CHAPTER 4

The throne room looked different when you walked into it clean and clothed instead of wrapped in net and rope.

The banners still hung heavy. The torches still burned, the nobles clustered in neat little knots of silk and metal. But now their eyes didn’t simply widen. They tracked him like a storm crossing the stone floor.

Corvin was already on the throne when Elowen entered, wearing black and gold, cloak draped effortlessly, posture perfect. He hadn’t braided his hair again. It fell loose, dark around his pale, unreadable face.

Their gazes met.

For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single line between fox and king, predator to predator.

Then the whispers started.

“That’s him!”

“In the king’s own colors?”

“Unacceptable...”

Elowen let the sound wash over him like music. He walked down the center of the hall with lazy, unhurried strides, every inch of him radiating the truth: he did not belong to these people, no matter what collar he wore.

He stopped at the base of the dais.

Corvin’s eyes moved from his face to the clothes Marla had chosen, to the bare strip of chest above the laced shirt, to the hint of sigils at his collarbone.

Approval flickered there. It was brief, then gone.

“Better,” the king said. “At least now the old men might manage full sentences.”

“Do you prefer me dressed?” Elowen asked quietly. “I will keep that in mind.”

Something sparked in Corvin’s gaze. “Do not test me in my own hall.”

Elowen smiled. “Where else would I test you?”

A soft rustle from the left cut through their exchange.

“Corvin.”

The voice slid across the stone like the edge of a thin blade.

Elowen turned his head.

The woman who approached wore grief like jewelry. The crown of the former queen glinted faintly atop hair silvered not by age but by choice, a Valdran tradition. Her gown was ash-grey, embroidered with ravens so black they seemed to swallow light.

Queen Dowager Serina.

Corvin straightened, it was subtle, but visible. Respect perhaps, or simply the weight of shared history.

“Mother,” he said.

She stopped three steps below the throne, hands resting lightly on the top of an obsidian cane. She did not need it to walk; her spine was ruler-straight. The cane was a symbol. A reminder that she once held power sharp enough to break bones.

Her gaze slid over Corvin first, assessing, then landed on Elowen.

It felt like being weighed on a scale that had shattered better men.

“So,” she said. “This is the creature everyone is whispering about.”

Elowen inclined his head a fraction. “I prefer the word guest. Or terrible mistake, if you enjoy longer titles.”

Her lips did not move. “He speaks.”

“Frequently,” Corvin said dryly.

Serina’s eyes cut to her son. “You choose to stand a shifter at your side, in front of your nobles, on the day their petitions are heard.”

“I do,” Corvin said.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because they need to see what I do with threats,” he replied.

Serina’s gaze returned to Elowen, sliding over his collar, his clothes, the sigils peeking at his throat.

“He is pretty,” she said. “Pretty things have caused the fall of empires.”

Elowen smiled, baring just enough teeth for danger to shimmer beneath the charm. “You flatter me, Your Grace. I have only been here one night.”

Her nostrils flared, her disdain tightly controlled. “Watch your tongue, fox. It is the least important part of you.”

Her meaning was unmistakable.

Corvin’s fingers tightened on the arm of his throne. “Mother, if you have come to test my judgment, choose something less obvious. Or sit down and watch.”

Something like pride flickered across Serina’s face before disappearing again.

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” she said.

She moved aside with the silent precision of a blade slipping back into its sheath. Her eyes cut across the crowd like a second set of knives.

Court resumed.

Petitions were read. There were land disputes, merchant complaints, and even lords seeking favor. Elowen stood half a step to Corvin’s right, silent, relaxed in appearance, his eyes hooded.

He saw everything.

The way nobles flinched when the king’s gaze landed on them. General Tavris watched him with the suspicion of a seasoned soldier.

The way Mage Theon lingered near the dais, torn between obedience to the crown and caution toward the fox. Theon’s eyes kept drifting toward the sigils at Elowen’s collarbone, as if they were a puzzle he nearly understood.

Good, Elowen thought. Let him wonder.

Let all of them wonder.

Halfway through a tedious argument over river rights, a page crept up the side steps and leaned toward Elowen’s ear.

Up close, the boy smelled faintly of pine resin and something else. Eastern wild grass.

Elowen’s attention sharpened.

“Sire Fox,” the boy whispered, voice trembling slightly, “a personal token was left for you in the antechamber.”

He pressed something small and hard into Elowen’s palm before scurrying away.

Elowen kept his hand relaxed, fingers curling around the object.

A coin. It felt smooth and familiar.

His people’s crest, four tails crossing a moon pressed into the metal.

On the other side, four words etched in crude letters:

STRIKE SOON. HE WATCHES.

Heat crawled up Elowen’s spine.

They knew he was inside, and trusted him to finish what he had been sent to do. They did not understand how standing beside the king felt less like hunting and more like standing on the edge of a cliff, wind in his face, the ground gone beneath his feet.

He closed his fingers around the coin until the edges bit into skin.

Corvin’s voice flowed steadily beside him, issuing decrees with terrifying ease. The hall bowed to every word, the empire shifting with each decision.

Elowen looked at him.

Jet-black hair, pale eyes, and a mouth shaped for command. Shoulders carrying a nation with frightening simplicity.

A weak spot, he had told the king. He had come to find one.

Now he was not entirely sure which of them was more exposed.

Corvin sensed his gaze. Without pausing judgment of the petition before him, he glanced sideways and met Elowen’s eyes for a brief moment.

Crown Sight, Elowen thought, heart hammering. Can you see this? Can you read me?

Corvin’s gaze lingered.

Then, for the briefest moment, something like confusion flickered there.

He can’t, Elowen realized, thrill flaring through him. He can’t see me.

The realization settled inside him as both a weapon and a wound.

Beside the throne, a fox in silk smiled connivingly to himself.

And closed his fist tighter around the coin that would one day demand the king’s blood.