Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 11 - Chapitre 20

The Grand Banquet Hall of the Palace of the Golden Sun was a sea of velvet, silk, and polished silver.Chandelier light cast golden ripples over the long mahogany tables where the High Council and the premier noble houses of Ashveil sat. The air was rich with the scent of roasted venison, spiced wine, and the subtle, sharp undertone of court ambition that seemed to season every conversation whether the speaker realized it or not.I sat at a side table near the head dais, dressed in a simple gown of deep midnight blue. No jewels graced my neck, and my dark hair was swept back in a modest braid. Beside my chair, standing like a carved shadow against the marble pillar, was Dorian Vask. His hand rested lightly on the pommel of his broadsword, his golden eyes sweeping the room with cold, unblinking precision."You're quietly taking notes on every house in the room," Dorian murmured, his voice so low it barely carried past the rustle of my skirts."A good manager studies her estate before s

The news didn't arrive in Silver Hollow by official courier. It spread like wildfire through the trade roads, carried by merchants, mountain clans, and border scouts.The barren omega was not an omega.She was Princess Elira of the House of Ashveil.Inside the Alpha suite of Silver Hollow Keep, a crystal glass shattered against the hearth.Vera stood near the bed, her face gray, her chest heaving as if she had been struck in the ribs. The scroll she had received from her informant in the capital lay crumpled at her feet."Princess..." Vera whispered, her voice trembling violently. "She's... a royal?"Her mind raced, spinning out of control. The quiet girl who had organized the pack's grain receipts, the woman who had taken the elders' insults without screaming, was the sister of Alpha King Roran. The most powerful military force in the northern territories stood behind her. Every calculation Vera had made over the past three years — every insult, every slight, every carefully staged h

The East Wing of the Palace of the Golden Sun did not resemble Silver Hollow in any way.Where my former quarters had been cold, drafty stone rooms tucked beneath the north battlements, the Princess Suite was carved from polished cream marble. High arched windows opened onto private terraced gardens filled with white mountain lilies. A hearth of carved serpentine stone burned night and day, casting a warm, amber glow over silk-upholstered couches, bookshelves carved from sweet cedar, and heavy velvet drapery.I stood before the mahogany desk in my private study, my fingers tracing the gilded edges of Ashveil's master trade ledgers. Even now, ten days into calling this room mine, I still caught myself half-expecting a servant to appear and tell me there had been some mistake.I was dressed in a gown of deep emerald wool with fitted sleeves, embroidered with gold suns along the cuffs. Round my neck sat the heavy silver chain Roran had placed there — the Triple-Sun Seal of Ashveil, still

In Silver Hollow, the morning bell rang two hours late.For three years, the rhythm of the keep had operated like clockwork under my quiet supervision. Grain rations were measured before dawn, hearth fires were fueled by scheduled patrols, and border trade caravans were cleared before the sun crested the pines.Now, the Great Hall was in chaos.A crowd of thirty pack members — farmers, weavers, and lower-ranking omegas — clustered at the foot of the Alpha dais, waving unfulfilled supply requisitions.On the dais sat Vera.She wore a heavy velvet gown trimmed with silver fox fur, her fingers laden with rings she had taken from the pack treasury. Beside her stood two stern-faced guards she had personally hired using vault coins, keeping the complaining pack members at bay."Quiet! All of you!" Vera commanded, her sharp voice echoing off the timber beams. "The Alpha is resting! I am handling pack affairs today!"A murmur ran through the crowd — not of relief, but of the particular weary

The lower archives of Silver Hollow smelled of damp stone, old parchment, and tallow candles.Tucked three levels beneath the main keep, the vaults stored centuries of pack records — supply receipts, land deeds, and daily oil logs for the wall torches. Few people ventured down here past midnight, making it the quietest place in the entire fortress.Milo moved through the narrow stone stacks like a shadow, his soft-soled leather shoes making no sound against the floor.He held a small brass lantern turned low, casting a faint ring of yellow light over the wooden shelving units labeled Quarters & Maintenance.His fingers traced the spines of the leather-bound logs until he stopped at the volume marked Current Year — Torches & Fuel.Before he could pull the book from the shelf, heavy footsteps echoed down the winding stone staircase outside the vault door.Milo blew out his lantern instantly.He melted back into the deep shadow between two massive oak storage chests, pulling his breath i