The carriage ride back to the capital was a claustrophobic exercise in silence.
The heavy leather curtains were drawn shut over the iron-reinforced windows, keeping out the grey mid-morning rain that had begun to slick the mountain passes.
Inside the narrow cabin, the air was thick, heavy with the sharp, metallic tang of dried blood and the suffocating pressure of two alpha auras trapped in a four-foot space.
Seren sat on the velvet bench, her hands resting flat against her thighs.
The linen wraps around her palms had stiffened, the dried blood turning a dark, crusty brown.
Every time the carriage hit a rut in the slate road, a sharp prickle of heat shot up her arms, finding its anchor at the base of her throat where the fated bond was tightening its grip.
Across from her sat Jaxon.
He hadn’t cleaned his broadsword; it lay across his knees, wrapped in a scrap of canvas, his large hands resting heavily on the hilt.
Beside him, Cassian was uncharacteristically still, his gray eyes fixed on the narrow sliver of light leaking through the curtain seam.
The lazy, mocking arrogance he usually wore like a shield had been washed away by the mud of the timber mill.
“The vanguard will reach the lower gates by noon,” Cassian said, breaking the silence without shifting his gaze from the window.
“But the city we left isn’t the city we’re walking back into.
Elowen’s scouts didn’t just retreat to the North; they dropped letters along the southern trade road.” “What kind of letters?” Seren asked, her voice cracking slightly from the dry heat in her throat.
“The kind that start fires without flint,” Jaxon answered, his amber eyes shifting up to lock onto hers.
“She’s telling the merchant guilds that the royal house is hoarding the southern grain to feed the military elite while the civilian sectors are being rationed.
She’s turning the lower town against the crown before the wagons even clear the weigh stations.” Seren let out a cold, sharp breath.
“She’s changing the battlefield.
If she can’t kill the third battalion, she’ll let the bread riots do the work for her.
The High Council will have no choice but to step in if the market square turns into a slaughter.” “Let them try,” Jaxon muttered, his fingers tightening against the canvas-wrapped blade.
“The grain is already under vanguard escort.
The distribution centers are fortified.” “Force won’t fix this, Jaxon,” Seren said, leaning forward, her jaw tight as she ignored the sudden flare of heat along her neck.
“If you deploy armored wolves to hand out flour to starving humans, it won’t look like a delivery.
It will look like an occupation.
The moment a soldier shoves a civilian in the mud, Elowen wins.” Jaxon stared at her, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek.
The primitive, protective instinct of his wolf was clearly hammering against his ribs, fighting the reality of her logic.
He wanted to use the blade; he wanted to secure the borders with iron and blood because that was the only language the packs had ever taught him.
But looking at Seren—smudged with slate dust, her hands bleeding under cheap linen—he knew she understood the rot of the city better than any general in his court.
“What do you propose?” Cassian asked, turning his head to look at her, a faint, curious glint returning to his eyes.
“We don’t use the vanguard for the distribution,” Seren said flatly.
“We use the civilian transport guilds.
The regular workers—the ones who actually haul the coal and clean the gutters.
If the people see their own neighbors driving the bread wagons, the letters Elowen left behind become nothing but northern lies.
And we do it in the open market, during the midday bell, where the Council can’t claim the delivery was a myth.” The carriage slowed down, the iron-rimmed wheels groaning as they hit the smooth, cobblestone transition of the capital’s outer gates.
The muffled sound of shouting voices and distant, erratic iron bells filtered through the thick leather curtains.
The siege of whispers had already begun.
The courtyard of the Lunar Palace was crawling with western lords and high-ranking administrators when the royal carriage came to a halt.
The rain had turned the white marble plaza into a slick, mirror-like surface, reflecting the dark, low-hanging clouds above.
The moment Jaxon stepped down from the carriage, his heavy boots splashing into the puddles, the crowd went silent.
The sight of their future King covered in dried northern blood, his cloak missing and his tunic torn, sent a visible shockwave through the front ranks of the assembly.
Elder Vance stood near the grand staircase, surrounded by four guards from the silver guard roster.
His ancient face was grim, his hands trembling as he held a crumpled piece of parchment—one of Elowen’s letters.
“Prince Jaxon,” Vance called out, his voice straining to carry over the wind.
“The Western Sector is on the verge of revolt.
The merchants are refusing to open the stalls, and the High Council has just received reports that liquid nitrate was discovered in the southern valley storage bays.
The lords are demanding an immediate quarantine of the entire lower town!” “The nitrate was brought by northern scouts, Elder Vance,” Jaxon said, his voice cutting through the damp air with the weight of an executioner’s axe.
He didn’t stop walking, forcing the ancient elder to step back to avoid being run down.
“Princess Elowen attempted to poison the water supply to force your hand.
The third battalion neutralized her advance team at the old timber mill, and the southern road is entirely secure.” “And the grain?” a western lord shouted from the back, his hand resting on his silver-hilted dagger.
“We have reports that five tons of rye are being diverted to the vanguard barracks!” “The reports are false,” Seren’s voice rang out, sharp and clear as she stepped out of the carriage behind Cassian.
She had refused to change back into the royal silk.
She stood on the marble steps in her stained vanguard tunic, her wrapped hands fully visible, her dark hair pinned back with the simple silver clip.
The assembly of alphas stared at her, several of them scowling at the sheer audacity of a human maid speaking out of turn in the royal courtyard.
“The grain trains are currently entering the southern gates,” Seren continued, her gaze sweeping over the noble lords with an icy, fearless detachment.
“And they are not going to the barracks.
By order of the Triad, the distribution will begin at the midday bell in the central market square.
The transport will be managed by the civilian labor guilds, not the military.” Elder Vance’s mouth opened slightly, his milky eyes darting from Seren to Jaxon.
“This…
this is highly irregular.
The civilian guilds have no standing in court logistics.” “They have eyes, and they have hands, Elder,” Jaxon said, stepping up to the top of the stairs, his massive frame effectively blocking the council from reaching Seren.
“And right now, they are the ones keeping this city from burning.
The distribution goes forward as scheduled.
Any lord who attempts to interfere or enforce a quarantine will be answered by my blade personally.” He didn’t wait for a response.
He turned and strode through the grand bronze doors of the palace, Cassian and Seren following close behind as the heavy iron gates slammed shut in the faces of the stunned Council.
The private wing of the eastern tower felt like a tomb compared to the chaos of the courtyard.
The heavy iron plates were still bolted over the balcony windows, cutting out the daylight and leaving the room illuminated only by the low, red glow of the hearth fire.
The heat in the room was intense, amplifying that persistent, rhythmic thrumming under Seren’s skin.
Cassian dropped onto the low leather couch, his head leaning back against the stone wall as he let out a long, ragged sigh.
“We have less than nine days, Jax.
The bond is pulling harder now.
Every time she speaks in front of those lords, my wolf wants to tear their throats out just for looking at her.” “I know,” Jaxon said, his voice flat as he unbuckled his heavy leather vest, letting the blood-stained armor drop to the floorboards with a heavy thud.
The crimson veins along his neck were dark, almost purple now, creeping higher toward his jawline with every passing hour.
He looked at Seren, his expression unreadable.
“The Iron Anchor rite cannot wait until the ninth day if the market square turns into a bloodbath today.
If the people riot, the emotional spike will trigger the feedback loop.
It will burn your heart out before the new moon even rises.” Seren walked over to the small basin of water near the corner, slowly unwrapping the linen from her palms.
The cloth tore away from her skin with a dull, stinging pain, exposing the raw, jagged gashes left by the rusted tension wire.
She dipped her hands into the cold water, the clear liquid instantly turning a faint, cloudy pink.
“The people won’t riot,” Seren said, keeping her back to them as she stared into the pink water.
“They are hungry, not stupid.
They know Elowen’s letters are a trap.
They just needed someone to show them that the crown isn’t their enemy.” Jaxon crossed the room, his footsteps silent until he stood directly behind her.
He didn’t touch her, but the sheer physical mass of him—the heavy, metallic scent of his aura—warmed her cold shoulders.
“You’re betting your life on their discipline, Seren,” he whispered, his breath brushing the top of her dark hair.
“If one human breaks a window, or one vanguard soldier loses his temper, the stabilization fails.
I cannot protect you from the backpressure if the city falls apart.” Seren turned around slowly, her wet, bleeding palms resting against the edge of the marble basin.
She looked up into his amber eyes, seeing the terrifying, monstrous reality of the alpha wolf hidden just beneath the surface—but she also saw the desperate, logical king who was trying to save his realm from self-destruction.
“Then make sure your soldiers don’t lose their temper, Jaxon,” she said quietly.
“Nine days.
That was our agreement.
Let me feed the city, and then you can drive the silver into my bone.” Jaxon stared down at her, his chest expanding in a slow, deep breath as his pulse finally synchronized with the steady, stubborn rhythm of her human heart.
For a brief second, the dark purple lines on his neck faded back into a dull, manageable crimson glow.
“Nine days,” he murmured.
Elowen is using fake news and rumors to start bread riots, but Seren’s brilliant strategy to use the civilian guilds might just save the city from an all-out civil war.
Jaxon and Cassian are barely holding their wolves back as the bond continues to tighten its grip, and the countdown to the dangerous Iron Anchor rite is officially ticking down.
Will the midday distribution go smoothly, or has Elowen left one more trap in the market square?