Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
The feast was a nightmare dressed in finery.
Nero sat rigidly beside Casteel at the high table, watching nobles and merchants parade before them with honeyed words and calculating eyes.
He’d thought all the nobles had deserted their station when the royal family had left, but it seemed they were crawling back out of the woodwork.
Each house presented gifts—bolts of fabric, jewelry, preserved foods—while Doran presided over the proceedings like a puppet master, noting which families showed proper deference and which hesitated.
"House Verris offers fealty to the Silver Wolf and his Flame-Marked mate," announced a thin man with hungry eyes that never left Casteel. "May your reign bring prosperity to all Abergenny."
Casteel seemed to shrink a little at the sight of the noble, and Nero felt the spark of distress.
"We accept your fealty," Casteel muttered, the words scripted by Doran himself. Then just as the man bowed low, he shot out his hand and clasped Casteel's, nearly yanking him forward.
Nero was moving before conscious thought formed.
The bond between them flared hot with alarm, and within a heartbeat, he had Lord Verris pinned against the high table, arm twisted behind his back at a savage angle, face pressed into the polished wood.
The fine crystal goblets toppled, spilling wine like blood across the white tablecloth.
"Touch him again," Nero hissed, his voice carrying in the sudden silence, "and you'll draw back a stump."
Guards rushed forward, weapons half-drawn, but froze at Doran's raised hand. Through their bond, Nero felt his mate's fear which fed Nero's protective instincts.
"My deepest apologies," Lord Verris wheezed, his face blanching white where it wasn't pressed against the table. "I meant no disrespect to His Excellency."
Nero increased the pressure slightly, feeling the man's bones grind together. "Yet you showed it. The Silver Wolf is not yours to handle."
Doran appeared at Nero's shoulder, his expression carefully neutral. "Perhaps Lord Verris could be allowed to rejoin the feast?"
"Perhaps Lord Verris could remember his place," Nero countered, not releasing his grip. "And the consequences of forgetting it." But then he realized what he was doing and let go just as abruptly. He didn’t need to look to know every eye was on him, but Doran seemed to rally and proclaimed,
“The flame-marked one protects his mate!”
Nero sat and ignored the excited whispers. When Casteel’s hand brushed his thigh, he grabbed his hand like a lifeline, linking their fingers.
What the fuck was he doing?
He’d acted on instinct.
Thankfully, soon enough everyone returned to the feast. Nero's attention drifted to the guards stationed throughout the hall.
Most wore the ceremonial armor of the palace regiment, but a few displayed subtly different insignia—men handpicked by Doran rather than Captain Aldric.
Their posture spoke of recent training rather than veteran discipline, their eyes too eager, too watchful.
Then he saw him—a guard near the western entrance whose face triggered memories of mud-soaked battlefields and whispered plans.
Lucan Tarreth had fought beside Nero during the rebellion's darkest days.
He was one of Eryken's most trusted lieutenants.
What was he doing here, wearing the uniform of the palace guard?
Their eyes met briefly across the hall. No recognition flickered in Lucan's expression, but his left hand tapped twice against his sword hilt—an old signal. Message received. Help coming.
Nero's heart quickened, though his face remained impassive. If Lucan had infiltrated the palace guard, Eryken must be nearby, perhaps even in the city already, although he had said he was a moon away, so it was unlikely. But at least the rebellion hadn't abandoned them.
"The Silver Wolf's first decree will be announced tomorrow," Doran proclaimed, his voice cutting through Nero's thoughts. "A proclamation to address the drought and establish the new order."
Casteel stiffened beside him. "First decree?" he murmured, too low for others to hear. "I've prepared no such thing."
"Of course not," Nero replied under his breath. "Doran has done it for you."
Through their bond, Nero felt Casteel's alarm spike. This was moving faster than either had anticipated—Doran wasn't merely presenting them as figureheads but actively wielding their supposed authority to enact his own agenda.
The feast dragged on, course after course of food that was obscene given the starvation beyond the palace walls.
Nero ate little, his senses alert for threats both obvious and hidden.
Twice he caught servants watching them too intently, and once he intercepted a cup of wine intended for Casteel—the liquid carried a faint, sweet undertone that made his jaw clench with recognition.
"Still trying to drug us," he murmured, setting the cup aside with deliberate care. Although the cup had been intended for Casteel not him. Perhaps they knew he was wise to them.
Casteel's fingers found his beneath the table, a brief touch that steadied them both. "How long do we pretend compliance?"
"Until we have options," Nero replied, though privately he wondered if they'd ever truly have choices again. Doran's web was tightening around them with each passing bell.
As the evening wore on, Nero noticed patterns in the crowd.
Certain nobles lingered longer at their table, their conversations probing for information about future policies, military plans, trade agreements.
Others seemed more interested in studying Casteel's reactions, as if cataloging weaknesses for future exploitation.
Most concerning were the servants who moved through the hall with too much purpose, their routes taking them past strategic positions rather than following efficient paths.
Nero counted at least six who bore the subtle marks of fighting men—callused hands, alert postures, eyes that tracked movement like predators.
When the formal presentations finally ended, Doran approached their table with a satisfied smile. "An excellent beginning," he declared. "The noble houses are properly impressed with their new rulers."
"When do we discuss this decree you mentioned?" Casteel asked, his tone carefully neutral.
"Tomorrow morning. We'll review the proclamation together before its public announcement." Doran's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I trust you'll find it...acceptable."
The implied threat was clear enough. They would approve whatever Doran had written, or face consequences neither wanted to contemplate.
"Of course," Casteel replied, though Nero felt his mate's revulsion through their bond.
As they were escorted back to their chambers, Lucan caught Nero's attention once more.
The former rebel had positioned himself near a side corridor, and as they passed, he subtly passed a small object hidden by a brush of fingers too slight to notice.
Without breaking stride, Nero palmed the item—a tightly rolled piece of parchment, no larger than a coin.
Back in their rooms, Nero waited until he was certain they were alone before unrolling the message. The seal was Eryken's.
Plans accelerating. Northern route compromised. Three days.
Nero's blood chilled. If the northern route was compromised, it meant his original escape plan was closed. Worse, the message suggested they had only three days before...what? Some final trap closing around them?
"What is it?" Casteel asked, noting his tension.
Nero showed him the message but cursed to himself.
"Lucan Tarreth, a rebel I served with. Close to Eryken.
We're running out of time," Nero said grimly.
"Whatever Doran has planned, it's happening soon.
" Casteel sank into a chair, suddenly looking far older than his twenty summers. “Tell me about Verris.” Because Nero knew they’d met.
Casteel's voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke. "I was twelve. Still working in the stables when they had horses." His hands clenched in his lap, knuckles white. "Verris came to inspect his mount after a hunt. Said the beast needed special attention."
Nero felt rage building in his chest, hot and violent. Through their bond, Casteel's old fear bled into him like poison.
"He cornered me in the tack room," Casteel continued, his gaze fixed on the floor.
"Said a stable boy should know his place, that serving nobles meant.
..serving in all ways." His voice cracked slightly.
"He had his hands on me, tearing at my clothes, when Steward Marcus walked in looking for inventory records. "
"What happened then?" Nero's voice was deadly quiet.
"Verris made some excuse and left, but he was a noble. Not even Marcus could have stopped him if Verris had wanted me. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since.”
Nero was on his feet before he realized he'd moved, pacing the chamber like a caged animal. "And now he's here, presenting gifts and fealty, thinking he can—"
"Nero." Casteel's voice stopped him mid-stride. "I'm not that helpless boy anymore. I have you now. I have the bond."
"You shouldn't need either to be safe from bastards like him," Nero snarled, but he returned to Casteel's side, gathering his mate into his arms. "If he so much as looks at you wrong again—"
"You'll tear his throat out," Casteel finished with a shaky laugh. "Even though I'm the wolf, I felt it. Your rage when he grabbed my hand."
"Damn right I will." Nero pressed his face into Casteel's hair, breathing in his scent. "No one touches what's mine."
The possessive words should have frightened him. Three months ago, Nero would have been horrified at claiming ownership of another person. But the bond had changed something fundamental in him, awakened instincts he'd never known existed.
It was almost like he had the animal inside of him, not Casteel.