CHAPTER 622: THE FATE OF THE WOLF

In the high vault of the council chamber, a hush thicker than velvet settled over rows of gilded benches. Torches guttered against stone columns, their flames bending under a draft that smelled faintly of parchment, steel, and the distant perfume of ivy blossoms. The chamber, circular like an upturned shield, carried every breath in slow echoes toward the domed ceiling where the royal crest shimmered under lamplight.

Lucien stood at the very center on the rose-marble rostrum, an island under a hundred watching eyes. Sweat gathered beneath his collar, trickling along his spine despite the chill. Queen Elowen sat on the throne-dais, posture serene, golden gaze as calm as a candle protected by glass. She wore no crown tonight, only a simple silver circlet that made the nobles lean forward, uncertain which way power might tilt.

Behind Lucien, Serelith hovered like a patient shadow. Her cloak spilled across the floorboards in midnight folds; soft sparks of lilac magic traced her fingertips as she teased invisible threads that linked crystal projectors to memory orbs. Merrit, pale as moon-milk, clutched a sworn affidavit against his chest, knuckles white. He swallowed each time the gallery rustled.

A lord in teal brocade whispered to a baroness with too many opals. A bishop tapped the haft of his staff, impatient, sending a faint chime that rang down ribs and nerves. Every here and there, eyes flicked to Lucien’s mismatched cloak—too plain for court—but more often to the bruises that mottled his jaw, evidence of the captivity he’d fled.

Lucien drew breath, tasted dust and hope. When he opened his mouth, no words came, as though his lungs refused the leap. A phantom of the prison cell rattled its chains across his memory. Panic fluttered against ribs. Not here, not now.

He let his eyes lock on a single point: Queen Elowen’s steady regard. There was no pity in it, only invitation. Like still water waiting for the first pebble.

"My sister risked everything," he began, voice a shy flame in cavernous dark. Silence pressed close, threatening to snuff it. He steadied his feet. "I merely stand."

The sentence felt small, but it carried. You could hear its edges touch stone.

A noble near the back coughed—too loud, too derisive—and Serelith’s glare silenced him. She raised her hands, palms outward, fingers curling like a conductor calling unseen strings. Above the rostrum, four mage-crystals whirred awake, petals of quartz unfurling. Light spilled into a translucent screen, and Merrit’s testimony appeared as flowing script, each word shining pearl-blue. An echo of his voice—shaking, earnest—filled the chamber.

"I was ordered to etch deceit into the dueling glyphs," the projected voice confessed. "Sir Calderon promised payment, then threatened my mother when I hesitated..."

Gasps rippled through the semicircle of seats. A dowager duchess clutched her fan so tightly its ribs snapped. The bishop’s staff rose an inch, then settled, his lips forming silent prayer or curse.

Lucien’s heart pounded. From the corner of his eye he saw Serelith’s aura flare. Her spell drifted like silver pollen across the assembly—an emotional tether, coaxing empathy. One by one, brows furrowed, shoulders slumped; skepticism eroded under the gentle tide of shared feeling.

A marquess in emerald livery leaned forward, tears beading at lashes. "Poor boy," she whispered. Across the aisle, a stern general folded his arms but did not look away.

The Queen did not move, yet something subtle shifted in the set of her shoulders—an acknowledgement that the stone of truth had struck water.

_____

Far above, in Ivy Tower’s ballroom, darkness reigned. For a heartbeat the glamorous hall morphed into a cavern where only breath and heartbeat existed. Cerys’s blade hissed through air, slicing the last buckle of Aldric’s ornate belt. Metal clinked to marble—quiet, humiliating.

Around the dais, guest guards fumbled, helm-crests bobbing as they tried to recall training without light or runes. They found only ants—sleek, rune-blue mandibles nipping at fuse wires, silk stockings, pride.

Cerys pivoted. Her skirts, slit for motion, whispered against greaves. Her eyes, predator-bright even in gloom, tracked the fall of each foe. There: one guard stumbled toward her with a half-drawn dagger. She drove a knee into his gut, stole the breath from him, and shoved him into darkness.

Behind her, Aldric cursed, fumbling for a spare blade he kept hidden in boot leather. The faint scrape reached her ear; she turned just as he freed the stiletto. Before he could rise, she pressed boot to his chest, pinning him against the railing. In the dark, every nerve hummed.

Down below, the orchestra dropped bows; somewhere a flute rolled away with a tinny skid.

_____

Back in the council chamber, Merrit stepped forward at Serelith’s nod. His voice, soft as moth wings at first, grew under the lattice of her spell.

"I did not want to harm anyone," he declared, address sweeping the benches. "But fear—fear makes cowards of us all. Lady Cerys saved me. She saved my conscience." He bowed his head, fingers trembling.

The projection shifted: an image of the altered dueling arena, glyphs glowing with malignant twist, then side-by-side panels of Rodion’s neat diagrams and Mikhailis’s tidy notes. The information rolled like thunder across noble minds—too precise to ignore.

Noblewoman Isolde of House Fenstrel, long considered Calderon’s ally, rose halfway from her seat, pearls clacking. She glanced at the Queen, saw no rebuke, then fixed Lucien with shimmering eyes. "If this is true, House Fenstrel will cede its vote of confidence in Lord Calderon."

That single statement rang like a bell. Three other nobles exchanged frantic whispers.

A young viscount—face fresh, nerves raw—stood abruptly. "We ascribe to justice. If the Arundel heir speaks truth, the court must listen."

The tide turned in breaths. Lucien felt it, a swell lifting him even as sweat chilled on his brow. Serelith’s magic anchored the emotion, but truth balanced on the words. He steadied himself.

"I have more," he said, voice thick but gaining steel. He unfurled another scroll—Cerys’s salvaged ledger page charred at edges. "The herald’s own hand." The crystal magnified the page until everyone saw the signature shining unbroken.

A gasp, sharp as dropped glass, sliced the hush. The bishop crossed himself. Elowen’s fingers tightened on armrest, a motion so small it took trained eyes to see.

_____

Light erupted in Ivy Tower. Chandeliers blazed back to life, spearing the gloom with jagged brilliance. Color flooded the mosaic floors, revealing chaos: guests frozen mid-panic, skirts tangled, masks crooked. Guards lay blinking, runes dead on shattered greaves.

High above, every stained-glass window flared to life, projecting Aldric’s captured monologue. His own face, smirking and predatory, stretched across holy images.

"I don’t need truth," the echo boomed, chillingly alive. "I need obedience. Let her kneel."

The words bounced off paneled ceilings, off anxious hearts, off every polished goblet. Panic shifted to affront; affront to outrage. A baron’s wife drew herself to full height and hissed, "Monster," as though spitting a pit.

Aldric, pinned beneath Cerys’s boot, stared, horror dawning like sunrise. "Sorcery," he snarled, voice cracking.

Cerys removed her boot with deliberate grace, letting him scramble to knees. Gasps fluttered when she produced the signet ring. The onyx gleamed beneath crystalline glare, a dark promise.

Slowly, she held it aloft. Whispers formed tide pools around them—what would she do? Forgive? Submit? Both? Neither?

Her gaze roamed the hall, meeting faces one by one—petty lords, anxious debutantes, gray-beard generals—all suspended in the fragile moment between scandal and reckoning. She felt the hush peel back like silk. She felt Aldric’s breath, shallow, reeking of fear.

Then she flicked the ring. The silver band sang as it skittered across marble, hitting the dais base with a decisive clink. All eyes followed its lonely roll.

"My answer," Cerys declared, voice ringing clear as cathedral bells, "is no."

The sound cracked the hall’s tension. Shouts burst. One noble shouted for the guard; another called for calm; somewhere a grand lady fainted theatrically. Over it all, Aldric’s projected confession repeated, mocking its owner.

The ring lay still, tiny and potent, at the officiant’s feet—an unspoken testimony to chains refused.

And as uproar swallowed the waltz room, the Lone Wolf’s words cut truer than any blade.

_____

Elowen rose from the throne-dais with a grace that stole the breath from every throat in the chamber. Her long cloak, moon-white and unadorned, rippled like a still lake catching sudden wind. She did not raise her voice; she didn’t need to. The vaulted arches seemed to lean in so that even the faintest syllable brushed the ears of the farthest gallery.

"House Arundel is cleared," she declared, each word a measured chime in a cathedral hush. "Aldric Calderon will face trial."

The ripple of reaction was immediate and physical. Chairs scraped, robes swished—an audible exodus of alliances snapping like thin reeds. A portly count, once snug beside Calderon’s seat, stood so quickly his quill tumbled from his lap and rolled into the aisle. Two barons whispered urgent numbers to each other, calculating new odds before the ink of the Queen’s decree had cooled. A lady in violet silk pressed a lace kerchief to her lips, the white of shock clashing with rouge.

Near the dais, Mikhailis stepped forward, boots echoing on the pink marble. He cradled a crystal sphere the size of a pomegranate; its surface shimmered with swirling ley-lines like silver snakes under water. Please don’t drop it, he told himself, though a reckless part of him fantasized about hurling it at Calderon’s smug crest. He halted three paces short of the throne, offered the sphere with both hands.

Rodion’s unseen presence unfurled across the chamber walls. Veins of light spidered outward, sketching glowing glyphs, diagrams of dueling platforms, spikes of energy pulsing at irregular intervals. Numbers danced and recalibrated, forming a damning heartbeat of sabotage.

"Dueling arenas, sabotaged," Mikhailis announced, voice surprisingly firm for a man who had eaten only marsh eels and worry for two days. "Glyphs tampered." He tipped the sphere; holographic script cascaded in mid-air. "Proof delivered."

Several nobles gasped when the diagrams flared red at each moment the rigged runes would have failed—a fatal falter of shield, a sudden surge of blade. Calderon’s supporters shrank visibly, pulling collars higher, as though the evidence might stain.

The Queen regarded the glowing proofs, then inclined her head once. "Then let the trials begin."

We did it, Mikhailis thought, a giddy pulse fluttering in his chest. We actually— But the triumph cracked open to reveal exhaustion. He caught Serelith’s eye across the chamber; she lifted two fingers in a lazy salute, the gesture equal parts flirtation and victory toast.

_____

Outside Ivy Tower, night air wrapped Cerys like cool gauze. She slumped onto a stone bench in the shadow of a flowering ash, armor plates clinking softly. Sweat slicked her temples; stray wisps of red hair clung like threads of flame along her jaw. She felt hollowed—partly relieved, partly emptied, as if every heartbeat on the ballroom floor had been a torch now sputtered out.

Footsteps approached, the uneven rhythm she’d come to know. Mikhailis appeared, curls damp with mist and mischief still lurking behind fatigue. He offered a small linen bundle. "For the hero," he said.

She peeled open the cloth. A circle of pastry—lemon filling still glassy, crust golden—steamed against the night. The scent cut through wax and rose leaves lingering in her nostrils. She stared in disbelief.

"You had this stashed the whole time?"

"Of course." He shrugged. Never fight on an empty stomach; never celebrate with an empty hand. "Victory tastes better when sticky."

A startled laugh escaped her—sharp, brief, real. She tore off a corner; sugar clung to her glove. The tartness burst across her tongue, bright as sunrise. She closed her eyes, savoring. "You’re absurd," she muttered.

"Frequently." He dropped to the bench beside her, making a great show of stretching sore legs. Her laugh is worth every bruised rib, he thought, pride buzzing warmer than pastry.

Lucien hurried up, scroll case clutched like a lifeline. He looked taller somehow, spine lengthened by the weight lifted from it. "I’ll take over the House," he announced, cheeks flushed pink in the lantern glow. "Steward duties, land ledgers—all of it. You need time..." He hesitated, afraid to presume. "Time to breathe."

Cerys studied him. The bruises on his jaw had darkened to plum, but his eyes held new steel. She nodded—a warrior’s salute acknowledging another. "I trust you," she said, simple as truth.

A breath she hadn’t noticed caught in his chest; he exhaled, shoulders easing. "Then we’ll rebuild. Properly." He hugged the scrolls closer, as if they, too, needed warmth.

Serelith bounded over, cloak billowing like mischief on the wind. Without invitation she perched on the bench arm, boots dangling. "I’m going to write a paper," she announced, twirling a quill she produced from who-knew-where. "Title: Emotional Detonation as Political Strategy. First Chapter—how to turn a ballroom confession into public execution without lifting a single guillotine."

Cerys snorted, pastry crumbs scattering. "Will it feature me?"

"Absolutely." Serelith’s grin flashed. "Your spine makes a delightful thesis statement. And I’m naming a new fire ant after you. Fierce, red, possibly explosive."

Mikhailis groaned good-naturedly. "That nest is becoming a scandal all its own."

"You love it," Serelith sing-songed, tapping his shoulder with her quill. Sparks of violet leapt and vanished.

Their laughter mingled—ragged, genuine, stitched together by shared danger. For a moment the courtyard felt like the safest tavern in the realm.

Then footsteps softer than the rest brushed cobbles. Queen Elowen emerged from the tower archway, attendants trailing at a respectful distance. The lanterns gilded her profile, serene as moonlit marble. She halted a pace away—no guards raised weapons; no one bowed too deeply. Respect floated in the hush between heartbeats.

"Dinner," she said, voice even, warm. "At the palace. Not as fugitives." A faint smile curved her lips—rare, sincere. "As reformers."

Mikhailis stood, coat sweeping dust. He inclined his head, an uncharacteristically polished gesture that made Serelith’s eyebrows shoot up. Cerys rose more slowly; muscles protested, but victory made them lighter.

They followed the Queen’s gaze upward. Above the tower spires, clouds had drifted apart. Stars glimmered—fresh, bright pinpricks against ink. The air smelled of wet stone and distant orchids—a promise of quieter nights.

Cerys tilted her chin, eyes tracing constellations she used to memorize while posted on midnight watch. They seemed unchanged, steadfast. She drew a breath that tasted like lemon and cold iron.

"Father..." The word barely left her lips. A prayer, a confession, a challenge. "I hope you choke on this peace."

The wind carried it. No answer needed.