His gaze shifted back to the werewolf princess. The sight of her there, pale against the dark sheets, brought the coldness back into his expression. 𝑓𝓇𝘦ℯ𝘸𝘦𝑏𝓃𝑜𝘷ℯ𝑙.𝑐𝑜𝓂

It was only the sound of the wind at the open window and her breathing remained, and so he stood there for a long moment, watching her. Then, almost against his own nature, he reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair away from her damp forehead. Her temperature had dropped, he thought.

Vaeron lingered for a moment, and without another word, he withdrew, rising fully on his feet. And with one last look at the unconscious woman, he silently left the room.

Stepping out of his chamber into the pale wash of daylight, snow light filtered through the narrow windows, casting long, thin shadows along the stone corridor. The castle should have been quiet at this hour... but it wasn’t.

Servants moved briskly along the passage, heads bowed, arms full of linens, trays, and firewood. Their footsteps softened against the rugs, their voices low and hurried, like they feared the walls themselves might be listening. But majorly, one could see the tension tightening their shoulders when they walked past him.

No one lingered too much, nor did anyone speak loudly. Something from yesterday still hung in the air, like a weight left unspoken. It took everyone by surprise.

Vaeron walked past them without slowing. It was only after a while that voices seemed to have died down at a particular part of the palace that he reduced his pace.

At the far end of the corridor, where the light thinned and the drafts grew colder, he turned toward a section of wall most would pass without notice. It wasn’t something discernible by ordinary eyes, except—of course—if one inspects too closely. There, half-hidden between two pillars, was a narrow, shadowed descent cut into the stone, indicating an opening that was not meant to be seen.

A steep flight of stairs led downward, swallowed almost immediately by darkness. He stepped inside. For a moment, the light from the corridor clung to him then faded at once, a diversion of light and darkness.

The moment his foot touched the first step, the nearest torch flared to life with a sharp hiss and a sudden bloom of fire.

Vaeron paused, but only briefly. With each step he took, another torch answered—one after the other—flames leaping up along the walls as though stirred by his presence.

The shadows recoiled, then gathered again behind him, deeper and thicker than before. The air grew warmer, but heavier, and even closer. By the time he reached the bottom where a hide double oaken door rested, the world above felt distant, sealed away by stone and silence, while voices resonated ahead, already in motion.

"...an entire district—gone by morning—"

"You think this was a chance?" He recognized that voice.

"Then say it plainly—say who you believe did this—"

The doors did not creak when Vaeron pushed them open, but the sound of voices faltered all the same, just enough of a break to notice him.

The stillness in the air was palpable as all eyes turned—every single one of them—towards his direction.

Good.

He stepped inside without haste, the torchlight catching briefly along the sharp lines of his face, and the ruthless scars crisscrossing over his features, before slipping away again. It was even terrifying under torchlight, made to scare rather than embrace. Made to curse, rather than bless.

Snow-chill still clung faintly to him, as though the world above had not fully released its hold against his usual attire. And this time, instead of wearing his mask, he walked in without one, the disinterest sparkled without warning in those hazel eyes.

The council room was built exactly for its purpose. The ceiling arched in heavy stone ribs and the walls were bare save for iron brackets holding restless torchlight. The flames did not burn steadily as they flickered and snapped, casting long, shifting shadows that crawled across the chamber.

At the center stood a long table of rough-hewn oak, its surface scarred by blades, ink stains, and the weight of years. Maps lay strewn across it—corners curled, edges pinned down with daggers, tankards, and sealed scrolls. Fresh markings cut across old ones in hurried strokes of charcoal and ink.

Someone had tried to make sense of what had happened, and it seemed that no one had succeeded.

Chairs surrounded the table, dragged into place as some were occupied, others shoved back as their owners stood instead—leaning forward, braced on their hands, or pacing in tight, restless lines.

They were already gathered.

Vaeron took a glance at his surroundings. At the far end of the table stood the Elders, who were present; three of them, robed in deep, muted colors that swallowed the light rather than reflected it. Age had not softened them, and if anything, it had carved them into something harder. Their faces were lined, but their eyes were not tired—entirely far from being tired. They were watchful, calculative, and measuring. Nothing in this room escaped them.

To the left, a pair of high-ranking lords lingered near the maps, their fingers stained with ink, and their expressions drawn tight with unease. One leaned heavily on the table, the other stood too straight, as though refusing to show strain. He recognized them; Lord Aurelion, tall and regal with golden hair, amber-gold eyes, and sharp aristocratic features. Dressed in a dark velvet with gold detailing, it gave him a divine and royal aura. Lord Zorathiel on the other hand, was dark and intimidating with raven-black hair, crimson ember-like eyes, and a dangerous expression. He was dressed in deep black cloaks and shadowy layers, making him look almost like darkness itself. And Lord Lucerion, a pale and strikingly beautiful creature with platinum silver hair, icy blue eyes, and refined, almost ethereal features. He was dressed in midnight-blue and silver garments, carrying a cold, elegant, frost-like presence.

Near the right side, half-seated on the edge of the table itself, was one of his brothers.

He looked entirely at ease, amber eyes gleaming like molten flame. One leg lazily crossed over the other, a dagger turning idly between his fingers, catching the firelight in brief, playful flashes. His dark hair fell carelessly across his brow, and there was something almost amused in his expression, as though the tension in the room existed solely for his entertainment.

His gaze lifted to Vaeron, and his smile followed. It was a slow, crooked, and knowing kind, one he would give anything to wipe off for eternity.

"Look who decided to pay a visit."

A few of the others shifted slightly, but enough to be noticeable in their awareness.

Vaeron did not return the smile. If anything, the air seemed to cool further as he stepped forward, his presence cutting cleanly through the lingering murmurs.

Where his brother carried a kind of dangerous charm, Vaeron carried nothing at all but coldness. "Was I not expected," he said.

"Oh, we expected you," his brother replied lightly, sliding off the table at last. "Eventually,"