Chapter 6: Wolves in Silk

The grand council chamber of the Lycan Court was a masterpiece of ancient stonework and quiet menace. Long columns carved with the history of the shifter kings lined the circular room, and the high domed ceiling shimmered with silver threads that caught the firelight like stars. At the very center sat a throne carved of dark wood and wolfbone—the seat of the Lycan King.

And to its right, a smaller throne stood empty.

Until now.

Elira entered the chamber dressed in deep navy and silver, the king’s colors. Her gown was simple yet regal, high-collared and long-sleeved with subtle embroidery along the hem that depicted the phases of the moon. Her hair had been braided and coiled at the nape of her neck, and around her throat, the queen’s amulet rested—glowing faintly with protective magic.

Every eye in the room turned to her.

Some with curiosity.

Others with calculation.

And many with disdain.

She walked with deliberate grace, spine straight, chin high, every step echoing like a drumbeat. She did not glance at the whispers, nor at the seated nobles whose judgment bled from their eyes like poison.

She had faced Kael and lived.

She would not flinch from a room full of cowards in gold.

Lucien sat on the throne, garbed in black and steel, a crimson cloak pooled around him like blood. When Elira reached the dais, he rose and offered her his hand.

A gasp swept the chamber.

He didn’t lead her to a seat behind him.

He led her to stand beside him.

“As of today,” Lucien’s voice rang out, low and clear, “Elira Stormfang is no longer a guest of this court. She is my chosen consort and bears the queen’s signet. Any who would question her place may speak now—while I still permit it.”

Silence.

Then, like a viper, one voice slithered forward.

“I question it,” said a woman near the front. Dressed in crimson and draped in pearls, she looked every bit the noble—proud and poised.

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “Lady Varese.”

“My king,” she said with a mocking bow. “I mean no offense. But the crown has never been passed to an omega without lineage. Without… breeding. Surely you do not intend to make her queen when there are others more suitable?”

Murmurs rose around the room.

Lucien didn’t answer.

Elira did.

She stepped forward, voice calm. “Do you mean yourself, Lady Varese?”

A few people snorted.

The noblewoman’s smile wavered.

“I speak for the court,” Varese said stiffly.

“No,” Elira replied, lifting her chin. “You speak for yourself. Because you cannot stand the thought of a girl you once wouldn’t have spared a glance rising higher than you ever could.”

More murmurs now. Some approving. Others shocked.

Varese’s eyes flashed. “What does an orphan omega know of ruling?”

“I know what it means to be hungry. To be beaten. To be betrayed. I know what it means to be ignored when you scream and punished when you stay silent.” Elira’s voice sharpened. “I know the suffering of the lowest of our kind, and still I stand. And I will not let you shame me for surviving.”

The room went silent.

Lucien’s expression was unreadable, but the flicker of pride in his gaze did not go unnoticed.

Lady Varese sat, her face pale with fury.

Another noble, a broad-shouldered Alpha named Toren, spoke next. “And what of the mate bond? The king has not claimed her. No mark. No oath. How can she rule without the bond being sealed?”

Lucien stood.

“My bond is not yours to demand,” he said coldly. “A true ruler does not need to mark his claim like an animal in heat. When she chooses me, it will be because she is ready. Not before.”

A hush fell over the room.

Elira’s heart hammered.

He hadn’t said if she chooses him.

He’d said when.

That faith struck deeper than any wound Kael had ever left.

The council session continued, filled with petitions, reports of border threats, and whispered alliances. But no one again dared question Elira’s place beside the king.

Still, not everyone accepted her. She could feel it—like claws raking beneath silk. Eyes that followed her too long. Smiles that didn’t reach the eyes. She would have to tread carefully. Power was only half the battle.

The other half was survival.

---

Later that night, Elira returned to her chambers exhausted. Her body ached from standing. Her mind spun with every word spoken, every threat veiled in courtesy.

Mara greeted her with a steaming cup of tea and a small, proud smile.

“You did well.”

“They hate me.”

“They fear you,” Mara corrected. “It’s not the same. And sometimes, fear is safer than love.”

Elira took the cup. “I’m not sure which is worse.”

“You’ll learn.”

Elira sank onto the bed and removed her shoes, wincing at the ache in her feet.

“You stood like a queen,” Mara added. “Even the servants are whispering. The kitchen boys call you the Fireborn.”

Elira laughed under her breath. “They’re giving me names already?”

“That’s how you know you’ve arrived.”

Elira looked out the window, where moonlight spilled across the snow-laced courtyard. “I feel like I’m living someone else’s life.”

“No,” Mara said. “You’re finally living yours.”

---

A knock at the door startled them both.

Mara opened it to reveal Lucien himself, still in his ceremonial garb, his hair tied back, his presence like a storm just waiting to break.

“Elira,” he said. “Walk with me.”

She didn’t ask where. She simply followed.

They passed through the halls in silence, their footsteps echoing off stone, until they reached the rooftop garden—silent, private, lit by lanterns that swayed in the breeze.

“You were remarkable today,” Lucien said quietly.

“I was terrified.”

“Courage isn’t the absence of fear.” He turned to her. “It’s doing what must be done despite it.”

She looked up at him. “Is this really what you want, Lucien? Me? There are others who could—”

“Stop.”

His voice was gentle, but absolute.

“I do not want what is easy,” he said. “Or expected. I want someone who has been forged in fire. Someone who does not break beneath judgment. Someone who sees the rot beneath the gold and still chooses to build.”

He took her hand.

“I want you.”

The weight of those words stole her breath.

“I’m not ready,” she said. “Not yet.”

“I know.”

“And you’ll wait?”

Lucien nodded. “As long as it takes.”

She studied his face, the strength in it, the scars, the sorrow tucked behind his steady eyes.

“Then I promise,” she whispered, “when I take that throne beside you, it will be because I’m standing on my own two feet. Not yours.”

He smiled.

And for a moment, the king wasn’t a warrior or a ruler.

He was just a man, looking at a girl who had risen from the ashes of a world that tried to crush her.

And seeing her for the queen she was becoming.

---