Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Nero's arm tightened around Casteel's waist, a subtle gesture of protection that spoke volumes through their newly fortified bond. Casteel could feel his mate's fury simmering beneath a carefully controlled exterior—a wildfire banked but not extinguished.
"The coronation?" Casteel managed, his voice steadier than he expected. "Now?"
Doran's smile was thin and triumphant. "The people have waited long enough for their savior. Your...indisposition has already delayed matters by a full day."
The guards remained in the doorway, their expressions carefully neutral as they averted their eyes from the bed. Only their captain, Aldric, met Nero's gaze directly, something like apology flickering across his weathered features before discipline reasserted itself.
"We require privacy to dress," Nero stated, his tone leaving no room for negotiation despite their vulnerable position.
Doran inclined his head with mock graciousness.
"Of course. You have one bell to prepare yourselves.
The ceremonial garments are in the antechamber.
" His gaze hardened. "Do not test my patience further as I think we all know you wouldn't survive a second separation this soon.
The guards will remain outside this door, and I assure you, there will be no opportunity for escape today. "
When the doors closed again, Casteel released a shaky breath. Through their bond, he could feel Nero's mind racing, calculating, searching for options that weren't there.
"We have to go through with it," Casteel said quietly, sitting up with a wince. His body, though healed of the bond-sickness, still ached from the ordeal.
"For now," Nero agreed, his voice a low rumble. He helped Casteel to his feet, supporting him with gentle hands that belied the violence Casteel could sense coiled within him. "Are you strong enough?"
Casteel nodded, testing his balance. "The bond...it's healing me faster than I thought possible."
Indeed, the weakness that had threatened to consume him earlier was receding like mist before morning sun. In its place flowed strength—not just his own, but Nero's as well, shared freely through their connection.
They bathed quickly in the chamber's pool, washing away the evidence of their bonding and the lingering sweat of fever. Casteel watched Nero move, appreciating the efficient grace of his mate's scarred body.
"What happens at this coronation?" Nero asked as they dried themselves.
Casteel shrugged. "I don't know exactly. The priests never shared the details with me—only that I would be presented to the people as the prophesied savior."
"And I'm to be what? Your consort?" There was no mockery in Nero's voice, only pragmatic assessment.
"The silver wolf's mate," Casteel confirmed. "According to the prophecy, you'll be presented as my equal—my co-ruler, not subordinate." He looked down. "I never wanted to rule anything."
Nero's eyebrows rose at that. "Perhaps that's what makes you so suited to having this power."
"I don't think either of us is getting any power," Casteel countered, moving to the antechamber where ornate garments waited. "Either way, it binds us both to their vision."
The ceremonial clothing was magnificent—rich velvets and silks in deep blues and silver, embroidered with wolves and crowns.
Casteel's outfit included a circlet of silver that felt heavier than its delicate appearance suggested.
Nero's was similar but darker, with a torque of twisted silver that would rest at his throat.
"They've thought of everything," Nero muttered, examining the torque with distaste. "Luxury when children are starving." Nero sighed and started dressing.
Someday Casteel hoped for a world that wasn't so. Would it ever come to be? Or would greed always outweigh honesty? As they dressed, Casteel found himself studying his mate's face. "What are you thinking?"
"That Doran is too confident," Nero replied, adjusting the unfamiliar formal tunic. "Men like him always have contingencies, but they also have blind spots. He believes the bond makes us compliant."
"Doesn't it?" Casteel asked, then flushed at the vulnerability in his own voice.
Nero's hands stilled on his belt. "The bond makes us connected, not enslaved. I can feel your thoughts, your emotions, but they're still yours to control." His dark eyes met Casteel's. "Do you feel differently?"
Casteel considered, testing the edges of their connection. "No. I feel...anchored. Like I have a foundation I never had before. But I'm still me."
"Good." Nero's smile was fierce. "Because we're going to need to be ourselves to survive what's coming." Casteel glanced at Nero. There was something he wasn't saying.
A sharp knock interrupted them. "Time," came Captain Aldric's voice through the door.
They emerged to find the corridor lined with guards in ceremonial armor. The captain's expression was unreadable as he gestured toward the grand staircase. "The people are waiting, Your Excellencies."
The title made Casteel's stomach clench. Through their bond, he felt Nero's similar discomfort, though his mate's face remained impassive.
They walked in silence through corridors Casteel had only glimpsed during his brief escape attempts. Servants lined the walls, bowing as they passed. Some faces showed genuine hope, others barely concealed fear. A few watched with calculating eyes that made Casteel's skin crawl.
The grand balcony overlooked the main square, where thousands of people had gathered. Their voices rose in a constant murmur, punctuated by children's cries and the occasional shout. Banners hung from every building, depicting silver wolves and crown symbols.
"So many," Casteel breathed.
"Desperate people," Nero observed, his gaze scanning the crowd with tactical precision. "They want to believe in salvation."
High Priest Doran waited for them at the entrance to the balcony, resplendent in ceremonial robes of silver and white. His smile reminded Casteel of a snake—cold, calculating, deadly.
"Remember your oaths," Doran murmured to Nero as they approached. "The people must see unity and strength today."
Nero's jaw tightened, but he gave a curt nod. Casteel felt his mate's resolve hardening like steel in a forge—not submission, but strategic patience.
The moment they stepped onto the balcony, the crowd erupted.
The roar was deafening, a physical force that seemed to press against Casteel's chest. Thousands of faces turned upward, hope and desperation mingling in their expressions.
Children sat on parents' shoulders for a better view.
Old women wept openly. Men who looked half-starved raised their fists in salute.
"The Silver Wolf comes!" Doran's voice carried across the square, amplified by some trick of the architecture. "As foretold in the ancient texts, the savior has risen among us!"
Casteel stood frozen, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of expectation directed at him. Through their bond, he felt Nero's steadying presence, a mental hand at his back.
"And beside him," Doran continued, "the Flame-Marked One, his destined mate and co-ruler, chosen by the gods themselves to complete the prophecy!"
Another wave of cheers crashed over them. Casteel forced himself to raise a hand in acknowledgment, the gesture feeling hollow and just for show. These people didn't know him—they were cheering for a myth, a legend, not a stable boy who'd spent his life shoveling manure.
"Today," Doran proclaimed, "the drought ends! The blight recedes! The gods have heard our prayers and sent us their chosen ones!"
The ceremony proceeded with ritualistic precision. Casteel knelt when directed, recited vows written by the priests, accepted the weight of a silver crown upon his brow. Nero performed his part with rigid dignity, his eyes never leaving Casteel's face even as he too knelt and was blessed.
Throughout it all, Casteel felt strangely disconnected, as if watching himself from a distance. Only Nero's presence in his mind, steady and unwavering, kept him grounded in reality.
Then came the moment Doran had been building toward. "Behold!" he cried, gesturing dramatically. "The transformation that proves divine favor!"
Casteel understood what was expected. The crowd had gathered to see the silver wolf, the physical manifestation of their salvation. But panic fluttered in his chest—he had never been able to shift at will before, only under extreme stress or, more recently, in Nero's presence.
"I don't know if I can," he whispered, too low for any but Nero to hear.
Nero's hand found his, their fingers intertwining despite the public setting. "You can," Nero murmured, his voice pitched for Casteel's ears alone. "I can feel your wolf—it's there, waiting."
Nero projected calm strength, his presence wrapping around Casteel like a protective cloak. The familiar warmth began to build in Casteel's chest, spreading outward through his limbs.
"Together," Nero breathed, and Casteel felt the truth of it.
His wolf had never been truly his alone—it was bound to Nero, emerged because of Nero, strengthened by their connection.
For a god-awful second Casteel imagined what would happen if…
when Nero finally left him, because he would.
Why would Nero stay? He knew he'd been sicker than Nero both times.
The transformation began slowly, a ripple of power that started at their joined hands. Casteel's vision sharpened, colors becoming more vivid as his senses expanded. His bones lengthened and reformed with fluid grace, silver hair sprouting across his skin as his body reshaped itself.
When the change completed, a wolf stood where Casteel had knelt—coat silver-white as moonlight, save for the crown mark between his ears that seemed to pulse with inner fire. The crowd's roar became deafening, thousands of voices raised in awe and worship.