upcoming festival. He reassured the council with security measures—my measures—the King’s Guard would put in place to keep the people safe from rebels and ruin.
I listened.
And I pretended I wasn’t watching him.
I’d been tracking him since we arrived, counting glances and pauses like they were tells in a game where the stakes were blood.
If he’d had a hand in assisting Thayden, he should’ve flinched at the sight of me—very much alive.
He didn’t.
That didn’t prove innocence. It proved competence.
Anyone worth the air they stole would’ve already known I’d survived. They would’ve heard I’d been taken from Morg?ven. They would’ve adjusted their plans long before I’d walked into this hall.
So, Dreynthor’s calm told me exactly what calm always did—nothing reliable.
Either he was innocent…
Or he was a very good actor.
And I’d never been stupid enough to bet on innocence.
His voice faded into white noise as my mind drifted back to Elariya.
I didn’t know how I’d controlled myself last night. Or how I’d let her go. It took every ounce of restraint I had to stand on that beach and watch her flee from me.
And that talk of marriage?
Yeah, that was my new level of desperation rearing its ugly head. The subject came out of nowhere, though I’d thought about it several times before.
I’d wanted to stay at the manor again today. Every instinct inside me screamed to remain close, to keep her within reach.
But I couldn’t afford to vanish.
My warriors were out scouting, tracking the threads of dark magic that had surfaced over the past weeks. I needed to be seen doing the same. I was their Lord Commander and Prince. Being around was expected of me.
People were starting to notice the fractures—disappearances, clusters of bodies turning up, and strange magic no one had ever heard of. It had worsened in the past week. We couldn’t pretend war wasn’t coming. We couldn’t pretend my father’s death hadn’t sent everything straight to the hells.
I needed time.
Time to deal with everything. Time to solve the problem of protecting Elariya’s family without turning the world against me.
So far, the only solution I’d come up with was killing Thayden.
Let him die slowly. Let him suffer. Let the problem end with his last breath.
Then maybe I wouldn’t have to carry this rage.
This jealousy.
Yes, I was fucking jealous.
Because as monstrous as he was, Elariya remembered him. The curse still allowed his name to live in her mind.
Mine didn’t.
Part of me wondered if she could grow to love him again. If her memory reset, if she forgot his treachery, if someone filled her head with lies the way they had before. It could happen.
And as if that weren’t enough, Alaric was barely speaking to me. Bastian, ever the diplomat, tried to bridge the distance with measured words and forced normalcy.
It wasn’t working.
Nothing was.
And if I lost my shit and killed Thayden—severing a possible link to the bigger problem—it would push my brother even farther away.
So, I had to find another way.
For now.
Death was still in the cards for that prick.
The council's murmur shifted, the sound pulling me from my thoughts just as Dreynthor's attention fixed on me like a hawk spotting prey.
"Lord Commander," he spoke in that infernal haughty tone I loathed. "Perhaps you could enlighten us on the specifics of your security arrangements. How many soldiers will be stationed at the palace during the festival?"
Every eye at the table turned my way.
I leaned back in my chair, letting the silence stretch just long enough to remind them I answered when I was ready, not when summoned like a trained hound.
"Enough. The palace will be secure. The festival will proceed without incident while we handle the threats everywhere else."
Dreynthor's smile waned. "Wonderful, though I thought the council might appreciate specifics."
Translation: Give them numbers. Give them something to pick apart. Show your hand.
“A hundred.” I couldn’t be bothered to entertain the pissing match. He could have this round.
Dreynthor was about to speak when Lord Monshroud cleared his throat—a wet, rattling sound that drew attention like blood in water.
The old bastard leaned forward, his gnarled fingers steepled on the table.
"And what of the recent disturbances?" His rheumy eyes moved from Dreynthor to me.
"Don't you think we need to discuss that? Three nights ago, ten males went missing from the Rukieon village, then a group of miners were found dead at their camps.”
That was exactly why I needed to show my face.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Several council members shifted in their seats. A few exchanged glances, the kind that said they'd been thinking the same thing but lacked the balls to voice it.
Monshroud wasn't done. "The people are frightened, Your Highness. And fear, unchecked, breeds chaos faster than any rebellion."
Dreynthor's expression tightened, his fingers drumming once against the table, a tell so small most would've missed it.
"Lord Monshroud," my uncle began, his tone dripping with patronizing calm, "I assure you we are well aware of the situation. These matters are being handled through the appropriate—"
"They deserve an answer." My voice stopped him cold, brooking no argument.
The room went still.
Dreynthor's gaze snapped to mine. For a heartbeat, his annoyance almost revealed itself, but he quickly smoothed it over with that practiced smile.
"Of course," he said. "I was merely going to suggest—"
"I know what you were going to suggest." I kept my tone level but let just enough edge bleed through. "But Lord Monshroud is right. We should discuss it."
My gaze swept across the table, meeting each set of eyes in turn. Some looked relieved. Others wary. A few, like the snake from House Elarien, looked hungry for whatever blood might spill from this conversation.
"The disturbances are real," I continued.
"We're not going to pretend otherwise. Dark magic has surfaced in areas where it shouldn't exist. Our people have died. More have vanished." I paused, letting the weight of it settle. I was sure that as power-hungry as they all were, they wouldn’t like to hear that I’d been a victim.
It would cause havoc. "The people are right to be afraid, but we will not allow any enemies to take our peace. We will deal with threats as we always have and fight.”
Monshroud’s eyes widened, as did many of the others’ who stared back at me. “You sound as though we are preparing for war, my Lord.”
"These are serious times, Lord Monshroud. We should always be vigilant. Centuries of peace do not guarantee centuries more." I wouldn't confirm war one way or the other, but they needed to know things were bad.
Monshroud nodded slowly, vindication written across his weathered face.
Dreynthor's fingers drummed against the table, a soft, measured rhythm that grated on my nerves.
"Wise words, nephew." His tone dripped with false warmth.
"Though, one might argue that vigilance also requires.
.. strategic alliances." He paused, letting the words hang in the air like the remnants of a fog.
"The kind that would have been forged through marriage, for instance to the princess of Thalyrius. "
Fucking bastard. Of course, he'd go there.
Several heads turned toward me.
"The marriage alliance with Thalyrius would have secured not only trade routes but military support.
" Dreynthor's smile sharpened. "A loss, I'm afraid, that we must all bear the consequences of.
Though I'm sure Prince Wolfe had his... reasons for refusing such a generous offer from Princess Seraphina. "
The way he said reasons made it sound like I'd turned down salvation itself because of some petulant whim. Any opportunity to make me look incompetent.
Lord Veyran leaned back in his chair, a serpent's smile playing at his lips. "Indeed. One wonders what could be more valuable than the security of the kingdom."
He knew the answer. They all probably did. I wouldn’t make the mistake of thinking they didn’t and disagreed with my choice to be with Elariya.
Bastian shifted beside me, a subtle movement, but I caught it. It was a warning—don't take the bait.
But, Gods, I wanted to.
"Regardless of what alliances we make or have, we need to be strong on our own.
" That was the civilized version of the go-fuck-yourself answer I wanted to give him.
"Long have the halls of my forefathers held strength without the aid of allies. We are Galaythians. We conquered this land with the sweat of our backs and the power of our blades. We will do it again if we must.”
Silence fell across the table like a hammer shutting them down.