Chapter 13 - A Glimpse of Vulnerability

Kieran

The main hall is too quiet at midday. It shouldn't be. It should be full of the sounds of a pack at ease. Laughter, casual arguments, the clatter of plates. Instead, ever since Alexei’s demonstration in the yard, the room hums with a low, anxious energy. Every wolf seems to be waiting for the next boot to drop.

I’m here on purpose. My father used to dine in his private chambers, a king sequestered from his subjects. I will not.

I sit at one of the long trestle tables, not at the head, forcing myself into the heart of the pack. I’m nursing a cup of lukewarm tea and making polite, charming conversation with a few of the younger trackers, asking about their routes, their families, the state of the eastern woods.

It’s a performance, of course. My ‘silver tongue,’ as Eli once called it, is working overtime. I’m the picture of the unbothered Alpha. Interested, calm, in complete control. I can feel their tension easing with every joke I make, with every non-committal smile I offer. I’m winning them over, one wolf at a time.

Which is, naturally, when the door to the hall slams open.

Conversation dies when Tarek, Vorlag’s nephew and Alexei’s first ‘trainee,’ stalks in. He’s flanked by two of his cronies, both of whom look like they share a single thought, and it’s an angry one. Tarek’s face is still mottled with a fading bruise where he kissed the dirt.

He spots me, and his mouth twists into a sneer. He doesn’t challenge me directly, he’s not quite that stupid, but he kicks a nearby stool. It screeches across the stone floor, the sound ripping through the fragile peace.

“Place has gone to shit,” Tarek snarls, loud enough for the entire hall to hear. “Letting Redmaw scum brawl in the yard. What’s next, Alpha? You going to give him a seat at your table?”

The hall goes dead silent. The young trackers beside me freeze. This is it, a public test. Vorlag’s first real move, using his nephew as a puppet.

I set my teacup down with deliberate, unhurried care. The clink of ceramic on wood is obscenely loud. I don’t raise my voice. I don’t even stand. I just pin him with the same polite, interested look I’ve been using all morning.

“That’s not a bad idea actually, Tarek. How’s the face?”

He flushes, the new anger warring with the old humiliation. “It’s fine. No thanks to you.”

“On the contrary,” I say, my voice carrying easily, all smooth charm and ice. “You should be thanking me. You were given a free, private lesson by a warrior who has survived more battles than you’ve had hot meals. My father would have charged for that kind of education. I’m providing it as a courtesy.”

A few of the younger wolves at the far tables bite back smirks. Tarek’s flush deepens.

“He’s Redmaw!” Tarek’s friend, claiming the thought he shares with his companion, finally pipes up.

“He is,” I agree easily. “And you’re Silvercrest. Which is why he put you on your back in three seconds. We’re not known for our battle prowess. That suggests to me that we are the ones with a problem, not him.”

I let my gaze sweep the room, my voice hardening just a fraction. “My father raised a pack of polished courtiers. I am raising a pack of warriors. That requires a new standard. Alexei Basov is that standard.”

I lean forward, dropping the polite tone for something sharper.

“Tarek, you embarrassed yourself because you were sloppy, and you led with your ego instead of your skill. You will continue your training under him tomorrow. And you will keep doing it until you’re half as good as he is.”

I smile, but it’s all teeth. “We could arrange for a rematch if you’d like? I could send for him right now, I’m sure we’d all enjoy the show.”

He sputters. He’s trapped. To refuse is to admit cowardice. To accept is to guarantee another, more public, humiliation.

He just stands there, shaking with a rage he can’t unleash.

“I thought not,” I murmur. I pick up my teacup again. “Now, if you’re quite finished disrupting the meal, either sit and eat, or take your bad mood elsewhere. You’re ruining the ambiance.”

For a beat, I think he might actually lunge at me. But my gaze holds him, cool and unblinking. The gaze of an Alpha who didn’t just ask him to back down, but told him. Finally, with a snarl that promises this isn't over, Tarek spins on his heel and storms out, his cronies trailing in his wake.

The hall exhales as one. The trackers beside me are staring at me with a newfound, almost terrified, respect. I take a calm sip of my now-cold tea and offer them a small, reassuring smile. "Now, as you were saying about the birch grove..."

The buzz of conversation returns, but it’s different. Louder. More energized. I held the line.

I sense her approach before I see her. Lyra. She slides onto the bench opposite me, her face the same pragmatic, unreadable mask it always is. She waits until the trackers, sensing the shift, make their excuses and leave.

“That was masterful, Alpha,” she says, her voice low.

“It was pest control, Lyra. Nothing more.”

“Don't underestimate Vorlag,” she warns. “You won that exchange, but Tarek is rushing straight to his uncle to tattle. Vorlag’s in the archives right now, telling the other elders that you’re reckless. That you humiliate your own warriors to prop up an enemy.”

I sigh, the performance of charm dropping away, leaving the exhaustion underneath. “And what are you telling them, Lyra?”

She studies me, her gaze sharp. “I’m here to understand. Vorlag is comparing your ‘recklessness’ with Alexei to your father’s ‘recklessness’ with the pack’s coffers. He says it’s the same impulsive arrogance, just with a different, more dangerous currency.”

Ah. That’s clever. He’s equating my strategic gamble with my father’s hedonism. Twisting my attempt at reform into an inherited flaw.

I lean forward, dropping my voice, drawing her into a shared confidence. “My father was reckless, Lyra. You're right. He bought priceless tapestries while our borders thinned. He polished his silver while our warriors grew soft. He collected things.”

I meet her gaze, letting her see the steel under the charm.

“My father would have had no qualms about paying Redmaw wolves to fight on our behalf. How is it worse that I want to use one of them to teach us how to fight for ourselves?”

I let a small, humorless smile touch my lips. "I intend for us to live, Lyra. I will use every tool, every weapon, every advantage at my disposal to ensure that. Is that the recklessness you find so hard to support?"

She studies me, her gaze sharply assessing. She sees the logic. She also sees the man, barely 22, making a gamble that could cost him everything.

"It’s a high-stakes wager, Alpha," she says finally, her voice still quiet. "Alexei Basov is a dangerous wolf. He unsettles the pack."

"Good." I lean back, the mask of the politician sliding back into place. "They should be unsettled. Complacency is what weakened us. Complacency is what invited Brannagh to probe our borders in the first place. I don’t care if they’re uncomfortable, as long as it keeps them sharp."

I don’t mention how much he unsettles me.

Lyra is silent for a long moment. “Vorlag won't stop," she warns, her voice quiet but firm. "He believes you're too soft, too… accommodating, to hold the pack against a real threat."

"Then he will be proven wrong." I turn back, offering her a politician's smile. "I appreciate the warning, Lyra. It’s refreshing to talk to an elder who values conversation over accusation." I pause. "Your counsel is valuable. I hope we can keep the lines of communication open."

It's a dismissal, but a warm one. An attempted recruitment. She nods slowly, understanding the alliance I've just offered.

"Be careful, Alpha. Vorlag doesn't just want you to fail. He wants you to fall from grace completely."

I exhale once she’s gone, the charming facade dropping away, leaving me feeling tired and profoundly, achingly lonely. This is a small victory. I just secured my first, fragile piece on the council's chessboard.

I should feel victorious. I used my silver tongue, and it worked. Instead, I feel a sharp, stabbing pang... a hollow ache.

My gaze drifts toward the empty seat beside me. Eli would have loved that.

The thought hits me before I can build a wall against it. He would have seen the game instantly. He would have smirked, his grey eyes alight with mischief, and offered me some perfectly bratty, incredibly astute piece of advice while Tarek was still shouting.

He understands strategy. He understands the performance of power. I miss his company.

I straighten my jacket, smoothing non-existent wrinkles. The mask of Alpha Kieran Arnulf, polished and controlled, slides back into place. I’ve been cured of that silliness. Romance is a liability.

I have a pack to rule, a war to prevent, and a council full of vipers to manage. And on top of that, I have Alexei Basov just down the hall. An impossibly attractive, sharp-tongued Alpha who revels in challenging me. He’s a distraction I can’t afford, and an asset I can't dismiss.

I won't allow feelings to get the better of me. Not again.