Chapter 8 – Cracks in the Council

Kieran

My wolf paces tensely. His restless energy coiling low in my gut. He wants action, certainty. He hates this limbo, hates the whispers I can almost hear through the thick stone walls. Soft. Foolish. Reckless. My father’s echo, amplified by my fear of the unknown.

I force myself away from the window, back to the desk. Strategy requires precision. Not the frantic energy buzzing under my skin. An energy annoyingly present ever since Alexei Basov first set foot in the keep.

That thought brings his image to my mind. Laughing green eyes, the insolent confidence. His long hair that looks so incongruously soft that I keep having to fight the urge to reach out and touch it.

I shove his unbidden visage away irritably. He’s a variable. A potential weapon or a potential minefield, nothing more. My reaction to him is purely territorial. Alexei is a tool to be wielded, or a threat to be eliminated. Once it becomes clear which, he’ll be dealt with and treated accordingly. I’m definitely not obsessing about him.

I try and think about Eli, with his angelic features and slight build. His impish smile and sharp mind. He’s the first person I’d ever fallen for and it’s impossible that my tastes have swung from him, to the hulking, mountain of a man currently locked up in my dungeon.

Alexei’s clearly not stupid, no matter what I may have hoped. He’s far too good at bowling me over with his words to not have a functional brain. Pity.

A sharp, decisive knock breaks the quiet and I’m embarrassed when I jump slightly. I know it’s not Marcus. This knock carries the weight of authority, or at least the assumption of it.

“Enter.”

Vorlag fills the doorway, flanked by Roric and Lyra.

The air chills instantly when our eyes meet. Vorlag’s face is set in lines of grim determination. Roric looks uncomfortable but resolute, and Lyra, usually adept at navigating pack politics with subtle neutrality, wears an expression of stern disapproval. They haven’t come for a casual chat. This is a delegation. A thinly veiled challenge.

“Alpha Kieran,” Vorlag begins, his tone of voice bypassing any pretense of courtesy. “We come on behalf of the concerned members of this pack.”

I remain seated, deliberately projecting calm I don’t feel, meeting his gaze levelly. My father would have already been shouting for his guards to execute the insolent traitor. I can’t deny that the thought has a certain appeal, but it’s not how I operate.

“Concerned about what, precisely, Vorlag? The state of the grain stores? The patrol rotations Marcus is currently finalizing?” I keep my tone light, almost dismissive, refusing to acknowledge the true object of their visit immediately. Let him state his grievance plainly.

“Concerned about the Redmaw wolf you harbor in our barracks,” Vorlag bites out, dispensing with subtlety immediately.

“The pack is uneasy, Alpha. Whispers turn to open dissent. They fear a traitor in our midst. They fear your judgment in allowing him to remain.”

Roric steps forward slightly, his voice softer but carrying the weight of his age and lineage. “Alpha Kieran, tradition dictates caution. Redmaw has been our enemy for generations. To bring one of their Alphas within these walls, based on his word alone… it invites danger. It sends a message of weakness, not strength.”

Lyra adds her voice, sharp and precise. “Furthermore, resources are being diverted to guard him. Twenty of our best warriors, Alpha, watching one wolf while our borders remain vulnerable and Brannagh plots. It’s strategically unsound.”

They’ve rehearsed this. Coordinated their points. Vorlag for blunt force, Roric for tradition, Lyra for logic. A three-pronged attack designed to corner me.

I let the silence stretch for a beat, steepling my fingers on the desk, meeting each of their gazes in turn. I won’t be intimidated in my own study.

“Your concerns are noted,” I say finally, my voice smooth, betraying none of the anger simmering beneath. I channel the courtly grace my mother taught me, the poise my father despised.

“However, my decision stands. Alexei Basov remains confined, under heavy guard, for the moment. He’s provided potentially vital intelligence regarding Redmaw movements, specifically concerning the old mining tunnels. A vulnerability, I might add, that dates back to my father’s reign with the help of his council.” I let that barb land, watching Vorlag flinch almost imperceptibly.

“Intelligence?” Vorlag scoffs. “Or calculated lies designed to send our scouts chasing phantoms while Brannagh prepares his real strike?”

“Which is precisely why I have dispatched trusted scouts,” I emphasize the word subtly, “To verify his claims. Unlike my father, I do not act on paranoia or gut feeling alone. I gather facts. We’ll have confirmation soon and then I’ll make a decision regarding Alexei Basov’s future.”

“And in the meantime?” Lyra presses. “The pack remains on edge. Productivity suffers when wolves fear a knife in the dark.”

“Then perhaps the council elders should focus on quelling those fears with reassurance, rather than fanning them with secret meetings in the archives,” I counter, my voice still mild, but the steel underneath is unmistakable.

I see Roric and Lyra exchange a quick, uneasy glance. They didn’t expect me to know about their little conclave. Good. Let them wonder what else I know.

I rise slowly, moving around the desk, deliberately closing the distance between us now that I’m good and ready.

“I understand your caution. I understand the weight of history. But Silvercrest can’t afford to cling to the past so tightly that we strangle our future. We need fighters. We need information. Basov might provide both. To discard that possibility out of fear, before we have proof of treachery, would be the greater folly. It would be the kind of reactive decision my father specialized in.”

I pause, letting the comparison hang. “Is that really the kind of leadership you want to return to? What may look like recklessness to you is carefully thought out strategy for what would benefit the entire pack, and not a select few.”

Vorlag bristles, his hand twitching near his side, but Roric and Lyra look genuinely conflicted now. They served my father, but they also saw the cost of his paranoia and greed. The way it isolated Silvercrest from genuine engagement with other packs.

“Furthermore,” I continue, pressing my advantage, “Our alliance with Blackthorn rests on my leadership. On the changes I have implemented. Ronan Vale does not suffer fools, nor does he ally himself with packs ruled by fearmongering. Undermine me, allow dissent to fester, and you risk not only internal strife but the loss of our most powerful shield against Redmaw and any other threat.”

It’s a veiled threat, invoking Ronan’s name, but a necessary one. They respect Blackthorn’s strength, even if they resent my connection to it.

I let my gaze sweep over them again. “Alexei Basov stays. Under guard. Until I have proof that he is either a traitor or an asset. Then, and only then, will I make a final decision. And that decision,” I add, my voice hardening slightly, “Will be mine alone. As Alpha.”

Vorlag looks ready to argue further, his face flushed, but Roric places a restraining hand on his arm. “We have heard you, Alpha,” Roric says, his voice carefully neutral. “We trust you will act in the pack’s best interest.” It’s not agreement, but it’s a retreat. For now.

Lyra inclines her head stiffly. “We await the scouts’ reports with interest.”

They turn and leave, Vorlag radiating silent fury.

I held the line. I used logic, subtle threats, even invoked my father’s ghost against them. I played their game, the game of whispers and implications, and for today, I won. But the victory feels fragile. They’ll be back. Vorlag won't rest until Alexei is gone, or until I am.

I need those scout reports. I need certainty. Because ruling in this dull ambiguity, caught between alliances and betrayals, between caution and a dangerous gamble, feels like walking barefoot on shattered glass. And I can already feel the first drops of blood.