The doors closed quietly, attendants on the other side bowing with ease to the new woman of the Alpha King, she didn't know yet, but Alistair Soulreign had already decided her fate.
And Alistair remained seated, swirling the last of the tea in his cup, the crushed mint leaves clinging to the porcelain like blood to memory.
Faye Silverclaw. So predictable. So ravenous.
He admired that in her. The court had grown dull over the years, bloated with sycophants and dull-eyed nobles drunk on titles they hadn't earned. Faye, at least, still sharpened her claws. She had survived too many winters to waste venom.
And yet, even she didn't understand how deep the rot ran.
He leaned back in his chair, the weight of the crownless power pressing comfortably on his shoulders. The real queen was dying slowly behind the gilded curtains of the royal wing, her lungs rotting with every breath. The priests prayed. The physicians lied. But he knew the truth.
He had seen to it himself.
