The day had begun with the meeting with the Elders. The throne hall, usually filled with guarded silence, echoed instead with the deep, confident voice of Elder Eldric Thaleborn, patriarch of the HighMoor Clan and father to Marek.
He was standing before the royal dais, a golden ring glinting on his hand as he gestured widely while he spoke.
"…and once the trade routes through the Frostvale Pass are secured," Eldric said, his tone dripping with satisfaction, "we can begin exporting directly to the western packs. Imagine, Your Majesty, the wealth that would pour into Lycanthria. The HighMoor Clan is prepared to bear the initial risk. Naturally, my son will oversee the first expedition."
King Alaric leaned slightly on the carved armrest of his throne, his face calm but unreadable. He'd heard Eldric's long speeches before; they were always about wealth, expansion, and power.
Around him, the Council of Elders listened with varying degrees of attention. Some nodded along; others rolled their eyes subtly. Aveloria sat beside her father, quietly observing the room. Her fingers tapped absently against the armrest of her seat. She had been quieter than usual these past few days.
The political noise in the room felt far away from her thoughts; her mind was a storm she couldn't contain. The memory of Lucien's words haunted her still: "The Wanderers are coming for you, Heiress."
She couldn't stop thinking about it.
"…and of course," Eldric continued, "my son's bond to the Heiress solidifies our houses as one. A union of trade and royalty, destiny itself."
The arrogance in his tone made Aveloria's jaw tighten. Her eyes flicked briefly toward Marek, standing a few steps behind his father, hands clasped, expression unreadable.
She wanted to speak, to shut Eldric's smug tone down, but the sharp creak of the great doors interrupted her.
A young royal messenger stumbled in, breathing hard, dust clinging to his cloak. His face was pale, his hands shaking as he bowed quickly before the king.
"Your Majesty," he gasped. "Forgive the intrusion, urgent news."
Eldric frowned deeply, irritated. "You dare interrupt the council mid-session?"
The messenger didn't even glance at him. "I bring word from the Middle East watchtower and a scroll sealed by Rogue King Orion."
At once, the atmosphere in the room shifted. Conversations fell into uneasy silence, and the guards at the doors exchanged wary glances.
Aveloria's heart skipped. Rogues.
King Alaric gestured firmly. "Bring it here."
The messenger hurried forward, kneeling as he offered the rolled parchment sealed with black wax, the mark of the Rogue King.
The air thickened as the king broke the seal. The wax snapped audibly. He unrolled the parchment slowly, his expression hardening as his eyes scanned the words written in dark red ink.
After a long silence, he looked up. "It's a notice from the Rogue King."
Gasps echoed across the hall.
Elder Vargos, one of the oldest in the council, shifted uncomfortably. "A notice? From that savage?"
Alaric nodded once, his voice heavy. "He claims his territory was violated. But that is not all. He says a rogue has a claim within Lycanthria."
The elders began murmuring, confused and skeptical.
Eldric scoffed loudly. "Claim? Rogues make such wild boasts all the time. They crave attention because they lack discipline. What claim could they possibly have?"
The king hesitated, eyes narrowing at the scroll again before passing it to his scribe. "It says, in their tongue, 'We come to claim the bride.'"
For a moment, there was silence. And then chaos.
"Bride? What bride?"
"Whose daughter did they take?"
"Is this some threat?"
"These rogues need to be taught a real lesson of obedience!"
Elder Vargos slammed his cane against the floor. "Silence!"
The murmurs stopped.
Aveloria's pulse hammered. She could barely breathe. Her father's gaze moved slowly across the council before resting on her.
"It names…the Heiress of Lycanthria." He said carefully.
The hall erupted. Voices rose at once, echoing against the vaulted ceilings.
"Impossible!"
"An insult to the royal bloodline!"
"How dare those filthy beasts!"
"Has the Rogue King lost his mind?"
Eldric's voice rose above them all, his tone sharp and offended. "This is an outrage! A direct attack on my son's honor! The Heiress is mated to Marek Thaleborn, it is known and witnessed by this very court!"
Vargos snorted. "And yet she also shares the mark of the Alpha of Moonveil. And Galen. Perhaps your son is not as bound as you claim."
"Watch your tongue, old man!" Eldric spat.
The council dissolved into shouting, overlapping voices, accusations, and confusion.
One of the younger elders slammed his fist against the table. "You all heard the rumors! The Heiress bears not one, but four bonds. That is not natural."
"Blasphemy!" another barked. "The Goddess never marks one soul with four threads."
"Perhaps it's not blasphemy," Vargos muttered, his voice hoarse but calm. "Perhaps it's prophecy."
That word stopped them.
Aveloria stiffened.
King Alaric turned toward him slowly. "What prophecy?"
The older man looked around, his eyes clouded with age but sharp with memory. "You've all heard fragments over the centuries. A legend from the First Age, of a moon-born heiress marked by four bonds, destined to either save the wolf realm or destroy it."
Eldric laughed harshly. "You mean bedtime stories for pups?"
Vargos glared. "You'd do well to remember, Thaleborn, that the last time the Goddess marked an heiress in such a way, half the kingdoms burned."
"Superstition," Eldric shot back. "If this rogue king thinks he can parade an old fable as truth to stir fear, he will find the HighMoor Clan ready to crush him."
Another elder spoke up from the far end. "And if it's not superstition? If the Goddess truly marked her for something greater?"
"Then why choose four?" Eldric demanded. "It makes no sense. A wolf cannot bear that kind of split soul. It's madness."
The argument grew louder again, the clatter of fists on the long table and voices overlapping.
"She carries a curse."
"No, a gift."
"If the rogues know, they'll use it to divide us."
"She's already divided the kingdom!"
"Enough!" Her voice was quiet but firm.
Aveloria's chair scraped against the floor as she stood suddenly. The hall fell silent, all eyes turning to her.
She looked at each of them in turn, her gaze steady despite the storm inside her. "You speak as though I'm not standing here. You talk about bonds and prophecies as if I'm some object to debate. I am your Heiress! And I deserve respect and truth."
King Alaric's expression softened briefly, but his tone remained formal. "The message is clear, Aveloria. The rogues claim you as one of theirs. Whether they mean to provoke war or truly believe it…" He sighed. "We cannot yet know."
Aveloria clenched her fists. "And if it's true?"
Eldric barked out a laugh. "You would entertain such a thing? The Heiress of Lycanthria bound to a filthy rogue?"
Her eyes flashed. "Mind your tone, Elder."
He smirked but bowed slightly. "Forgive me, heiress, but the council cannot allow baseless rumors to—"
"It's not baseless," she interrupted quietly. "I met him."
The words hit like thunder.
The elders erupted again, this time louder, angrier, and chaotic.
"She met him?"
"When?"
"How?"
"Impossible!"
"Not the rogues!"
King Alaric rose to his feet, voice booming above the chaos. "Enough!"
The hall went still.
He turned to his daughter. "Is this true?"
Aveloria met his gaze, heart pounding. "Yes. I didn't plan to. I crossed the border by mistake. He saved my life from a Wanderer."
Eldric looked furious. "And in return, you gave him your mark?"
She turned on him, her voice sharp. "I gave him nothing! The bond happened, and I didn't ask for it."
"Convenient," Eldric sneered. "How many accidental bonds will we tolerate before—"
"Say one more word and I'll rip that smugness off your face," Aveloria snapped.
Gasps filled the room.
Marek, who had been silent this entire time, stepped forward. "Father, enough."
Eldric turned to him, disbelief on his face. "You'll defend her? After what she's done?"
Marek's jaw tightened. "You forget yourself. She's still the Heiress."
Eldric's lip curled. "So you still want her despite the others, despite the rogues claiming her as a bride? You think this doesn't make a fool of our house?"
Marek didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on Aveloria, hurt, anger, and longing all fighting for control.
The king spoke again, his tone heavy. "We will send word to the Rogue King demanding clarity. If this is a provocation, we must be prepared."
Elder Vargos shook his head. "Provocation or not, the meaning is clear. 'Claim the bride'—they're not negotiating. They're coming."
A hush fell.
Aveloria swallowed hard. "When?"
Vargos looked at her grimly. "If the scroll reached us today, they're already on the move."
King Alaric turned to his general. "Double the guards at every gate. Seal the borders. No rogue sets foot past the eastern ridge."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The council began shouting new arguments, strategies, fears, and accusations.
"They're bluffing!"
"No, they're warning us!"
"We should strike first!"
"You'd risk a war we can't win!"
King Alaric's voice cut through them. "Silence!"
He looked weary now. "This council will reconvene at sundown. Until then, no one speaks of this outside these walls. Do I make myself clear?"
The elders nodded reluctantly.
The king dismissed the meeting, and the guards opened the doors. The elders filed out one by one, still muttering under their breath. Eldric stormed out first, dragging Marek by the arm.
As the hall emptied, only Aveloria remained beside her father. The messenger still stood near the door, trembling.
Alaric sank back onto his throne, rubbing his temples. "You've brought a storm, my daughter."
Aveloria's voice trembled. "I didn't ask for any of this."
"I know," he said quietly. "But the realm will not see it that way. They'll call it a sign. Some will want to worship you, others will want to destroy you."
She exhaled shakily. "Then I'll have to prove them wrong."
Her father's eyes softened with pride and sorrow. "You sound like your mother when she was young."
Silence lingered between them before he spoke again. "Go rest. Tomorrow, we prepare for whatever comes."
She nodded, turning to leave.
As she reached the doors, the scribe spoke timidly. "Your Highness?"
She paused, turned to look at him.
He held out the scroll, hesitating. "There's…something else. The last line."
Aveloria frowned, walking back to take it. Her eyes scanned the bottom of the parchment where faint, smaller letters were scrawled beneath the seal.
She read it quietly, words written not in formal declaration but as a warning.
'One of us bears your mark, and the rogue will not stop until the moon-bound bride stands by his side.'
Her breath caught. Her pulse roared in her ears. The room felt suddenly colder.
When she looked up, her father was watching her. "What does it say?"
She folded the parchment slowly. "They are coming for me," she whispered.