Caelan
The throne room is cold tonight. Torches burn along the stone walls, casting long shadows across the floor. I sit on my throne, the crown heavy on my head, my hands resting on the carved arms of the seat. The council members stand on either side of me, their faces stern and expectant. They want blood. They always do.
I hear the doors open before I see him.
The guards drag the prisoner in, his wrists bound in iron chains. He stumbles but does not fall. Even from across the room, I can see the defiance in the way he holds himself. Most prisoners cower when they are brought before me. They beg. They plead. They lower their eyes and hope for mercy.
This one does not.
He lifts his head, and our eyes meet.
Everything stops.
I do not know how to describe it. It is not the pull of the fated bond, not the warm, gentle tug I feel with Isolde. This is sharper. Hotter. It cuts through me like a blade, sudden and impossible to ignore. My wolf stirs inside me, restless and hungry in a way it has never been before.
I grip the arms of the throne, forcing myself to stay still.
The prisoner is tall, lean, with dark hair that falls into his eyes. His clothes are torn, dirty from days on the road. There are bruises on his face, cuts on his arms. But his eyes, his eyes are fierce. Wild. Unbroken.
"Name," I say, my voice colder than I feel.
He smiles. It is not a kind smile. "Eryx."
"Eryx what?"
"Just Eryx. I do not bow to your titles, so I do not expect you to care about mine."
The council murmurs in outrage. One of them, Lord Theron, steps forward.
"You will show respect to your king," he snaps.
Eryx does not even look at him. His eyes stay locked on mine. "Respect is earned, not given because of a crown."
My jaw tightens. I should be angry. I should have him punished for his insolence. But instead, I feel something else. Curiosity. Fascination. Something I cannot name.
"You were captured near the eastern border," I say. "You and your pack have been attacking our villages, stealing supplies, refusing to submit to the crown. Do you deny this?"
"I do not deny it," Eryx says easily. "Your villages hoard resources while rogues starve. Your crown demands loyalty but offers nothing in return. So yes, I took what I needed. I make no apologies."
Lord Theron slams his hand on the table. "This is treason! He admits his crimes openly! Execute him now, Your Majesty, and be done with it."
The other council members nod in agreement. They want this over quickly. They want me to prove I am strong, that I will not tolerate rebellion.
I should agree. This is what a king does. This is what my father would have done.
But I cannot stop looking at Eryx. Cannot stop feeling the pull in my chest, the strange, terrifying heat that spreads through me every time our eyes meet.
"Why?" I ask.
Eryx tilts his head. "Why what?"
"Why refuse the crown? You could have sworn loyalty. You could have joined a pack, lived under our protection. Instead, you chose to be a rogue. Why?"
For the first time, something flickers in his eyes. Not fear. Not anger. Something deeper.
"Because I will not bow to a king who does not know what freedom is," he says quietly. "You sit on that throne and think you have power. But you are as much a prisoner as I am. The only difference is, I chose my chains."
The words hit me harder than they should. I feel the truth in them, the weight of them.
The council erupts in protest, demanding his execution. But I raise my hand, and they fall silent.
I do not know why I do what I do next. I do not understand it. All I know is that I cannot let him die. Not yet.
"Take him to the dungeons," I say. "I will decide his fate later."
"Your Majesty," Lord Theron protests. "This is madness. He is a threat."
"I have made my decision."
My voice is firm, final. The council knows better than to argue further. The guards move forward, grabbing Eryx by the arms. He does not resist. But as they lead him away, he looks back at me one last time.
And he smiles.
It is a knowing smile. A dangerous smile.
And I feel my carefully built world begin to crack.