#9: Lucien

Lucien

The council chamber smelled like old blood. Not fresh enough to alarm anyone, but present enough that Lucien noticed it the moment he crossed the threshold. The torches lining the walls burned unevenly, flames coughing and bending as drafts crept through the high ceiling. Their light stretched into shadows across the circular table, turning the single slab of ancient oak into something darker and heavier than wood.

Lucien took the alpha’s seat at the head of the table. It rose only slightly above the others, but the message was clear enough. This was his ground. His pack. His responsibility.

The Elders did not give him the courtesy of silence.

Fenrik pushed to his feet, both hands braced on the table as if the oak itself were the only thing keeping him from lunging forward. His white beard trembled, not from age, but from fury held too tightly. “The hybrid still lives, Lucien. You halted her execution in front of the entire pack and now two of our own are dead by her hand. She nearly escaped. Now she sits in luxury beside your own chambers while vampire banners ride toward our borders.”

The words struck sparks.

Murmurs followed immediately, spreading around the table in low waves. Agreement layered with disgust. Fear sharpened by memory. No one here needed to imagine what vampire banners meant.

Lucien did not raise his voice. He did not rush to defend himself. “She is under my control.”

The answer was calm and measured, though he felt none of that calm inside. Ebon, his wolf, was shifting restlessly within him, with a low uneasiness that had been building since dawn. He pushed it down.

“Control?” Maelis scoffed, leaning forward as her silver braid slid over her shoulder. “The pack whispers that your wolf claimed her as mate. That you spared her because of a cursed bond.”

He didn’t blink as the restlessness grew, his wolf pacing endlessly and brushing against the edges of his mind like it wanted out. Again, he ignored it, focusing on the elders' faces.

"The whispers are just that," he replied. "Whispers. My decisions serve the pack."

Fenrik slammed a fist on the table, the sound echoing round the room. “Scouts returned at dawn with reports of vampire movements along the eastern ridge. Adrian’s banners have been sighted – black and gold, the serpent coiled ready to strike.” His jaw tightened around the name. “If the prince is coming, he will demand her blood personally. One drop of her poison in the wrong hands and we lose everything we bled for.”

To be fair, Fenrik had earned his hatred of the vampires.

Lucien remembered his son, Torin, too clearly. Broad shouldered, loud voiced, laughing like the world had never taught him caution. Torin had survived the worst battles of the Great War only to die on the road home by a vampire ambush in the dead of night. The wolves were asleep when the attack happened, leaving them no chance to shift before the vampires pounced.

Fenrik had carried his son’s body back himself.

Lucien had seen the old wolf weep only once – that day. The sound of it had lodged somewhere permanent. So he fully understood Fenrik's hate.

Meanwhile, Ebon snarled, louder this time, its claws scraping inside his chest. He gripped the arm of his chair, wood creaking under his fingers.

Be calm Ebon, he thought, trying to reign in his wolf.

Lucien met the old man’s stare without blinking. “The treaty holds because we enforce it. Not because we bend every time a vampire rattles his banners.”

“Then enforce it,” Fenrik snarled. “Put her down before Adrian uses her against us.”

Maelis raised a hand, fingers slicing the air. Her voice cut through the rising growls cleanly. “Or we use her instead. We could use her to draw the vampires close. Let Adrian step onto our land believing he will claim the hybrid then take him there. Cut off the serpent’s head and the rest will tear itself apart.”

The chamber exploded.

“Madness,” Corvin barked, slamming his fist against the table hard enough to make the torches shudder. “This is a man who murdered his very own sire! He will arrive smiling, offering gifts, with an army waiting to spill out behind him.”

“And without him the vampires fracture,” Maelis shot back. “Their clans will turn on each other. No unified throne. We get to finish what the treaty started.”

Ebon paced harder now, a growl building in his throat that he swallowed back. The restlessness was turning into a constant itch under his skin, a pull he couldn't place. He shifted in his seat, forcing his attention on the argument.

“Finish it with another war?” an elder snapped. “We lost half our numbers last time.”

“Because hybrid blood poisoned our blades,” Fenrik growled. “And now you want to keep the last vial breathing?”

Lucien listened without interrupting. He watched alliances flex and strain, old grief sharpen into fear, fear into aggression. The pack was splitting along fault lines that had existed long before Nyra ever stepped into his keep.

And he was standing directly over the fracture.

He rose.

The chair scraped against stone, the sound sharp enough to cut through the argument. Silence followed, because his presence demanded it.

“I've heard enough,” Lucien said.

His voice filled the chamber without effort. “The hybrid remains alive because I decide it. She is under my watch, in my keep, chained by my order. Her fate is mine to choose. Not the treaty’s. Not Adrian’s. Not yours Mine.”

Eldrik’s lips peeled back, teeth flashing. “And when the prince demands we hand her over?”

Lucien did not hesitate. “I will give him the same answer.”

Maelis studied him, weighing his words. "The pack needs strength and certainty, Lucien. Not guesses."

Ebon surged forth then, hard enough that several elders stiffened, sensing the shift in the air. Lucien held it back, but barely.

"Question my strength again," he said quietly, "and we will settle it in the circle."

Silence fell. No one spoke. No one dared.

But inside, the restlessness didn't ease. His wolf nudged him insistently, a low whine threading through the anger. Something was wrong. He felt it in his bones, a tug eastward, toward the keep. Toward her.

He dismissed it, once more, still trying to focus. The meeting wasn't over.

Fenrik leaned forward again. "The younger wolves talk, Lucien. They see weakness in sparing her. If Adrian comes and we are divided..."

"We won't be," Lucien cut in. "I will handle Adrian."

Again, his wolf snarled, pacing in tight circles, demanding attention. He clenched his jaw, willing it silent but it just probed harder.

He had to get this meeting over with. Soon.

Corvin spoke up, changing tack. "What of the witch? Rumours say you've sent for Tatia."

Lucien's gaze flicked to him. “That’s my business."

The wolf lunged inside him, a sudden flare of protectiveness that made his breath catch. He couldn’t stand it anymore. It was time to end this.

"Tatia deals in dark things," Maelis said. "If you're bringing her here for the hybrid–“

He stood abruptly. "Tatia's purpose is my own, as is everything concerning the hybrid."

He turned toward the door. "If that is all, this meeting is over."

Murmurs rose, surprise rippling around the table. Eldrik half-rose. "We're not finished."

"I am." Lucien said, already making his way out of the chamber, every step measured despite the storm inside him.

Ebon pushed harder, a warning growl that vibrated through his chest. Go. Now.

He lengthened his stride, boots striking stone as he left the chamber. Darius fell in beside him in the corridor, concern etched on his face.

"They're not happy," Darius said.

"They'll live."

The pull sharpened, a thread yanking him east, toward his chambers.

Darius kept pace. "You left early. Something wrong?"

Lucien didn't answer. A sudden sharp pain lanced through his left side then, like a blade twisting. He staggered, his hand instinctively pressing against his ribs. Nothing there. But the pain was real, echoing from somewhere else.

Nyra.

He bolted.

Darius called after him, but Lucien didn't stop. He tore through the corridors, guards scattering as he passed, the bond screaming in his veins.

I hope I’m not too late, is all Lucien thought as he sprinted, faster than he’d ever run, across the hallways.

He reached the door to her room and the first thing that hit him was the scent of fresh blood. He didn't knock. Didn't pause.

The door exploded inward under his shoulder, the wood splintering and he dove in.