Elinore remained seated on the throne of Vareldis long after the Council of Alphas had left. The room was quiet now, but the echoes of their displeasure still lingered in the air.
The decree had been read. The law was on her side. And yet, she knew tonight had only been the first battle.
Randall Astor had returned. And he had not been pleased to find her in his place.
She exhaled slowly, pressing her fingers into the carved armrest of the throne. Her hands were steady. Good!
There had been a moment, just a flicker, when he had stepped closer, his voice low, the weight of his fury pressing against her like a blade at her throat.
Most would have cowered. But she had looked him in the eye and told him the truth.
"You are not king. Not yet."
And now, the heir of Vareldis was stalking the palace halls like a caged beast, waiting for the moment she would slip, waiting for an opportunity to tear her down.
She would not give him one.
With measured grace, Elinore rose from the throne. Her black silk skirts whispered against the stone as she descended the dais. Outside the grand doors, her personal guards straightened at attention.
"Inform the palace staff," she said. "Prince Randall will need chambers prepared."
The guards hesitated. The lost prince had returned, but was he here to rule or to destroy?
She didn't wait for an answer.
Elinore turned down the corridor, her mind already racing through the political consequences of the night's events.
Varkas Houndrake was the greatest threat. He had been barely restrained in court. If left unchecked, he would make his move soon. She would need to keep him occupied.
Selene Duskbane was a wild card. Sharp, unpredictable. Watching. Waiting.
And Randall...
Elinore exhaled sharply.
Randall was a problem she had no solution for.
She pushed open the door to her private study, the familiar scent of old books and parchment greeting her. A single candle flickered on her desk, the soft glow illuminating the stack of letters awaiting her attention.
She reached for the first one, breaking the seal.
And stopped.
The air shifted. She wasn't alone.
Elinore slowly lifted her gaze.
The door had not closed. A shadow stood in the doorway, tall and unmoving.
She didn't need to ask who it was. She had felt his presence the moment he had stepped too close.
The scent of rain and something darker, something untamed.
Randall Astor was watching her.
She took her time before speaking.
"Spying on me already?"
The door creaked as it pushed open further.
Randall stepped inside.
His cloak was gone, leaving only damp linen and leather, the fabric clinging to the muscle beneath. His long, dark hair was still wet from the storm, strands falling carelessly across his face.
And his eyes. Those golden, burning eyes...
Elinore did not move. She did not stand.
She simply met his gaze, unwavering.
"You shouldn't smell like that." His voice was low. Rough.
Elinore blinked. "Excuse me?"
He took another step forward.
"I've been around humans for over a century," he murmured, almost to himself. "None of them smelled like you."
Elinore studied him carefully. There was something in his expression. Something unreadable.
He wasn't just angry. He was unsettled.
Good.
"Perhaps it's the scent of power," she said lightly, returning her focus to the letter in her hand. "You aren't used to it on a human."
Randall didn't reply.
The candlelight flickered between them.
Elinore could feel his stare. A tangible, suffocating thing.
She set the letter down. Then deliberately, she stood.
Randall didn't step back. Neither did she.
Elinore closed the distance between them, stopping just within arm's reach. Her head barely met his shoulder, but she held herself like a queen before a soldier.
Randall was built like war, all sharp lines and raw power, but Elinore had been raised in the heart of a battlefield.
She met his burning, unreadable gaze.
"Let me be very clear, Your Highness." Her voice did not waver. "I did not steal your throne."
She took another slow, deliberate step closer. Just enough.
"I am only holding it, for a year. Until you prove you are worthy of taking it back."
The air between them tightened. For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then, something flickered in his expression. So quick she almost missed it.
Elinore turned away. She returned to her desk as if the conversation had already ended.
Randall exhaled sharply.
A moment later, the door closed, leaving behind only the lingering scent of storm and fire.
Elinore did not look up. She did not let herself exhale.
Instead, she dipped her quill into ink and began to write.
She had too much to do to waste time wondering why the air still felt charged long after he had left.
Elinore dipped her quill into ink, steady hands gliding across the parchment. The words came effortlessly, her mind sharp and focused.
At least, that was what she told herself.
The truth was, she could still feel him.
The space he had occupied. The way his gaze had burned into her skin, the way the air had felt too thick, too charged the moment he stepped close.
She hated that she noticed.
Elinore pressed her lips together and forced the thought away. She had work to do.
A sharp knock at the door pulled her from her writing.
"Enter," she called.
The door opened, and Edmund Gerville strode in, his boots clicking sharply against the floor.
Her older brother.
And judging by the look on his face, he was not pleased.
"You let him into the palace," he said, voice clipped.
Elinore sighed, setting down her quill. "He is the heir, Edmund. Where else should he be?"
"He abandoned his kingdom," Edmund snapped. "And now you expect him to rule?"
She knew where this was going.
"Elinore, listen to me." He leaned forward, voice dropping lower. "This is our chance. The people! Our people will follow you. They want you to keep the throne."
Elinore's jaw tightened. "This is not our throne, Edmund."
His hands curled into fists. "Why not? We ruled before. We can rule again."
Elinore stood.
"No, we can't," she said, voice firm. "The Lycans will never allow it."
"Then we force their hand."
She exhaled slowly, trying to remain calm.
"A rebellion, then? Do you think I haven't heard the whispers? Do you think the Council hasn't?" She met his gaze, her words quiet but heavy. "You will not win that war, Edmund."
His expression darkened. "So you would rather bend the knee to a monster?"
Elinore's patience thinned. "He is a Lycan, not a monster."
"You truly believe that?" Edmund let out a bitter laugh.
She hesitated.
Randall Astor was many things. Unpredictable. Dangerous. A storm barely contained beneath his skin.
But she had stood before him. Looked him in the eye. And for the first time, she wasn't sure what she saw.
Edmund studied her for a long moment, then scoffed.
"Be careful, sister," he muttered, turning toward the door. "You may think you control this game, but you are playing with beasts."
The door shut behind him.
Elinore let out a slow breath.
She turned back to her desk, picking up her quill.
Her hand was no longer steady.