Greyhaven's palace lay under an eerie stillness.
No banners waved. No drums sounded.
Only shadows moved—silent, unseen, and everywhere.
Aren had claimed the city without a single siege.
Fear had done what armies could not.
The court whispered, the lords obeyed, and the prince's influence dwindled.
Rowan paced his chambers.
Letters unanswered. Soldiers delayed. Allies missing.
Every attempt to assert authority crumbled quietly.
Even his own thoughts betrayed him—he knew the Wolf controlled more than the city; he controlled hope itself.
Aren entered the palace briefly, cloaked in silence.
No one saw him approach.
No one heard his footsteps.
Yet the Wolf's presence was palpable in every corner.
He walked through the throne room, observing without speaking.
The crown gleamed under the torchlight—an object of desire, now meaningless without obedience.
Lysa whispered, "The crown is within reach. Yet it belongs to no one who is not ready to wield the shadows."
Aren's eyes glimmered.
"Yes. A crown is more than gold and jewels.
It is control, fear, loyalty… and inevitability.
Only then does it truly belong to the Wolf."
By night, Greyhaven was silent again.
The lords whispered behind closed doors.
The prince's advisors moved carefully, knowing every word could be a trap.
The crown sat untouched on its pedestal, yet its fate was already decided.
Aren stood on the cathedral's highest tower, gazing down at the city.
"The crown does not make the king," he murmured.
"Shadows, whispers, and fear do.
And the Wolf holds all three."