The night of knives and dreams

The fire in the Alpha’s study burned low, a slow flicker that painted the room in gold and shadow. The scent of smoke mingled with parchment and ink, old leather, and faint traces of steel. Outside, the night pressed heavy against the castle walls, the wind whispering through the stone as though carrying secrets from the mountains.

Alaric sat behind his desk, his storm-grey eyes tracing the borders marked across a spread of maps. The candlelight caught the faint scar near his temple, a mark from battles fought long before he became Alpha. His jaw was set, but not in anger. He had the look of a man too used to silence, one who found little rest even when the war had quieted.

Across the room, Corvin Hale lounged on the window seat, a silver goblet in hand. His long, dark hair fell loose around his face, catching the firelight like strands of ink. He looked as if he’d stepped out of a portrait meant for royal halls rather than a battlefield. Too beautiful for armor and too sharp for court, Corvin moved with lazy grace, his posture a study in defiance. His mouth curved in that half-smile that could either charm or wound, depending on who he aimed it at.

“You’ve been staring at those maps for hours,” Corvin drawled. “If the borders haven’t moved by now, I promise they won’t move on their own.”

Alaric didn’t look up. “Borders may not move, but men do.”

Corvin took a long sip of wine, unbothered. “Men move because they’re bored. Which reminds me you’ve been awfully boring lately.”

Near the hearth, Edric Thorne exhaled a short laugh, the sound low and gravelly. He stood with his arms folded across his chest, the firelight carving shadows along the hard lines of his face. A pale scar ran clean from his right eye to the bridge of his nose, a wound that might have disfigured another man but only made him seem more unyielding. Where Corvin was all charm and mischief, Edric was carved from steadiness and command.

“Leave him be,” Edric said. “He’s got more than enough to think about.”

“Thinking doesn’t help anyone sleep,” Corvin replied lightly. “And I’d wager our Alpha hasn’t done much of that lately.”

Alaric gave a faint grunt. “You worry too much about my sleep.”

“Someone has to,” Corvin said. “You’d sooner bleed out than ask for rest.”

Edric stepped forward from the fire, crossing his arms. “We’re not soldiers anymore, Corvin. Let him think.”

Corvin lifted his goblet in mock salute. “Oh, I’m letting him think. I just wish his thinking didn’t make the whole castle hold its breath.”

That earned the faintest hint of a smile from Alaric the kind that never reached his eyes but was rare enough to quiet the room for a moment.

They had been like this since boyhood, long before war and duty had turned them into what they were now. The three of them had been raised together Alaric, the heir to a cursed throne; Corvin, the orphaned noble who learned charm as a shield; and Edric, the soldier’s son who grew into loyalty itself.

Their friendship was forged not in luxury, but in training fields and long nights under cold skies. They had bled together, fought together, and lost more than they would ever say aloud.

Edric broke the quiet first. “The people can’t pay more,” he said, his voice steady. “They’re still rebuilding what your father burned.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Alaric’s jaw tightened, but when he spoke, his voice was calm. “There will be no increase.”

Corvin arched a dark brow. “You’ll make enemies in the council.”

“I already have,” Alaric said simply.

Edric nodded once. “You’re right to refuse them. We fight for the living, not for gold.”

For a long moment, none of them spoke. The fire crackled softly, the light dancing across their faces the quiet reminder that despite their ranks and power, they were still men bound by the same scars.

At last, Alaric leaned back in his chair, eyes distant. “Let the people breathe,” he said. “That’s an order.”

Corvin tipped his goblet toward him, his voice smooth and teasing. “Spoken like a true king. Tragic, brooding, and utterly uncooperative.”

Edric gave him a look, one brow raised. “You forgot impossible.”

“I was trying to be kind,” Corvin said. “He frightens enough people already.”

Alaric’s gaze lifted from the maps. “Do you include yourself among them?”

Corvin’s grin widened. “If I said yes, would it make you feel better?”

Edric groaned softly, but the faint smirk on his lips betrayed his amusement. The room filled with a quiet that wasn’t heavy this time one softened by familiarity, by years of shared battles and buried grief.

Alaric’s hand drifted across the desk, brushing over the map before him. “Sometimes I wonder if any of this will ever end,” he said quietly.

“It will,” Edric said. “You’ll make sure of it.”

Corvin tilted his head. “Or we’ll drink until it does.”

That earned a rare, quiet laugh from Alaric a sound so low and unexpected that both men looked up. Corvin’s grin turned softer, almost proud.

“Ah, there it is,” he said. “Proof that the Alpha isn’t made entirely of ice.”

“Careful, Hale,” Alaric said. “Flattery won’t save you if you ever call me that outside this room.”

Corvin’s eyes gleamed. “Then I’ll die beautifully.”

Edric shook his head. “You’d probably ask for a toast first.”

“Obviously,” Corvin said with a shrug. “It would be rude not to.”

Their laughter faded slowly, replaced by the sound of the fire as it burned low.

When they finally left, the weight of command returned to Alaric’s shoulders. He stayed seated for a while longer, staring into the flames. The laughter still echoed faintly in his ears, but when the doors closed, so did the light in his expression.

He was alone again.

The silence crept back like a familiar ghost.

After a long moment, he rose from the chair. His body ached, but it was the kind of ache he had learned to live with the heaviness that came from too much remembering. He crossed the hall and made his way to his chambers.

The fire there was already lit, burning steady and warm. His new attendant was by the hearth, arranging his cloak and setting his evening meal on the table.

“Your meal, my lord,” came the quiet voice.

It was that new servant the small, silent one with the downcast eyes.

“Leave it there,” Alaric said, his voice low. “You may go when you’re done.”

She nodded and moved with practiced calm, tidying what little there was to tend. Her movements were measured, efficient, without sound. Alaric watched her for a moment something in her silence drawing his attention.

There was nothing unusual about her on the surface, yet she carried herself differently than the others. Her eyes didn’t dart in fear, and she didn’t steal glances at him like most did. Instead, she moved with quiet purpose, as though every motion was a thought.

He pushed the curiosity aside.

He was tired, and the quiet was a rare mercy.

When the fire had burned low, he undressed and lay down, letting the darkness fold around him.

Sleep came slowly, but when it did, it came heavy.

And in sleep, the dreams began.

He stood in a field littered with bodies beneath a blood-red moon. The wind was sharp and cold, carrying the smell of iron and ash. Every figure around him was pale, still, lifeless. Women all of them. Their faces blurred and familiar at once, their eyes empty.

He reached for one, and her body dissolved into dust beneath his touch.

A whisper followed, curling through the night like smoke.

“You will always destroy what you love.”

Alaric’s breath caught. He turned sharply, but there was no one there. Only the sound of the wind and the weight of that voice pressing into his skull.

He jolted awake.

The room was dark. The fire had gone cold.

Something was moving beside him.

He blinked, his senses sharpening. A shadow hovered over his bed, the faint gleam of metal flashing in the moonlight.

Elysia’s heart pounded against her ribs. Her grip on the dagger trembled, but she held her ground. The blade felt heavy, heavier than it ever had before. She could see him clearly now the Alpha, sleeping, his face softened by dreams. Without the coldness of command, he looked almost human.

“This is for them,” she whispered under her breath. “For my mother. For the coven your father slaughtered.”

Her hand tightened around the hilt. She raised the dagger, her breath unsteady.

But before the blade could fall, his hand shot up and caught her wrist.

She froze.

The speed of it stole her breath. His eyes opened, storm-grey and clear even in the dark. He looked at her without shock or fury only calm, terrifying calm.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he asked, his voice quiet enough to make the world itself hold still