"Lock him in the cellar?" Elyra murmured, tilting her head up toward his sharp profile, her voice dipping into a low, mocking whisper. "My, my. Such a merciful, tyrant-like king you are. I’m almost swooning."
Valeric didn’t look down at her. He didn’t blink. He didn’t even shift his gaze from the far end of the grand hall. Two full, agonizing seconds stretched between them, the silence hanging heavy while his face remained a carved mask of stone... unmoving, unreadable, treating the simple act of showing an emotion like a dangerous, forbidden taboo.
Elyra found herself studying that stillness, searching for some crack in the granite, some flicker of the man beneath the crown, and finding nothing at all. It unsettled her more than she cared to admit, this complete absence of anything human in a man she was bound to for the next twelve months of her life.
"He introduces himself that way to anyone with a face and a pulse, Ms. Veyrith," Valeric said, his voice a flat, low rumble that barely carried past her ear. "Do not flatter yourself. And do not encourage him. He is an absolute idiot, and I have very little patience left tonight."
"Oh, come now, Valeric," Elyra whispered back, her smile widening just a fraction as a tiny sliver of her heavy fear evaporated into genuine amusement. "He’s the only person in this entire cursed room who hasn’t looked at me like he wants to run me through with a silver pike. I’d say that makes him the most sensible person here."
"Sensible people do not kiss the hands of wolves in front of a council of Lycan lords, nor do they let Torin jab them in the ribs for sport," Valeric replied smoothly, his eyes sweeping over the crowd without a single drop of warmth. "Now keep walking. The High Table is waiting, and if you spend another three minutes flirting with my cousin, I will have Torin lock him in the cellar until morning."
"You wouldn’t dare," she murmured, though a small, traitorous part of her almost wished he would, if only to see what his face looked like when he meant something... when he felt something strongly enough to let it surface.
"Try me," Valeric said, his voice deadpan and utterly devoid of humor as his heavy hand guided her forward across the polished floor. "I have locked him in worse places for far less."
Elyra opened her mouth to shoot back another sharp retort, but Valeric simply stared straight ahead, completely ignoring her presence as if she hadn’t spoken at all. His eyes stayed glued to the crowd, his jaw locked tight, refusing to give her even the satisfaction of a glance.
Brute, Elyra cursed him bitterly in her head, her teeth grinding together behind her forced, polite smile. Arrogant, cold-blooded, insufferable brute.
She let out a quiet sigh, her shoulders tensing beneath the weight of the heavy velvet dress, the fabric suddenly feeling like armor she hadn’t asked to wear. Every step across that gleaming floor felt like walking deeper into enemy territory, each pair of eyes another blade waiting to find a gap in her defenses. She was just about to pull her own eyes away, to retreat into the safety of her own thoughts, when she felt the shift in him.
It was subtle, but it was undeniable. Valeric’s entire frame went rigid as iron. The easy, fluid stride he used to navigate the courtroom ground to a sudden halt. Before Elyra could even register what was happening, his heavy hand clamped tighter around her arm, his fingers digging firm into her skin and yanking her an inch closer to his side.
A current of alarm shot through her, cold and immediate, chasing away whatever irritation had lingered a moment before. Something in the air had changed, some invisible pressure dropping over the room like a held breath.
Elyra glanced up at him, startled. What is his problem now?
Valeric’s face was still a blank, unreadable wall, but the muscle along his sharp jawline was ticking furiously. His pale eyes had narrowed into two lethal slits, fixed entirely on the path ahead.
Elyra followed his gaze, and the breath caught in her throat.
Stepping directly into their path was an older man, likely in his late fifties, draped in heavy, dark velvet trimmed with silver fur that practically oozed wealth and self-importance. He was tall, but his posture carried a subtle, slumping weight that made him look like a vulture settling onto a branch.
His silver-streaked hair was slicked back tight against his scalp, highlighting a face lined with deep, oily creaking skin, small predatory eyes, and a wide, slick smile plastered across his lips.
It was a smile that didn’t touch his eyes at all. It was oily. Rancid. The kind of look that made a slime trail settle over Elyra’s skin just by looking at him. Instinctively, her stomach churned, a sudden knot of pure nausea twisting in her gut, and she had to fight the urge to step back. Some primal instinct deep inside her recognized danger long before her mind could name it.
Standing right beside the old man was a younger male... maybe in his late twenties, wearing a tailored black suit embroidered with silver thread. He had the exact same face, the exact same thin nose, but his smile was different. It wasn’t oily; it was sharp. Dangerous. Like a razor blade hidden inside a silk handkerchief.
His dark eyes flicked over Valeric first, then slowly slid down to Elyra, lingering on her face, her collarbone, and the bare skin of her shoulders with a slow, slimy appraisal that made her skin crawl. She resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch, even as gooseflesh rose along her arms beneath the velvet.
Who were these people? And why had the completely emotionless Valeric Draeven just gone as stiff as a corpse?
The older man stopped three paces away, folding his hands over his stomach. He dipped his head into a low, sweeping bow that managed to look entirely condescending despite the posture, as though the mere act of bending his spine were a favor bestowed rather than a duty owed.
"Your Highness," the old man said, his voice smooth, rasping, and dripping with fake warmth.
He didn’t look at Elyra. He didn’t even glance in her direction. He addressed Valeric as if he were standing entirely alone in the middle of the ballroom floor, completely erasing her presence from the room. The dismissal stung more than she expected, a small, sharp humiliation tucked inside a much larger fear. She had grown used to hostile stares since arriving at court, but this... this practiced, deliberate blindness, cut in a different, quieter way.
Valeric didn’t bow. He didn’t smile. He didn’t move an inch. He just stood there, towering over the pair, his grip on Elyra’s arm so tight it was bordering on painful.
"Have you lost your sense of respect, Uncle Garreth?" Valeric said.
The words didn’t come out as a shout. They were low. Quiet. A flat, icy whisper that cut through the surrounding hum of the ballroom like a steel blade slicing through silk.
The old man’s wide, fake smile froze right on his face. The younger man beside him stiffened instantly, his sharp, smug expression flinching into a flicker of genuine shock.
Garreth cleared his throat, letting out a short, uneasy laugh that sounded like dry leaves scraping across stone. "Your Highness... I... I beg your pardon? I don’t quite understand what you mean."
"Do not play dumb with me, uncle," Valeric cut in, his pale eyes burning with a silent, terrifying intensity while his face remained entirely deadpan. "You know precisely what I mean. You stepped into my path, you opened your mouth, and you ignored my wife... your Queen."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
The surrounding nobles, who had been whispering and laughing amongst themselves just moments before, slowly drifted to a halt. Heads turned. Eyes widened. The air in the immediate vicinity grew dangerously thin as people realized the King was halting his own procession.
Elyra felt the weight of a hundred stares settle onto her skin, and she forced herself to keep her chin level, refusing to let the panic clawing up her throat show on her face. Her pulse thundered so loudly in her own ears that she wondered if Valeric could hear it too.
Garreth’s face flushed a deep, ugly red, the embarrassment rising fast beneath his wrinkled collar. "Valeric... ah, Your Highness... surely you cannot mean to take offense on such a joyous evening! The lady is new to the court affairs and I was merely addressing my King, as protocol..."
"I will condone many things in this court, Garreth," Valeric interrupted again, his voice dropping another octave, turning into a low, vibrating growl that rattled deep in his chest. "Political scheming. Incompetence. Petty greed. I expect all of it from men like you. But I will not condone disrespect. Know your place."
Elyra’s eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated shock. She stared up at the side of Valeric’s face, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs.
What the hell is he doing?!
She blinked, completely thrown off balance. This man... this Garreth, was clearly a powerful Lycan noble. He clearly hated her sight, and he clearly despised the idea of a wolf standing on the royal dais.
So why was Valeric throwing himself into a public confrontation over her? Why was he putting her right out in the blazing spotlight, dragging every eye in the entire hall onto her shoulders when all she wanted was to fade into the wallpaper and survive the night?
A dozen possibilities spun through her mind, each one more confusing than the last, none of them landing anywhere close to comfort.
He wasn’t protecting her out of kindness. She knew that much. He was doing this to flex his authority, to crush his uncle’s pride, and he was using her as the hammer to do it. And yet, beneath the anger simmering in her chest, some small, unwelcome part of her noted the strange thrill of being defended so fiercely, even for the wrong reasons. It was a dangerous feeling, and she hated herself a little for feeling it at all.
"Your Highness," Garreth stammered, his fingers twitching against his velvet doublet as his eyes darted frantically toward the watching elders. "It was... it was merely a lapse in sight! The crowd, the noise..."
"You are looking directly at her," Valeric said coldly. "Your sight is fine. Your manners are not."
Garreth swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly. "I meant no offense to the throne..."
"Then rectify it," Valeric commanded, his pale eyes unblinking, his tone as unforgiving as a winter blizzard. "You will acknowledge Your Queen. You will acknowledge her until she is satisfied with your posture. And if she is not satisfied, you will remain on your knees until the feast is concluded."
Elyra’s breath hitched in her throat. Her hand instinctively tightened against Valeric’s sleeve. Is he insane?! A fresh wave of dread rolled through her, tangled up with something she refused to call gratitude.
The man in the dark suit stepped forward, his jaw tight, his eyes flashing with dark fury. "Your Grace, this is absurd! My father is an Elder of the Southern March! To demand he bow like a servant to a..."
"Speak another word, Gerald," Valeric said, turning his head half an inch to lock eyes with the younger man, his voice quieter now, more dangerous for its calm, "and I will have Torin strip your title before the sun rises."