Luna gave a delicate shrug, settling herself into one of the armchairs. "I’m fine. Now is not the ti to be a kitten, Morvakar. Tell what I need to know."
His shoulders sagged in surrender, a man who had already lost the argunt before it began. "You are not going to like it," he said.
******
Williams stood at the back gate. To any normal passerby, he was nothing but air—an empty patch of shadow beneath the skeletal winter trees. But the one he was waiting for could see him perfectly, but Williams still chose to press himself behind the thick trunk of a tree, just in case.
Gabriel’s plan was unraveling. He could feel it, that creeping awareness that ti was running out.
And sooner or later, Gabriel would be useless to him. A pawn past his pri, worn down from the endless chess match. Which was why, weeks ago, he had gone looking for sothing better.
Soone powerful. Even if they didn’t know it yet.
He had found them. Oh, the mont he’d seen them, he had known. That was the thing about power. It didn’t always co with a crown or a title. Sotis it ca in a package that the rest of the world overlooked, and those were the most dangerous.
And together, they would do magnificent things in Blood City. Magnificent and terrible. This ti, he wouldn’t be under the thumb of Gabriel—wouldn’t be waiting for permission or shielding himself under another man’s shadow. No, this ti, he would be the one pulling the strings.
His goal hadn’t changed. It was carved into his bones, woven into his very veins. He would wipe every werewolf from existence. None would remain standing. Not one. They were a plague in his eyes, and he would be the cure—bloody and absolute.
So he waited. Patiently, every sense tuned to the faintest vibration. Waiting for the embodint of this new alliance to arrive. Soone who would not fail him, could not fail him—because the alternative would be too costly for them both.
*****
Councilman Richard was up to his neck in frustration.
It was amazing, truly, how the royal family had bled for Blood City over the centuries. How many tis they had bent, compromised, sacrificed pieces of themselves and their authority for the supposed good of the people. And yet, at the faintest rumor of trouble—just a whisper, suddenly every so-called loyalist was ready to abandon the throne.
Richard rubbed the bridge of his nose, wishing—just for a mont—that politics could be solved with a sword.
They were ready to rip the throne from under Damien as if it were nothing more than a cushion, and hand it to the one person everyone in the room knew would drag Blood City into ruin. It was common knowledge. And yet, here they were, speaking of it like it was a reasonable, even noble idea.
The doors of Councilman Richard’s office rattled on their hinges from the sheer volu of voices inside. His office had been transford into a battlefield of words. Lords and advisors stood scattered around the room, gesturing wildly. Everyone seed determined to shout over everyone else, each certain that their voice was the one that would bring order to the chaos.
Richard slamd both palms on his desk, the sound sharp enough to montarily still the room. "People! People! Please!... For goodness’ sakes—it has not even been confird that the king is dead! It is just a rumor...that he is ill, and you’re already tripping over yourselves to hand away the throne?"
His gaze swept across the room. "Having this eting—even here, in my office—is an act of treason. Treason of the highest order. And do not think for a mont that walls do not have ears."
The first to then speak to him was Lord Mason, who handt forgiven his neck being snapped by the king himself at the last council eting. He stepped forward. "You know as well as I do these aren’t rumors, Richard. King Damien is dying. We have to get Lord Gabriel to safety, and we have to prepare him for the throne now."
Richard’s lips twitched. "Forgive , Mason, Are you saying this because the king had you by the throat—literally?"
A few of the Lords smirked at that, though Mason didn’t.
Before Mason could retort, Lord Bishop’s smooth, asured voice cut in. He was leaning casually against the window fra, as if the entire eting were a minor inconvenience between appointnts. "I really am of the opinion that we not get ahead of ourselves," he said.
Richard arched an eyebrow. "Ah, the voice of reason—how rare a bird in this chamber. Do elaborate, Bishop, before Mason here starts fitting Gabriel for a crown."
"If Damien truly is dying—which I doubt, then rushing to replace him would only ignite panic."
Mason sneered. "Reasonable words, Bishop. But mark —if Damien falls, Gabriel will be the only stabilizing force we have."
"If Gabriel is our stabilizing force, then we’re already halfway to ruin." Richard said.
"But still," Lord Bishop said, folding his arms across his chest as though that made him more authoritative, "it wouldn’t hurt to get Lord Gabriel to safety."
"Before we do anything," he said, drawing out the words in a way that suggested they had already done far too much talking and far too little thinking, "at least let find out if these rumours are true. For goddess’s sake, King Damien may just have the flu or sothing."
The mont the word flu left his mouth, Richard regretted it. The silence that followed was heavy—then ca the looks. The lords stared at him as though he’d sprouted donkey ears.
Lord Bishop’s lips twitched, struggling not to smile. "Yes, of course," he drawled. "The King felled by a head cold. That would be history-making."
Several of the other lords chuckled. Richard resisted the urge to rub his temples. He’d been on the council long enough to know that once a bad idea took root, it spread like ivy through cracked stone, impossible to pull up without taking the whole wall down with it.
(4 Chapters done)
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