Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Casteel woke before dawn to find Nero already dressed, standing at the window with the rigid stillness of a soldier preparing for battle. He felt his mate's tension like a bowstring drawn taut.
"How long until the announcement?" Casteel asked, disappointment at an empty bed making him sit up quickly.
"Two full bells, perhaps three." Nero didn't turn from the window. "The square is already filling with people."
Casteel joined him, pressing close enough that their shoulders touched.
Below, torches bobbed through the pre-dawn darkness as citizens claimed prime viewing positions.
Even from this height, he could see the desperate hope in their movements—mothers lifting children for better views, elderly men leaning heavily on walking sticks rather than miss this moment.
"They believe in a lie," Casteel murmured, his chest tightening with guilt. "They think we'll save them."
"You might," Nero replied grimly. "Just not in the way they expect."
A sharp knock interrupted them. Without waiting for permission, Doran entered, flanked by servants carrying ornate ceremonial robes—deeper blues and silvers than yesterday, with more elaborate embroidery depicting wolves and flames intertwined.
"Today marks the true beginning," Doran announced, his eyes bright with anticipation. "Your first royal decree will reshape Abergenny forever."
Casteel accepted the heavy robes, noting how the fabric seemed designed more for display than comfort. The collar was stiff with gold thread, the sleeves weighed down with ceremonial chains that would restrict movement. Symbolic shackles.
"The decree," Casteel said carefully. "I need to review it before the announcement."
Doran's smile was razor-thin. "Of course. Though I trust you'll find it acceptable—it was inspired by divine guidance received during prayer."
He produced a scroll of parchment, unrolling it with theatrical flourish. The script was elegant, official, stamped with seals that would make it legally binding the moment Casteel spoke the words aloud.
Nero moved closer, ostensibly to help Casteel with the ceremonial chains but actually to read over his shoulder. Casteel felt his mate's mounting horror as the decree's true scope became clear.
Mandatory military service for all men aged sixteen to thirty-five.
Seizure of "underutilized" farmland for redistribution under church supervision.
New taxes to fund the Silver Guard. Restrictions on travel between provinces without religious authorization.
Each provision was worse than the last, collectively painting a picture of absolute control.
"This will destroy the kingdom," Casteel said, his voice barely steady.
"This will save it," Doran corrected smoothly. "Order from chaos. Purpose from desperation. The people need strong guidance during these trials."
Casteel could feel Nero project calm even as rage simmered beneath his surface thoughts. Play along, his emotions whispered. They had to get out before Casteel was forced to read it and it became law.
"I understand the...necessity," Casteel said carefully, rolling the parchment back up with hands that barely trembled. "Though perhaps we could discuss some minor adjustments before—"
"There is no time," Doran interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. "The people grow restless. Every moment we delay, their faith wavers." His cold eyes fixed on Casteel's face. “There must be no dissent. After all, the belief of the people is what elevated you to this position.”
The threat was clear. Do anything to violate Doran’s orders and he would make sure the people no longer believed in their savior.
Lose that and there would be no need to keep their bond.
Casteel knew the quickest way to ensure their deaths would be to separate them.
They had already proven that. He knew Doran was bluffing to a certain extent, but the fact remained he had the power to tear them apart.
"Of course," Casteel replied, the words tasting like ashes. "The gods' will be done."
Doran's satisfaction was palpable. "Excellent. The ceremony begins before the next bell. Captain Aldric will escort you to the eastern balcony." His gaze shifted to Nero. "Your mate will stand beside you, naturally. The people must see your unity."
As the High Priest departed, Casteel sank into a chair, the weight of the ornate robes suddenly unbearable. "I can't do this," he whispered. "I can't condemn thousands to slavery just to save myself."
Nero knelt before him, hands gripping Casteel's shoulders firmly. "You won't have to. Aldric promised a diversion—we have to trust he'll deliver."
"And if he doesn't? If this is all some elaborate test of Doran's?" Casteel's voice cracked with strain. "Every word I speak from that balcony becomes law. Every life destroyed will be my responsibility."
"Look at me," Nero commanded, his voice gentle but implacable.
When Casteel's blue eyes met his, he felt Nero pour every ounce of certainty he possessed through their connection.
"Whatever happens today, we face it together. If Aldric fails, we’ll find another way.
If we're forced to flee with nothing but the clothes on our backs, so be it.
But you will not become Doran's puppet."
"The kitchen staff," Casteel said. "Aldric mentioned they remember me. If we need to run."
"They'll help," Nero agreed. "Servants know every hidden passage, every unguarded door. We're not as trapped as Doran believes."
A commotion in the corridor interrupted them—heavy footsteps, shouted commands, the distinctive clatter of armed men moving with purpose. Nero was on his feet in an instant, positioning himself between Casteel and the door, every muscle tensed for confrontation.
Captain Aldric burst in without ceremony, his weathered face taut with urgency. "The timeline has changed," he announced without preamble. "Doran moved the ceremony forward. You're to appear in twenty minutes."
"Why?" Nero demanded, suspicion flaring through their bond.
"Reports of unrest in the eastern quarter," Aldric replied, his eyes conveying more than his words. "Doran fears a delay will only increase tensions."
Casteel rose, the ceremonial chains clinking softly. "Is your...contingency still in place?"
Aldric gave a barely perceptible nod. "Adjusted, but operational. Be ready for chaos." His gaze speared them both. "When it comes, move quickly. Don't hesitate."
More guards appeared in the doorway—Doran's men, not Aldric's, their expressions coldly professional. "The High Priest commands your immediate presence," one announced. "The people grow restless." So much for even twenty minutes.
Aldric's jaw tightened, but he stepped aside with formal deference. "I'll escort our sovereigns personally."
As they moved through the palace corridors, Casteel felt as if he were walking to his execution.
The ceremonial robes weighed him down, the chains at his wrists jingling with each step like a mockery of real shackles.
Through their bond, Nero projected steady reassurance, though his own thoughts were calculating escape routes, assessing each guard they passed.
The eastern balcony overlooked the largest square in the city, now packed with thousands of people.
The crowd stretched beyond what Casteel could see, a sea of desperate faces turned upward in anticipation.
Banners depicting silver wolves fluttered from every building.
Priests in ceremonial garb lined the steps below, ready to spread Doran's message throughout the kingdom.
High Priest Doran waited at the balcony's edge, resplendent in robes that matched the brilliance of the rising sun. His smile was triumphant as they approached, the smile of a man on the cusp of achieving everything he'd plotted for.
"Perfect timing," he murmured. "A new day, and with it, a new era for Abergenny."
Casteel's throat closed with dread as Doran pressed the decree into his hands.
The parchment felt unnaturally heavy, each word upon it a potential death sentence for freedom.
He felt Nero's focused alertness, his mate scanning the crowd, the guards, the surrounding buildings—looking for any sign of Aldric's promised diversion.
"Remember," Doran whispered as he guided Casteel to the balcony's edge, "every syllable must be exact. The gods watch, and they are not forgiving of those who betray divine purpose."
The crowd roared as Casteel appeared, thousands of voices raised in desperate acclaim.
He stood frozen at the balcony's edge, the decree trembling in his hands as he faced the sea of expectant faces below.
Children perched on their fathers' shoulders, women pressed forward with tears streaming down their cheeks, men who looked half-starved from the ongoing famine raised their fists in salute.
"People of Abergenny!" Doran's voice boomed across the square, amplified to reach even the farthest edges of the crowd. "Behold your Silver Wolf! Hear now the first decree of your divinely chosen king!"
The crowd fell silent with an air of anticipation so profound it seemed to press against Casteel's chest. He unrolled the parchment with numb fingers, the words swimming before his eyes. Casteel felt Nero's desperate hope—where was Aldric's diversion? How much longer could they delay?
Casteel opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He couldn't do it. Whatever the consequences, he couldn't condemn these people to the slavery disguised in Doran's decree.
"I..." he began, his voice barely carrying past the first row of listeners.
The first explosion shattered the morning air.
The blast came from somewhere in the eastern quarter, a deep rumble that shook the palace foundations and sent flocks of birds spiraling into the sky. Screams erupted from the crowd as people turned toward the column of smoke rising in the distance.
"What—" Doran spun toward the sound, his composure cracking for the first time since Casteel had known him.
A second explosion followed, closer this time, and then a third. Through the chaos, Casteel heard the distinctive sound of steel on steel—fighting had broken out somewhere in the city.
"The decree!" Doran shouted over the growing tumult, grabbing Casteel's arm. "You must read it now, before—"
Nero moved with lethal precision, his hand closing around Doran's wrist with crushing force. "Release him," he growled, his voice carrying deadly promise.
"Guards!" Doran called, but his voice was lost in the chaos as more explosions echoed across the city, the smell of gun powder obvious. The crowd below was beginning to panic, people pushing and shoving as they tried to flee the square.
That's when Nero saw them—figures moving through the crowd with purpose, not fleeing but advancing toward the palace.
They wore the rough clothing of common citizens, but their movements spoke of military training.
At their head, barely visible through the press of bodies, Nero glimpsed a familiar face.
Eryken had come.
Eryken's face was grim, determined—the expression of a man executing a carefully planned mission. But what froze Nero's blood wasn't his former commander's presence but the figures flanking him: two archers, bows already nocked, rising in perfect synchronization.
Time seemed to slow as horrifying understanding crashed through Nero. Eryken had been traveling for many lunar moons—he wouldn't know the bonding was real, wouldn't understand that the "savior" was now bound to Nero's very soul. He was here, as promised, to kill Casteel.
"No!" The word tore from Nero's throat as the archers drew back their bowstrings.
There was no time to explain, no time for signals or codes. Nero pivoted sharply, throwing himself in front of Casteel just as the arrows were released.
The first impact felt like a hammer strike to his shoulder, driving the breath from his lungs.
The second arrow found its mark lower, slipping between his ribs and sending a searing, white-hot agony lancing through his chest. The sheer force of the blows knocked him forwards into Casteel, both of them collapsing onto the hard stone floor of the balcony in a tangled heap.
Nero felt Casteel's shock change instantaneously into sheer horror as the warmth of blood seeped through the ceremonial robes they wore.
Nero struggled to find his voice, to form a warning about Eryken's actions, but all that emerged was a wet, hacking cough, and a spray of copper-bright blood speckled his lips.
"Nero!" Casteel's scream sliced through the pandemonium like a sharp blade. His hands, trembling with desperation, pressed fervently against the gaping wounds, trying in vain to halt the relentless flow of crimson that spread like spilled wine over the pale stone surfaces.
The last image that imprinted itself in Nero's consciousness before the encroaching darkness swallowed him was Eryken's face amidst the crowd below, where confusion had replaced his previous determination as he realized the tragic truth—who had truly taken the arrows intended for the Silver Wolf.
And then, there was nothing.