"A king's silence is not weakness; it is the gathering of a storm."
3rd POV
The Council Hall was a place built for intimidation. High arched ceilings loomed like the ribs of some great beast, banners of conquered territory hanging between massive stone pillars. The crescent-shaped table of black oak curved in dominance over the chamber's center, every chair at it a throne of its own. The air was thick with the scent of polished steel and the faint tongue of magic.
At the far end, seated at the apex of the crescent, was Alpha King Alaric. His expression was unreadable, stone carved into the semblance of calm. Around him, the Council murmured in low tones, the noise a restless tide against the silence he carried. Beside him, Luna Seraphine Ashvale, the betrothed, radiated quiet authority. The gold threads in her ceremonial cloak caught the torchlight, shimmering with every subtle movement.
Her loyal guards flanked her in silent readiness Nyra Valehart, the silent blade, eyes sharp enough to cut through the room's tension, Gideon Stormclaw, a wall of muscle and vigilance, shoulders squared like a fortress, Thalia Ravenshade, calculating gaze already scanning the chamber's exits and entries. Darian Frostmoor, the unyielding shield, positioned close enough to intercept any threat before it reached his Luna and finally Selene Duskbane, her hands resting on her staff, the faint shimmer of old magic pooling around her like mist.
Across from them, the High Councilors sat, a mix of silvered elders and cold-eyed operatives. Among them, High Councilor Maelis Crane—face a mask of patience, but eyes calculating—watched Alaric like one measures the distance between themselves and a storm's eye.
Standing behind the Council's side was a darker presence: the Silver Fang Assassins, led by Commander Tovik. Their blackened armor seemed to drink in the torchlight. His enforcers were a tableau of lethal variance, Varek "The Bleeder" Nocthar, twirling a poisoned dagger between cruel fingers, Kaelen Vire, the obsessive tracker, gaze sweeping the room as if sniffing out invisible threads, Syra Malek, "The Widow," her silver-threaded veil pinned to one shoulder, lips curved in a knowing smirk, Draven Holt, the silent executioner, his axes crossed over his back, Iven Dros, "The Howl Reaper," idly tapping clawed fingers on the table's surface, Rella Vorn, "Frostlash," her skin glinting with faint frost, pale silver eyes locked on the Luna's guards and finally, Niko the Moon-Seer, head bowed slightly as if listening to something no one else could hear.
The meeting had been long. Too long. Petitions, arguments, thinly veiled threats all circling the same underlying truth: the Council sought to leash the Alpha King, and lastly, the wedding plans and banners. Alaric had listened. He had let them speak. He had even allowed their insinuations to pass without outward reaction. But the moment the conversation turned into a demand stripping his direct command over border defenses, he rose.
Not with the suddenness of a temper flaring, but with deliberate, unhurried control, and then the scrape of his chair across stone silenced the room. "I am leaving," Alaric said, his voice low, carrying not through volume but the weight behind it.
A few councilors shifted uncomfortably, and Luna's fingers flexed slightly against the table, but her expression remained composed. Alaric turned, the long fall of his black cloak brushing the floor, and began to walk toward the double doors at the end of the hall. The quiet that followed was more dangerous than shouting. From his place a few steps away, Marcus the Beta, loyal, watchful, and never far from his king, pushed back his chair and followed without hesitation.
It was Commander Tovik who broke the silence. "Leaving already, Alpha King?" His tone was smooth, but beneath it coiled a thread of mockery. "We have yet to conclude."
Alaric did not slow, but the faintest tilt of his head suggested he had heard.
"You forget yourself, Commander," came another voice, silken and edged from Niko, the Moon-Seer. They lifted their gaze from whatever unseen vision held them, pale eyes glinting. "The Alpha King remains your sovereign. And you—" their gaze slid to Tovik, "—would do well to remember the moon sees all and even arrogance."
The insult was quiet, but it landed with the force of a blade, and Commander Tovik's jaw tightened, but before he could retort, a shift in the room's air drew every eye. Luna Seraphine had turned her head, just enough for the light to catch the frost in her gaze. No words left her lips, but the displeasure there was unmistakable. It was the kind of silent condemnation that could strip even the boldest warrior bare.
Varek Nocthar stopped twirling with his dagger. Kaelen Vire's nostrils flared, catching scents and bonds invisible to others. Syra Malek's smirk faded. Even Draven Holt, immovable as a mountain, shifted his stance. The tension was a living thing now, stretching between the departing king, the seated Luna, and the Council who sat caught between them.
"Let him walk," Selene Duskbane's voice came, low and resonant, from where she stood at the Luna's side. "A storm turned back too soon will only gather more force." Nyra Valehart's gaze followed Alaric until the doors opened before him, her hand never straying far from the hilt at her hip. Gideon Stormclaw's fists remained clenched, the knuckles pale, ready for the order to break the stillness into violence. Marcus reached the doors just as Alaric stepped into the corridor beyond, the heavy oak closing behind them with a reverberating thud that echoed the pulse of the chamber.
The moment they were gone, murmurs erupted, and the Council spoke in hurried whispers, some leaning toward outrage, others toward caution.
"Arrogance," Tovik muttered under his breath, though his eyes flicked toward the Luna, gauging the danger of speaking further.
"Perhaps," Niko said softly, "but it is not arrogance to refuse to drown in a tide of wolves with too many teeth and not enough honor."
The Luna's voice cut through the noise then, calm but threaded with steel. "The Alpha King does not answer to petulance, nor will I entertain it in this hall again."
Silence fell.
Selene's staff tapped once against the stone, like a heartbeat resuming. Darian Frostmoor adjusted his stance beside her, a silent sentinel. High Councilor Maelis Crane folded his hands, his expression one of a man who knew the tides had shifted, but not yet in which direction they would break. The meeting did not end, but from that moment, nothing said carried the same weight. The absence of the Alpha King was a shadow stretching over every word.
Outside, in the dimly lit corridor, Alaric and Marcus walked side by side, neither speaking. The muffled sounds of the Council's debate faded behind them, replaced by the steady rhythm of their boots on stone. The two of them disappeared into the shadowed corridors of the fortress, leaving the Council Hall to stew in the silence they had left behind.