SYLRA’S POV
I followed the commotion to the great hall, pushing through the crowd that had gathered. What I saw stopped me cold.
Alrik lay sprawled on the stone floor, blood pooling beneath him, bubbling from his lips with each labored breath. Father knelt beside him, his expression grim. Rovan stood a few paces back, his face unreadable.
“What happened?” I demanded, dropping to my knees opposite my father.
“Poison,” Father replied tersely. “He collapsed moments after fleeing the clinic.”
Alrik’s eyes found mine, wide with panic and something else—resignation. He clutched at Father’s sleeve with bloodstained fingers.
“I didn’t—” he gasped, blood spraying with each word. “I didn’t want this.”
“Save your strength,” Father ordered, but we all knew it was too late. The poison was working too quickly, his skin already taking on a grayish hue.
“They promised….” Alrik continued, desperate to speak despite the blood filling his lungs. “Promised me power. When she…when she took the throne.”
“Who promised?” Father demanded. “Who was behind this?”
Alrik’s eyes rolled wildly. “Tried to…prison Caelan. Keep him quiet. But I took…wrong cup.” A bitter laugh escaped him, ending in a wet cough. “Poetic. Justice.”
His gaze locked with mine one last time, hatred and fear warring in their depths.
Then, with a final, rattling breath, Alrik went still. The light faded from his eyes, leaving nothing but empty shells staring up at the vaulted ceiling.
Silence fell over the great hall, heavy and oppressive. I didn’t realize I was trembling until Rovan’s hand came to rest on my shoulder, steadying me.
“He confessed,” Father said quietly, rising to his feet. “But he died before naming his co-conspirators.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, staring down at Alrik’s body. “They’ve shown their hand now. They won’t stop just because they’ve lost their inside man.”
Father’s eyes met mine, something like pride flickering in their depths. “No, they won’t. Which means neither can we.”
Hours after Alrik’s corpse had been removed from the great hall, I could still smell his blood in my nostrils.
Father summoned me to his private chambers as dawn broke over the mountains. The Summit attendees had been confined to their quarters, the compound locked down tighter than a prison. No one in, no one out until we sorted through this mess.
I knocked once on the heavy oak door, the sound echoing down the empty corridor.
“Enter.”
I pushed the door open to find Father standing by the window, silhouetted against the pink-gold light of sunrise. He didn’t turn when I entered, his gaze fixed on something in the distance.
“Is Caelan stable?” he asked.
“The doctor says he’ll recover,” I replied, closing the door behind me. “The wolfsbane was diluted, meant to weaken, not kill.”
“And Rovan?”
I hesitated. Rovan had disappeared shortly after Alrik’s death, taking his thousand wolves with him. No goodbye, no explanation. Just gone, like smoke in the wind. Typical.
“He left,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “Said he needed to track down the rest of the assassins before they scattered.”
Father nodded, unsurprised. “He always did prefer the hunt to the aftermath.”
An uncomfortable silence stretched between us. I perched on the edge of a chair, waiting. Father had never been one to rush a conversation, especially a difficult one.
Finally, he turned from the window. The lines on his face seemed deeper than they had been yesterday, the silver at his temples more pronounced. For the first time, I saw my father as others must—not just the Lycan King, but a man worn thin by decades of rule.
“You’re wondering why I summoned you,” he said, moving to the carved desk that dominated the room.
“I assume it has something to do with Alrik’s betrayal,” I replied. “Or the assassins. Or the fact that half the Summit probably wants me dead.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Your mother had the same gift for understatement.”
The mention of my mother sent a familiar pang through my chest.
“What’s our next move?” I asked, leaning forward. “We can’t keep the Summit leaders locked down forever.”
“No,” Father agreed, lowering himself into his chair. “But we can use this opportunity to accelerate our plans.”
I frowned. “What plans?”
“Your ascension.”
Two words, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. The room seemed to tilt around me, the floor unsteady beneath my feet.
“My what?” I managed, my voice barely a whisper.
“It’s time, Sylra.” Father’s voice was gentle but firm. “Time for you to take the throne.”
I shook my head, a bubble of hysterical laughter rising in my throat. “You can’t be serious. After everything that just happened? Someone tried to kill me yesterday!”
“Exactly.” Father’s fist came down on the desk, making me jump. “They tried to kill you because they fear what you represent. The longer we wait, the more time they have to plot against you.”
“Or the more time I have to prepare,” I countered. “I’m not ready, Father.”
“Were you ready to become the Blood Princess? Were you ready when your wolf turned gold? Were you ready when the Goddess marked you as her chosen?” His questions hit like physical blows. “Some things don’t wait for readiness, daughter.”
I stood up, pacing the length of the room, my thoughts racing. “The Summit leaders will never accept this. Not after yesterday’s chaos.”
“They’ll accept it or face the consequences,” Father said, his voice hardening. “The Lycan throne isn’t given by popular vote. It’s passed by blood and divine right. Your blood. Your right. The vote is merely a formality.”
I stopped pacing, turning to face him.
I reluctantly sank back into the seat, crossing my arms over my chest.
“The assassination attempt wasn’t random,” Father said, his voice low and serious. “It was the first move in what would have become a civil war if they’d succeeded.”
I frowned. “You think they wanted to replace me? With whom?”
“Whoever they could control.” Father’s expression was grim. “The golden wolf is a symbol, Sylra. A powerful one. With you dead and no clear successor, the kingdom would fracture. Pack would turn against pack. Blood would flood the valleys.”
“And you think making me queen will prevent that?” I couldn’t keep the skepticism from my voice.
“I think the surest way to stop someone from killing the heir is to make her queen.” He leaned forward, his eyes intense. “Once you’re crowned, any attack against you becomes treason against the crown itself. The punishment is death. No exceptions.”
I considered this, worrying my bottom lip between my teeth. “And what about the Summit leaders? Half of them probably backed Alrik’s plot.”
“Which is why they’re currently locked in their quarters, surrounded by guards loyal only to you.” A faint smile curved Father’s lips. “They’ll swear fealty to you or they’ll forfeit their territories. Their choice.”
“That’s… extreme.”
“That’s politics.” Father’s tone left no room for argument. “Sometimes ruling requires a firm hand.”
A heavy silence fell between us as I processed everything he’d said. Me, queen. The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying. I’d always known this day would come, but I’d imagined it years in the future, when I felt ready. Not now, not like this.
“There’s just one problem,” Father said, interrupting my thoughts.
I raised an eyebrow. “Just one?”
He ignored my sarcasm. “According to ancient law, the Lycan sovereign must be mated before taking the throne.”
For a moment, I thought I’d misheard him. “What?”
“You need a mate, Sylra.” Father’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Without one, you cannot become Queen of Ebonhold.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. A mate. The one thing I’d sworn never to take again after Rovan shattered our bond. The one vulnerability I couldn’t afford.
“So that’s it?” I asked, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. “I need to find someone to mate with or forfeit the throne? What century is this?”
“I don’t make the laws, Sylra. I only enforce them.” Father stood, coming around the desk to place a hand on my shoulder. “Find someone worthy of you. Someone who sees you—not just the crown, not just the golden wolf.”
I shrugged off his touch, anger rising in me like a tide. “And if I can’t? Or won’t?”
“Then Ebonhold falls.” His voice was heavy with certainty. “And everything our family has built for generations crumbles with it.”
The weight of his words pressed down on me, making it hard to breathe. A mate or the throne. My freedom or my kingdom. An impossible choice.
“How long do I have?” The question came out small, defeated.
“The coronation is in three days.” He announced.
