Chapter 4 – Whispers in the Keep

Kieran

The fire is nearly out, mirroring the state of my frayed nerves. Shadows stretch long across the fancy rug, thick and heavy, like secrets spilled and left to stain.

I stand by the mantelpiece, annoyed at the heat still simmering under my skin from the encounter with Alexei Basov. 'What more proof do you need?' His challenge echoes, laced with that infuriating amusement.

Coming here was a huge risk. He had no way of knowing that I wouldn’t have him executed on sight. But it doesn’t make trusting him any easier.

Redmaw wolves aren't known for their honor, and Alexei radiates a raw, predatory energy that sets every one of my instincts on edge. The bastard saw the flicker of unwanted interest in my eyes, the involuntary tightening low in my gut when he invaded my space. And he smiled. Damn him.

Allowing him to stay, even confined under the watchful gaze of twenty guards, feels like juggling live torches.

The potential for information regarding the mining tunnels is undeniable. The strategic advantage it would give me if he's being truthful is immeasurable. But the risk… it’s a chasm threatening to swallow Silvercrest whole if I'm wrong.

Or if his presence alone incites rebellion.

I push away from the mantelpiece, pacing restlessly. The brandy I poured sits untouched on the desk, its amber depths mocking my attempt at calming my nerves. I need a clear head, not one muddied by alcohol or the lingering memory of deep green eyes that hold no fear.

My father crushed dissent. He ruled through fear and absolute control. I swore I wouldn't be him and I won’t. I’ll step away from my role as Alpha of this pack if it comes to that.

But Vorlag and the elders are already circling, smelling weakness in my decision to spare Alexei.

They miss the certainty of tyranny, the simple lines drawn in blood. My attempts at fairness, at measured rule, are being interpreted as weakness. I have to find a way to show the pack that isn’t true.

A sharp knock cuts through my thoughts. “Enter.”

Marcus steps in, his presence a solid counterpoint to the restless energy buzzing through the keep.

His gaze is steady, assessing, but there’s a new tension etched around his eyes. He carries a small, rolled parchment tied with plain twine.

“Alpha,” he says, his voice lower than usual, confirming my unease. “Vorlag has convened an informal meeting. Several of the elders are with him in the lower archive.”

Already? Fury, cold and sharp, lances through me. Vorlag isn’t wasting any time fanning the flames of dissent. The lower archive, repository of old treaties and lineage scrolls. A place heavy with the weight of tradition. The perfect backdrop for rallying support against a ‘soft’ new Alpha undermining the old ways. He’s deliberately choosing symbolic ground, wrapping his challenge in the cloak of heritage.

“How many?” I ask, keeping my voice level, refusing to let him see how hard the news hits. I won’t allow this pack to fracture. I’ll find a way to stop Vorlag.

“Six, Alpha. Including Roric and Lyra.”

Roric and Lyra. Influential elders who usually maintains a careful neutrality, valuing stability above all else.

If Vorlag has swayed them this quickly… that’s worse than I expected. They must see my decision regarding Alexei as not just risky, but as a fundamental break from Silvercrest's established, albeit brutal, way of operating.

My orders for surveillance, likely already known, would only solidify their opposition, painting me as paranoid, just like my father. Clever, manipulative bastard. Vorlag is using my own reforms against me, while tarnishing me with the worst of my father’s traits.

“Maintain Basov’s confinement,” I say firmly. “And regarding Vorlag and his associates, double the watch. Use the shadows, Marcus. I don't just want attendance lists. I want overheard phrases, shifts in posture, who avoids whose gaze afterwards. Every detail. Every shift in allegiance, every whispered word that smells like treason.”

“It risks exposure, Alpha,” Marcus warns, though his tone remains neutral. “Spying on council elders… could be seen as provocation.”

“It’s necessary when council elders meet in secret archives directly after I make a controversial command decision. I haven’t stripped them of their positions in order to keep the peace. If they give me a reason to change my mind, I won’t hesitate to act.”

My voice hardens. “Find me proof of plotting, or proof of innocence. Either way, I need clarity. If Vorlag intends to challenge me openly, I need to know before he sharpens his knife, not after.”

“Yes, Alpha.” He dips his head. “The scouts have also been dispatched to the mining tunnel entrances. Discreetly, as ordered. Following your instructions to avoid the main runner channel. We should have preliminary reports by nightfall tomorrow.”

“Inform me the moment they return. Use the secondary signal we discussed.”

The mining tunnels… if Alexei’s intel is accurate, that’s a gaping wound in our defenses. My father’s carelessness, or deliberate deception, could cost us dearly. Another ghost rising from his poorly managed grave, demanding payment with potentially hundreds of lives.

Marcus leaves, shutting me in with my worries.

I can't let Vorlag dictate my rule. The speed with which he rallied key elders suggests he’s been laying the groundwork for dissent for some time, simply waiting for a catalyst. Alexei is that catalyst.

A beautiful, dangerous variable in an already unstable equation. Every instinct screams he's a risk, yet some deeper, more strategic part of me insists he's a necessary one. Perhaps even the key to exposing Vorlag’s true loyalties, forcing the internal rot into the open where I can finally cut it out.

Later, when I walk the corridors towards the evening meal, the change in atmosphere is palpable.

Wolves who usually offer polite nods now avert their gazes, their shoulders stiffening as I pass. Conversations stutter and die as I approach, resuming in hushed, urgent tones the moment I move on. The air itself feels thick with unspoken questions and heavy with the scent of unease and judgment.

They smell the dissent bleeding from the council, and it makes them nervous. Pack animals sense instability instinctively, and Vorlag is deliberately cultivating it, using Alexei as the focal point for their fears.

He intercepts me near the entrance to the lesser hall, where the pack takes their meals.

He doesn’t bow, just blocks my path, his bulk filling the archway like a poorly placed boulder. His face is a mask of righteous disapproval, his scent thick with anger barely restrained, underscored by a smug certainty that bothers me more than the anger. He wants this confrontation, here, in public, knowing the pack is watching.

“Alpha,” he says, his voice thick with implication. “The pack is concerned. Bringing a Redmaw wolf into our midst… it breeds instability. Your wolves fear that they’re no longer safe in their own homes.”

“Fear is a tool, Vorlag,” I reply coolly, refusing to be drawn into a shouting match here, especially with half the pack listening. “One I choose not to wield lightly. Basov remains confined and under guard. He poses no immediate threat.”

“He poses a threat simply by breathing our air!” Vorlag’s voice rises slightly, drawing glances from nearby wolves gathering for the meal. They linger, pretending not to listen, ears pricked.

“He’s a spy, sent to gauge our weaknesses. You’re playing into Brannagh’s hands with this misplaced leniency! Using pack resources, wasting guards and food, on a traitor who should be rotting in a ditch!”

“And you would have me execute him without proof, based solely on your paranoia and thirst for blood?” I keep my voice deliberately soft, forcing him to lean in, forcing the gathering audience to strain to hear.

“Is that the Silvercrest you wish to live in? One ruled by fear and suspicion, where we answer every challenge with death instead of strategy? Did you prefer my father's methods after all? Perhaps you miss the simplicity of acting without consequence?”

Vorlag’s face darkens, but he knows he’s trapped. To agree would be to endorse the tyranny he served before. To disagree would be to undermine his own argument.

He wants the power my father wielded, without admitting he desires the same methods.

“Caution is not paranoia, Alpha,” he grits out, his fists clenching at his sides. “It’s survival. Something your father, for all his faults, understood.”

He deliberately invokes my father's name, twisting the knife.

“Nor is calculated risk foolishness,” I counter smoothly, refusing to let him see the barb land.

“Basov may hold the key to stopping Brannagh before he strikes. Discarding that possibility because it makes you uncomfortable, or because it strains resources you'd prefer to hoard for… other purposes, would be the true foolishness.”

I let the challenge hang in the air, a subtle accusation meant just for him and anyone listening closely enough.

I step forward then, forcing Vorlag to physically give way or bar my path. He hesitates, nostrils flaring, resentment burning in his eyes, then reluctantly steps aside with ill grace, allowing me passage but radiating disapproval. A small victory, but a necessary one. He tested me publicly, and I held the line.

I walk past him into the hall, feeling the weight of dozens of eyes on my back. The victory feels hollow, tarnished. I haven’t won their trust, only enforced their obedience with a reminder of rank. For now. But it sends Vorlag a clear message. I see him. And I won't be intimidated.

The meal is a strained affair. I sit at the head table, forcing myself to eat, acutely aware of the whispers that ripple through the room like heat haze whenever someone thinks I'm not listening.

Every glance feels like an assessment, every silence like a judgment. Vorlag holds court at the far end, surrounded by the elders who attended his earlier meeting, their conversation low but intense, heads bent together. They’re plotting. Consolidating. Waiting for me to stumble.

His open defiance in the corridor was a performance, designed to test my reaction and rally support. He's building his case against me, brick by whispered brick.

Alexei Basov. The name hangs unspoken, a storm cloud gathering overhead. His presence, even locked away in the west wing, has already begun to fracture the fragile peace I’ve been trying to build, exposing the fault lines running deep within Silvercrest.

He’s the excuse Vorlag’s been waiting for to mobilize the faction resistant to change, the wolves nostalgic for the certainty of my father’s brutal rule.

He’s a fire lit too close to the powder keg. And I’m the fool holding the match, telling myself I can control the burn, while my own council members pile more tinder around my feet.

The scout reports on the mining tunnels can't come soon enough. I need solid ground beneath me, proof to silence the whispers or a clear enemy to fight. This limbo, caught between suspicion and strategy, is wearing thin, stretching my control tighter than I like.

And through it all, the memory of those sharp, assessing green eyes lingers, a constant, unwelcome reminder of the gamble I've taken.