Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
The nobles lost their minds—shouting, knocking over chairs, spilling wine across the maps.
"How the hell did they find us?" Nero's voice sliced through the chaos.
The captain's mouth hung open, but the thin noble stood up, smirking like he'd won a bet.
"Followed me here," he said, rising with a swagger. "Doran pays good coin for tips about fake prophets and rebel meetups."
Nero's lips pulled back from his teeth. "You backstabbing piece of shite."
"Just practical," the noble shot back, yanking out his sword as the room exploded into motion. "Doran takes care of his friends when this joke of yours crashes and burns."
Steel clashed as guards rushed him, but the bastard had picked his spot well. Two more nobles tore off their cloaks, flashing silver badges underneath—Doran's spies, planted from the start. Four guards suddenly turned on their comrades, daggers appearing in their hands.
Nero didn't think. He moved.
He caught the first traitor-guard under the chin, the man's neck snapping with a wet crack.
Without pausing, Nero spun and drove his fist through another's chest, ripping out something vital.
The third tried to run—Nero's boot crushed his spine.
The thin noble's smirk vanished as Nero landed before him, eyes blazing silver.
The noble's sword thrust forward; Nero caught the blade in his bare hand, blood dripping between his fingers as he yanked the man forward and tore out his throat with his teeth.
Bodies hit the floor in rapid succession, blood pooling across the stone in spreading fingers. Seven traitors dead in the space of heartbeats, their shocked expressions forever engraved onto their faces.
"How long until they get here?" Morven barked at his captain, after a brief stunned silence.
"A quarter of a bell, my lord,” and Morven swore and kicked at the nearest dead noble. “They must have taken out my advanced scouts.”
Nero felt Casteel's spike of terror—not for himself, but for River, alone and vulnerable in the kitchens. The boy had already lost one family to Doran's butchers.
"River," Casteel said urgently, voicing Nero's thoughts.
"Martha will keep him safe," Morven assured them, but his face was grim. "My people know the evacuation protocols."
"Evacuation?" The woman in emerald silk looked aghast. "We're to run like common criminals?"
"We're to survive," Eryken snapped, already moving toward the hall's rear exit. "Dead martyrs serve no cause."
"And my main forces are camped a few miles away," Morven added. "We join them."
But as they reached the doors, the sound of splintering wood echoed from the main entrance. Doran hadn't waited for a siege—he'd brought enough force to smash through the gates immediately, and it seemed like Morven was grossly unprepared.
"The tunnels," Morven commanded, pressing a hidden stone in the wall. A section swung inward, revealing darkness beyond. "They'll take us to the old wine caves."
Nero stopped, his hand on the tunnel entrance. He felt Casteel's desperate plea to keep moving, to escape while they could. But the wolf within him bristled at the thought he would leave others to die.
"Nero," Casteel whispered urgently. "We have to go."
"Do we?" Nero asked, silver eyes reflecting the torchlight. "How many will die because we fled? How many servants, how many guards who believed in something better?"
The sound of armored boots grew louder in the corridors beyond. Shouts echoed through the manor as Doran's forces moved even nearer.
"River needs you alive," Casteel said desperately. "My love, I need you alive."
For a heartbeat, Nero wavered. Then his jaw set with terrible resolve.
"Then you'll have to trust me," he said, and stepped back into the great hall.
Nero emerged from the tunnel entrance just in time to see another guard who had clearly changed loyalties bragging how the silver wolf had run away, bringing a sword up to a servant brandishing a small knife.
Behind him, Casteel's anguished cry echoed from the darkness—a sound that made the wolf within Nero howl for vengeance.
"You want to see the Silver Wolf?" Nero asked, his voice carrying harmonics that made the remaining wine goblets shatter on the table. "Then witness what prophecy truly means."
The transformation was instantaneous, as explosive as before. A detonation of power that sent the traitor stumbling backward. The massive silver wolf that materialized seemed to fill the entire hall, its presence pressing against the stone walls like barely contained lightning.
"Impossible," the man whispered, his sword trembling in suddenly nerveless fingers. "The prophecy speaks—"
His words cut off as the wolf's jaws closed around his throat. There was no dramatic struggle, no drawn-out death scene. One moment he stood sneering, the next he was gone, leaving only silence and the metallic scent of spilled blood.
The great hall's main doors exploded inward as Silver Guard poured through, their armor gleaming like scales in the torchlight. At their head strode High Priest Doran himself, his pale eyes scanning the destruction with cold satisfaction. Nero could disappear before they took one more step, but then three guards pushed captive servants before them, knives held against their throats, and one was a terrified girl. He couldn’t leave now.
Nero had already shifted back to human form, something in him urging him to maintain the ruse. Blood stained his clothes, and when he smiled, it was the expression of a predator who had tasted prey.
"Hello, Doran," he said conversationally. "You're looking well for a dead man."
The High Priest's laugh was like breaking glass. "Did you truly think that pathetic assassination attempt would succeed? I've survived far more competent killers than you."
Doran gestured, and his guards spread out in a practiced formation, crossbows trained on Nero from multiple angles. "The boy. Where is he?"
"Which boy?" Nero asked innocently. "I've met so many recently."
"Don't play games with me." Doran's composure cracked slightly, revealing the fanatic beneath the polished exterior. "Casteel of Abergenny. The vessel I prepared so carefully for this moment."
Nero knew Casteel hadn't gone far and bit off a frustrated growl. He was probably hidden in the tunnel entrance.
"Ah, that boy," Nero said, wiping blood from his fingers with deliberate slowness. "I'm afraid he's indisposed."
Doran's eyes narrowed to pale slits. "Bring him out, or I'll burn this entire estate to ash with everyone in it."
"You'll do that anyway," Nero replied calmly, though his muscles coiled for action. "It's your nature. Like a rabid dog that bites everything within reach."
"Perhaps." Doran stepped closer, his guards maintaining their crossbow aim. "But I can make their deaths swift, or I can make them... educational. The choice depends on your cooperation."
Nero felt Casteel's anguish spike—his mate had heard every word through the tunnel entrance. The knowledge that innocents would suffer for his defiance was tearing at Casteel's conscience, just as Doran intended.
"You want the Silver Wolf?" Nero asked, spreading his arms wide. "Here I am."
"No," Doran said softly, his pale eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction. "You're merely the thief who stole what belongs to me. The true wolf hides in the shadows like the coward he's become."
The insult hung in the air like poison.
"I know you can hear me, boy," Doran called toward the tunnel entrance. "Your borrowed wolf may have strength, but you still have a weak heart. How many servants will die for your cowardice? How many guards will burn because you lack the courage to face what you were made to become?"
Silence stretched taut as a bowstring. Then, to Nero's horror, he felt Casteel's resolve crystallizing—not the wolf's reckless courage, but something purely human and therefore more dangerous.
"No," Nero whispered, but it was too late.
Casteel emerged from the tunnel entrance, his hands empty, his face set with quiet determination. "I'm here, Doran. Let the others go."
The High Priest's smile was radiant with triumph.
Nero's mind raced. Doran believed Casteel still carried the wolf-soul—a misconception they could use. He sent a pulse of understanding to his mate, hoping their connection was strong enough to convey his plan.
"Your games are tiresome," Doran said, studying Casteel with the clinical interest of a collector examining a prized specimen. "Did you truly believe this... soldier... could protect you from your destiny?"
Casteel straightened, shoulders squaring with a confidence that Nero recognized wasn't entirely feigned. His mate might have surrendered the wolf, but he'd retained the courage that had first drawn them together.
"I've never needed protection," Casteel replied, his voice steady despite the dozen crossbows now trained on his chest. "The prophecy speaks of choice, Doran. Something you've never understood."
The High Priest's pale eyes narrowed. "Choice? You speak of choice when fate itself marked you from birth?" His attention remained fixed on Casteel, dismissing Nero as merely a bodyguard, a disposable obstacle. "The silver wolf was never meant for freedom—it was meant for service."
"Service to whom?" Casteel challenged, taking a careful step forward. Through their bond, Nero felt his mate's strategy—keep Doran talking, keep his focus away from Nero. "The people? Or your ambitions?"
Doran laughed, the sound echoing coldly from the stone walls. "The two are inseparable. I am the voice of divine will in this kingdom."
As Doran spoke, Nero caught a familiar scent beneath the metallic tang of armor and weapons—smoke, fear, and something else. The manor's kitchens lay directly below this wing. River was still in the building.