Chapter 35
Callum
The evidence hits like a physical blow, a wave of truth sweeping through the throne room. The stunned silence that follows holds everyone captive—courts, tribunal members, delegates—as centuries of ritual and political certainty shatter beneath the weight of corruption exposed.
Every fiber of my being screams to pull her into my arms, to verify she’s real and whole and unharmed. To shield her body with mine and never let go. But I force myself still. This is her arena now. Her battle to win. I stand beside her, body tensed for combat, following her lead.
The dragon delegation exchanges sharp glances, scales catching light as they process what the evidence means. Prince Korren’s expression has gone hard, his royal composure cracking to reveal something colder beneath—the look of a prince realizing he nearly married into a conspiracy built on murder.
Across the chamber, Lord Theron makes a sound like a wounded animal, a quiet sob that tears from his throat as he stares at the corruption map hovering above his daughter.
The manipulation that twisted his grief becomes visible in his eyes—horror at what he’s been made to do.
His hand reaches toward Lyanna, trembling, then drops.
The tribunal members’ faces have gone slack with shock.
Lady Morwyn’s fingers clutch at her formal robes, her complicity laid bare for all to see.
Lord Kaelith stares at the evidence of his bribery with the expression of a man watching his reputation burn.
Councilor Aldric’s jaw works silently, no defense possible.
“Enough of this farce.” The voice cuts through the chaos—Lord Vaelric, or rather, the thing wearing his face. Faelan steps forward, composure cracking but not yet broken. “You present wolves and dragons as credible witnesses? This is a fae court matter. These outsiders have no standing here.”
The dismissal is calculated—reduce us to interlopers, strip away our legitimacy. A week ago, it might have worked.
I step forward, and my voice carries through the throne room with an authority I’ve spent years suppressing.
“I am Callum Montgomery, portal guardian of the Shadow Peak bloodline.” The words land with deliberate weight.
I feel Lyanna’s fingers tighten against mine as she realizes what I’m revealing.
“Son of Quentin Montgomery, Guardian of the Shadow Peak Portal. Like all members of my bloodline, I carry angel heritage alongside my wolf.”
Murmurs ripple through the court. Conservative fae lords lean toward each other, whispering. The progressives straighten with sudden interest.
“Guardian-Fae bonds are specifically protected under Section 7 of the Inter-Realm Accord,” I continue, letting my wolf’s confidence settle into my stance.
“The Montgomery bloodline has formed protected alliances with fae houses for seventeen generations. Beta Liam of Shadow Peak is bonded to Elysia—half-fae, half-angel—and their union is recognized by all courts.”
I raise my hand, and the data crystal responds to my Guardian blood, projecting historical records that cascade through the air. Names and dates of Guardian-Fae alliances illuminate the chamber in golden light.
“Our mate bond falls under this protected precedent. It cannot be dissolved by political pressure or marriage contracts negotiated without the Guardian’s consent.”
The dragon delegation exchanges glances, scales catching light as they reassess. Prince Korren’s expression shifts from confusion to sharp recognition—the look of a strategist seeing an entirely altered battlefield.
One conservative elder murmurs to another, loud enough to carry: “The Montgomery bloodline does predate the Second Accord.”
Lord Theron’s gaze flicks between Lyanna and me, and I see it—the moment he stops seeing a wolf who stole his daughter and starts seeing a Guardian whose heritage carries weight in every court across the realms.
The figure I’ve been tracking goes very still. I’ve just stripped away his last avenue of dismissal.
But it’s him—the corruption signature beneath that borrowed noble face—that holds my attention.
Where he stood moments ago, the glamour is cracking.
Not slowly—violently. The borrowed noble face warps and splits like ice breaking under pressure, revealing something rotting beneath.
Faelan’s true form surfaces in patches: grey-green skin mottled with corruption, eyes that have gone completely black, veins pulsing with that same sickly silver knotwork pattern the evidence displays.
His carefully constructed conspiracy is collapsing. Three centuries of manipulation, exposed in minutes. And he’s not waiting for the courts to rule.
“You think this changes anything?” His voice comes out wrong now, multiple tones layered over each other like several entities speaking at once. Dark magic coils around his fingers, no longer hidden. “I’ve spent three centuries weaving networks through every realm!”
My wolf surges forward before conscious thought catches up. I know that energy signature—the same corruption that nearly killed half our pack.
He hurls it directly at Lyanna.
“NO!” The roar tears from my throat as I spin her behind me, putting my body between her and the lethal magic hurtling toward us. Time slows as the black magic closes in.
The blast hits my back like a freight train of ice and rot.
Pain lances through me—the same corruption that nearly killed half our pack now burning into my flesh. I stagger but don’t fall, don’t move, keeping Lyanna shielded as the corruption tries to sink its hooks into my blood.
“Defensive formation!” Ben’s command slices through the chaos, and our strike team responds with precision gained from decades of training together.
Rhonan and Derek flank the court members, creating an evacuation corridor. Rafe moves to cover our left. Ben takes the most exposed position without hesitation—directly between Faelan and the fleeing nobles.
Always the first into danger. Always the last to protect himself.
It’s automatic, muscle memory—exactly why I chose these wolves for the mission.
Fae nobles scatter in blind panic, their ceremonial finery fluttering like frightened birds. The pristine throne room transforms into a battlefield in seconds—crystal decorations shatter under magical pressure, raining glittering shards across marble floors.
The corruption blast connects with a ward I didn’t even realize Lyanna had conjured. It holds for a precious half-second before cracking under the pressure. I feel her drawing on every ounce of power she possesses.
“He’s accessing the leylines!” she shouts, recognizing something in his attack pattern that I don’t.
More blasts follow—Faelan no longer cares about appearances or politics. He’s choosing destruction over justice, raw hatred over consequences.
Crystal walls splinter around us, fracturing like ice under pressure. The ancient magic woven through the palace architecture begins to fail as Faelan’s corruption spreads from his blast points.
Another corruption wave builds between Faelan’s hands—bigger this time, darker. No time for words. I keep my body wrapped around hers protectively, bracing for the second impact as the black magic surges forward.