Caged by a King

They raced through the hedge in a storm of teeth and snarling breath, claws ripping up the king’s private garden. Moonlight slid over their backs as guards thundered behind them, spears glinting silver.

Elowen ran.

His lean fox body skimmed close to the ground, paws whispering over wet grass and breath hot in his throat. Roses brushed his flank and left streaks of scent he didn’t have time to savor. His heart pounded fast and bright, although it was not with panic.

This was the plan.

“Cut him off from the terrace!” a guard barked.

That was perfect for him.

He veered toward the center fountain, where a carved lion spat moonlit water. Beyond it, the palace rose in black, jagged lines against the sky. Valdris, the empire built on fear, loomed over everything. The air tasted of torch-smoke and polished stone, heavy with the weight of old power.

Somewhere in the wildlands, his people would be holding their breath.

A fox in the king’s garden was a death sentence.

“Hounds, left! Go!”

The pack lunged. One caught the plume of his tail with its teeth and dragged fire along his hindquarters. Elowen yelped loudly and with just enough panic to appear genuine, then darted toward the marble steps.

“Throw the net! Now!”

He had only a breath to brace himself before the weighted cords dropped from above. They slammed him flat. The world lurched as he was hauled upward, tangled in rope that bit into his fur and skin.

“Hold him! That thing is vicious!”

Elowen went limp. He trembled and played the part of a frightened creature.

Inside him, satisfaction curled warm.

He had made it past the wards, through the garden, and directly into the hands of the king. It was exactly where he needed to be.

“Bring him,” an unfamiliar voice commanded. The tone was low, clipped, and authoritative.

The guards snapped to attention. The hounds backed off with whining confusion.

They carried the netted fox through a corridor veined with torchlight. Servants pressed themselves against the walls as the procession passed, their eyes wide with fear or curiosity.

Elowen counted every turn, every scent, and every door.

He committed the map to memory. The palace did not intimidate him. It thrilled him. This was the heart of the empire that had hunted his people for generations.

Soon, that heart would beat differently.

The great hall opened like the belly of a beast. Dark stone pillars rose toward banners of black and silver depicting wolves, swords, and ravens. Torches burned high above, casting patches of gold and shadow across the polished floor.

At the far end, carved from blackwood and iron, stood the throne.

On it sat the man Elowen had come for.

King Corvin of Valdris.

Stories had tried to prepare him, although none of them had come close.

Corvin was beautiful in the way storms could be beautiful. He was dark, sharp, and full of quiet threat. His thick, jet black hair was pulled back. He had styled it in the Valdran war style. From a distance, his eyes appeared nearly black, steady and unwavering as he watched the guards approach.

They dropped to one knee.

“Your Majesty,” the captain said. “We found this creature inside your inner garden. The wards flared. The mage instructed us to bring it directly to you.”

Corvin did not answer.

He descended the steps with the steady, unhurried grace of someone who feared nothing in the room. Light caught the raven-shaped clasp at his throat as he stopped in front of the net, hands clasped behind his back.

He looked down at the fox.

Elowen stared back through the mesh, golden eyes unblinking.

The king’s gaze sharpened.

“Strange,” Corvin murmured. “It looks at me as if it understands.”

The captain swallowed. “Sire, it does not behave like an animal.”

“No,” Corvin agreed. “It does not.”

He lifted one hand slightly.

“Mage Theon.”

A thin, grey-robed figure stepped from the shadows. Theon knelt beside the net and extended a hand over Elowen’s fur.

Magic pricked along Elowen’s skin, cold as sudden frost.

The mage inhaled softly.

“A presence,” he whispered. “This is not a simple fox. It is shifter-born.”

The hall erupted with shocked murmurs.

Corvin’s expression did not change. He simply lowered his hand until his fingers brushed the net.

“So,” he said quietly, “a spy.”

His voice was calm. Far too calm.

Elowen’s heartbeat kicked once, hard.

“Execution would be the traditional choice,” Theon offered.

Corvin’s eyes flicked to him. “Traditional does not always mean wise.”

The captain stiffened. “Sire, the law—”

“I am the law,” Corvin said. His voice was soft enough that the entire room froze.

He crouched, bracing one forearm on his knee and studying the fox with closer interest.

“What shape will it die in?” he mused. “I wonder.”

He tightened his hand on the net.

Every instinct inside Elowen screamed at him to shift.

So he obeyed.

Change ripped through him in a rush of heat, light, and pain. Fur crawled back beneath skin, his paws lengthened, as his bones contorted. The net scraped his shoulders as he forced himself upward, sucking in a breath as the world snapped back into clarity.

Gasps crashed through the hall.

Where the fox had been, Elowen now knelt.

He was naked, bruised, and tangled in rope.

His hair fell in damp, dark-red waves around his face. His amber-gold eyes, still fox-bright, locked instantly onto the king’s.

Corvin’s expression did not break.

Elowen smiled.

“Or,” he said, his voice hoarse but sure, “you could simply ask.”

Silence filled the hall like thunder.

Theon’s breath caught. Courtiers stared as though witnessing a god or a curse.

Corvin’s eyes moved slowly and deliberately down Elowen’s face, along his throat, over his chest, across the rope at his waist, and then back to his eyes.

It was no longer a wordless list of impressions.

He stood.

“Cut the net.”

The captain hesitated only a moment before slicing through the cords. The rope fell away, and Elowen rose to his feet with unhurried confidence. He was unapologetic and utterly unafraid.

He did not cover himself.

Corvin’s nostrils flared very slightly.

“Your name,” the king said.

“Elowen.”

A ripple swept through the room, full of recognition, fear, and rumor made flesh.

Corvin circled him once, his gaze sharp as a blade.

“A shifter spy inside my most guarded walls,” he said.

He stopped in front of Elowen again, close enough that Elowen felt the heat of his breath.

“Tell me,” Corvin murmured, “why I should not have you killed.”

Elowen tilted his head. “Perhaps because you are curious.”

A faint, almost invisible twitch touched the corner of the king’s mouth.

Corvin reached out.

Gloved fingers closed around the leather collar still buckled at Elowen’s throat.

The touch was firm and unmistakably territorial.

Elowen’s pulse jumped.

“So bold,” Corvin said softly. “So certain that you are worth more alive.”

“I usually am,” Elowen replied.

The king leaned in by the smallest amount.

“You trespassed on my garden, breached my wards, and then you look at me as if you already knew me.”

He tugged the collar, not enough to choke, but enough to command.

“Elowen,” Corvin said, his voice low and final, “I do not make a habit of sparing threats.”

“Maybe I am not here to threaten you,” Elowen said.

“Liar,” Corvin whispered.

Elowen smiled again.

Something like heat flared behind the king’s eyes.

Corvin turned toward the hall. His voice rang clear and cold.

“Spread the word,” he commanded. “The east sends me a monster, and I choose to keep it.”

A murmur of shock swelled through the room.

“From this moment,” Corvin continued, “he will remain where I can see him.”

He looked back at Elowen and lowered his voice.

“My table. My halls.”

His thumb brushed Elowen’s collar.

“My rooms.”

Elowen’s breath caught before he could stop it.

Corvin felt it.

And smiled without kindness.

“Welcome to Valdris,” the king said. “Try to behave.”

Elowen’s golden eyes gleamed.

“No promises.”