Chapter 267

Felix

I’m so exhausted.

It’s a tiredness that has nothing to do with sleep, and everything to do with the weight slowly crushing me from the inside out.

My uncle’s face floats behind my eyelids every time I close them. Not the publicly respectful mask he wears in council, but the look in his eyes when the doors shut and the guards are mine: a flat, gold-flecked hunger.

He doesn’t see a nephew. He sees an obstacle. A rabbit in lion’s fur.

During my time at the academy, he was here, in the capital, spreading his wings and sinking his claws into every ministry, every garrison, every quiet backroom where loyalties are traded like coin. Luckily, not everyone is under his thumb. The Moonfoxes, for all their social ambition, have kept their distance from his circle. But at the end of the day, they’re only a marquis family.

Their influence is a spice, not a main course. They can’t shift the balance of power, only flavor it.

To top it off, the Snowfrosts are out for blood. Every time I cross paths with Lumiya in the frigid palace corridors, her gaze is a winter storm—beautiful, sharp, and utterly devoid of warmth.

I have to physically resist the urge to claw that perfect, icy face of hers right off. I can’t believe I ever fancied her. I can’t believe I mistook that glacial, self-serving calculation for queenly grace.

The only ones not backing down, not even an inch, are the Veyrons. My... father-in-law. The thought is still foreign, a political reality that hasn’t quite settled into a familial one. If I thought Edith was scary in her ruthless precision, her father is utterly terrifying.

The man has barely set foot in the capital in a decade, preferring the stark, brutal politics of the eastern marches. Yet, from that distance, he’s a specter at this council table. Cunning. Ruthless. I’m glad he’s on my side.

Unfortunately, despite it all, there’s nothing I can do tomorrow. Nothing real. It’s all been a push and pull, a dance on a razor’s edge, but he’s spent years greasing the gears I didn’t even know existed.

A proposed amendment to the Royal Succession Act, currently being "urgently reviewed" by a council committee he chairs. A change to allow royal bloodlines that are not exclusively lion to inherit the throne. "For the stability and adaptability of the kingdom in modern times," the draft reads. It’s elegant. It sounds reasonable.

It’s a death sentence.

The second that law passes, it’ll be over. My claim, based on my direct lion lineage, becomes one of many.

His claim, as the late crown prince’s brother, a Tiger of pure royal blood, suddenly becomes not just valid, but arguably stronger. He has the experience. The political network. The "proven track record of governance," as his supporters already whisper.

I’m not naive enough to think he’ll let me be, once he’s on the throne. A living, breathing heir? Impossible.

This plan has been in motion since my father was the crown prince. Maybe even before.

He buried his ambition, layer by layer, year by year, letting it fossilize into a cold, patient hatred. My father’s death was his opportunity, but then I showed up. A miracle.I pulled a stop to his plans just as they were about to bear fruit.

But this isn’t a scheme of months. It’s decades worth of planning. Of cultivating debts, of collecting secrets, of placing loyalists in obscure bureaucratic offices that, in a moment like this, hold the power to reinterpret centuries of law.

I groan, a raw, helpless sound, and run my fingers through my hair in frustration. A sharp sting makes me jerk my hand back. Four thin, red lines are welling up on my forehead.

Dammit.

Slowly, deliberately, I breathe out and force the claws to retract.The little wounds on my forehead throb.

The silence that follows is absolute, and in it, I can hear the future collapsing.

*

The voices wash over me, a turbulent sea of argument and outrage, but I am numb to it all.

The grand council chamber, with its vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows depicting lions in glorious victory, feels like a beautifully decorated tomb.

We are outnumbered. I can see it in the way my uncle’s supporters sit: relaxed, confident, exchanging slight nods. They have the votes. This debate is a formality.

My gaze drifts across the room, over the sea of fur and finery, and accidentally locks with my uncle’s. He sits at the head of the opposition benches, the very picture of regal concern. But his eyes... they hold mine for a heartbeat too long. And in them, there is no concern. Only a sharp, glittering, victorious smirk.

The message is clear: I have won.

A fresh wave of shouting pulls my attention back. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

"Times have to change!" bellows one of my uncle’s staunchest supporters, a bear of a lord from the northern reaches. "We cannot chain our kingdom’s future to a single, rigid bloodline when strength of all kinds stands ready to serve!"

"You are trying to change the very fabric of the kingdom!" My own voice surprises me, ringing out cold and clear, cutting through the din. I stand, my chair scraping loudly. The numbness shatters, burned away by a sudden, icy fury. "You are not modernizing. You are unraveling centuries of tradition, of stability, for the ambition of one man!"

The chamber falls silent for a moment, all eyes on me. My uncle’s smirk widens, just a fraction. He’s pleased. My outburst only makes me look desperate, like a cub lashing out.

Lord Veyron shoots me a look,a warning and an assessment. I’ve played into their hands.

Just when the man is about to continue, to deliver the final, rhetorical blow that would cement my humiliation—the grand council chamber double doors slam open.

Every head, every ear, every twitching tail whips toward the entrance.

The Duke of Panthers has arrived.