Chapter 4-Echoes in the Throne Room

The king’s private study smelled of old leather, cedar smoke, and barely contained fury.

Lucien paced the length of the long room like a caged beast. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, heavy tomes on law, war, and lycan lineage staring down in silent judgment. A massive fireplace roared at one end, though the flames did little to warm the chill that had settled in his bones since the training yard.

Rowan lounged in one of the high-backed chairs near the fire, legs stretched out, one boot tapping idly against the leg of the table. He swirled a glass of dark wine, watching his brother with the lazy amusement of someone who knew exactly which buttons to press.

“You could have stayed longer in the yard,” Rowan said. “The view was quite entertaining.”

Lucien stopped pacing. Turned. His eyes were flat silver, the storm inside them barely leashed.

“Do not play games with me today, Rowan.”

Rowan raised an eyebrow. “I’m not the one playing games. You are. You saw him. Half-naked, scarred, holding a blade like he knows how to use it. And you walked away.”

“I walked away because I had to.”

“Because the law says so?” Rowan laughed softly. “Since when do you obey laws you didn’t write yourself?”

Lucien crossed the room in three strides and braced both hands on the arms of Rowan’s chair, leaning down until their faces were inches apart.

“Because if I claim him, the council will have every excuse they need to call for my head. A male omega. No heir possible. The throne contested. Civil war. You know the stakes.”

Rowan met his gaze without flinching. “And if you don’t claim him, the bond will eat you alive. I’ve seen what it does to lycans who fight it. Madness. Weakness. Death. Is that what you want for yourself, brother? To rot from the inside while that pretty little omega wastes away in the lower halls?”

Lucien’s grip tightened on the chair until wood groaned.

“He is not yours to speak of.”

“Ah.” Rowan’s smile turned sharp. “Possessive already. Dangerous territory.”

Lucien straightened abruptly and turned away, raking a hand through his hair. The bond thrummed under his skin, a constant low ache that had not eased since the moment Caelan’s scent hit him in the ceremony chamber.

He had spent the night in this very room, staring at maps of the kingdom, trying to drown the pull in strategy and duty. It had not worked.

Every breath carried traces of jasmine and blood. Every heartbeat echoed with the word mine.

He hated it.

He hated how much he wanted it.

Rowan set his glass down and rose, moving to stand beside his brother at the tall window that overlooked the palace gardens below.

“He’s not what he seems,” Rowan said quietly. “Trained. Scarred. Defiant under all that quiet submission. Someone broke him once. Badly. And yet he still stands.”

Lucien did not answer.

“I offered him protection,” Rowan continued. “He refused. Politely. But he refused.”

Lucien’s head snapped toward him. “You approached him?”

“Of course I did.” Rowan shrugged. “If you’re going to be noble and self-sacrificing, someone has to look after the prize.”

Lucien grabbed Rowan by the front of his shirt and slammed him back against the window frame. Glass rattled.

“Touch him again without my permission and I will rip your throat out.”

Rowan did not struggle. He only smiled wider.

“There he is. The king I remember.”

Lucien held him there a moment longer, then released him with a disgusted sound and stepped back.

Rowan smoothed his shirt. “You cannot ignore this forever. The bond will force your hand. Either you take him, or the madness takes you. Or worse, someone else notices how distracted you are and decides the throne looks better without you in it.”

Lucien turned to the fire, staring into the flames.

“I will handle it.”

“How?” Rowan asked. “By keeping him locked away? By pretending he doesn’t exist? By letting the court whisper that the Lycan King fears his own mate?”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of logs.

Finally Lucien spoke, voice rough. “I need time.”

“You don’t have time. The council meets in three days to discuss tribute allocations. They already know an Ashford omega was presented. They will want to know why he hasn’t been assigned to a noble house yet. Or disposed of.”

Lucien’s hands clenched at his sides.

“Bring him to me tonight,” he said. “After midnight. The eastern tower. No guards. No witnesses.”

Rowan studied him for a long moment.

“You sure that’s wise?”

“No. But it’s necessary.”

Rowan inclined his head. “As you command, Your Majesty.”

He moved toward the door, paused with his hand on the latch.

“One more thing. His collar. It’s not just for show. Something about it dulls his scent. Not completely. But enough that most wolves wouldn’t notice the full sweetness. Only those closest. Like us.”

Lucien turned slowly. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying someone went to a great deal of trouble to hide what he truly is. And I’m saying you might want to find out why before you decide whether to keep him or kill him.”

The door closed softly behind Rowan.

Lucien stood alone in the firelight, the weight of the crown heavier than it had ever been.

He closed his eyes and let the bond pull at him, let the memory of Caelan’s skin under his fingers flood back.

Soft. Warm. Trembling just enough to make him want to pin him down and never let go.

He growled low in his throat.

Tonight.

He would see the omega again.

He would ask questions.

And if the answers threatened everything he had built, he would end it cleanly.

One way or another.

Below in the lower halls, Caelan sat on the edge of his narrow bed, staring at the barred window.

The afternoon had passed in silence. No summons. No visitors. Only the distant sounds of the palace: footsteps overhead, muffled voices, the occasional howl from the outer grounds.

His body still ached from the morning’s training, but the real pain was deeper. The bond had not faded. If anything, it had grown sharper, a thread tugging insistently toward the upper levels of the palace.

Toward him.

He pressed a hand to his chest as though he could push the feeling away.

A soft knock startled him.

The door opened. Rowan stood there, expression unreadable.

“Get up, little omega. The king wants to see you.”

Caelan’s heart lurched.

“Now?”

“Tonight. After midnight. Be ready.”

Rowan stepped inside, closed the door, and crossed to where Caelan sat.

He reached out and hooked a finger under the silver collar, tugging lightly.

“When you see him, don’t lie. He can smell it. And whatever you do, don’t run. Running only makes him chase.”

Caelan met Rowan’s gaze. “Why are you warning me?”

“Because I like interesting things. And you, Caelan Ashford, are very interesting.”

Rowan released the collar and stepped back.

“Be ready. The eastern tower. Don’t make him wait.”

The door closed.

Caelan sat in the sudden quiet, pulse roaring.

Midnight.

The king.

No guards. No witnesses.

He looked down at his hands. They were steady.

For the first time since arriving at the palace, he felt something besides fear.

Anticipation.

Dangerous. Reckless.

But alive.

He rose and began to wait.