Chapter Forty-Two – Rooms of Stone and Gold
I wasn’t sure.
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Chief Steward Maris led us through a side arch, efficient as a blade disguised in velvet. “This way. Your wing has been prepared.”
“Prepared,” Cassia muttered under her breath. “What a polite way to say redecorated within an inch
of its life.”
She wasn’t wrong. Even before we reached the doors, the corridors began whispering wealth at me. Low sconces lit the stone ribs in golden wash, while thick runners deadened every footstep. Air cool as citrus and pine drifted through hidden vents, carrying none of the musty heaviness I’d expected from a fortress built centuries ago. Crescent clearly believed in polishing its history until it gleamed.
Maris pressed her palm to a panel. The doors sighed open like lungs.
“Your suite, Lady Elara.”
Suite. As if that word could hold the sheer scope of it.
The sitting room alone could have hosted my entire childhood apartment twice over. Slate-and-cream sofas stretched low and wide around a glass-topped table. Curtains of silk-gold fell from ceilings higher than reason. A fireplace already crackled with birch, warmth licking against the clean lines of smart-glass windows that offered the sea on command..
It was stunning. Beautiful. Suffocating.
Aeron stood frozen for once in his life, palms pressed reverently to the window. “Sky water,” he
breathed.
Maris crouched gracefully, touching a discreet sensor so the glass darkened to smoke, then cleared again. “Smart glass. Voice or touch commands. Adaptive to heat, glare, privacy.”
“Magic window,” Aeron declared, satisfied,
“Technology,” Julian corrected,
“Unca Joo-yen bo-wing,” Aeron said without missing a beat, then slammed his tin on the table like he was sealing a treaty.
Cassia was already fingering the drapes with exaggerated disdain. “Gold. Who marries the sun and then hangs the marriage certificate on their wall?”
“Shall I order them replaced?” Maris asked, polite neutrality wrapped around an iron thread.
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Chapter Forty-Two
Rooms of Stone and Gold
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“No,” I blurted, too fast. My fingers tightened on Aeron’s shoulder. “Leave them. I don’t mind.”
Cassia’s grin cut like glass. “Oh, you mind. You just don’t want to admit you like them. Fine. Have your golden shroud, cousin. I’ll make friends with it.” She tugged the hem like a bridal veil and whispered to the curtain, “We’ll talk later.”
Caius, meanwhile, was tapping along one paneled wall. A soft click answered him. He pushed, and the seam yawned open to reveal velvet-lined shelves. Empty-for now.
“Weapon cache,” he said simply. “There’ll be another in the study. Safe’s biometric. Julian’s paranoia wears Crescent tailoring now.”
Julian, appearing behind him without sound, deadpanned, “You say paranoia. I say preparedness.”
“Love language,” Caius muttered.
“Elara,” Julian said, ignoring him. “Your palm and voice are registered to the locks. Triple-layer security if you want it. For Aeron? Seventeen.”
“Seventeen?” I echoed, incredulous.
Julian’s mouth curved faintly. “Give or take.”
Aeron had already discovered a stool and was dragging it toward the hallway with tactical intent. “We jump on bed?” he asked hopefully.
“Not until Mama says so,” Maris said evenly.
He considered her, then nodded magnanimously. “”Kay. Li’l jump.”
“Stop calling crimes policies,” Caius muttered, which earned him another delighted squeal of “Unca
Caius owie!”
The nursery lay just beyond a curved panel Maris tapped open. Aeron bolted inside like a general seizing territory, his curls bouncing, Mister Dwagon thumping along in tow.
Pale moon-blue walls greeted us, painted with a mural of Valemont’s forests-dark trees, shadowed creeks, the kind of trunks you could lean against and feel steadied. Low shelves lined with blocks and board books hugged the walls. And on the bed; a quilt I knew.
My mother’s quilt. Crooked seams, imperfect rhombuses, the rushed corner she’d always meant to redo.
My hand caught the doorframe. The world tilted.
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Chapter Forty-Two.
Rooms of Stone and Gold
“How?” My voice cracked on the single syllable.
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“Courier from Valemont,” Maris said softly. “Your mother sent it weeks ago.”
Aeron was already kneeling on the bed, bouncing experimentally. “Dis mine?”
“For as long as you want,” Maris promised.
He threw himself under the quilt and popped back up, cheeks pink with laughter. Then he jabbed a finger toward me. “Yours.”
The word hit harder than any bowing wolf outside.
Cassia plopped into a chair, feigning boredom. “Décor review-ten points for nostalgia, minus two
for curtains.”
“Overruled,” I said hoarsely.
She clutched her chest in mock agony. “The curtains win again.”
Caius had already discovered another hidden compartment-a built-in med kit. Rhea, the female guard Maris had introduced, only raised a brow. “That one’s mine. Long shifts.”
Cassia smirked. “At least one competent adult lives here.”
From there, Maris guided us back through the suite-dressing rooms with silk-lined drawers, a bathroom carved from pale stone under a skylight, a private study with shelves already lined in Valemont
texts.
By the time we circled back to the main sitting room, Aeron had vanished onto the state bed, limbs sprawled wide, chanting “boing-boing-boing” with every bounce.
“Boing,” Caius said flatly, catching the cookie tin before it hit the floor. He placed it back on the table with ceremony. “Knight of Snacks reporting, Crown secure.”
Cassia lounged across the chaise. “Make sure to emboss that on letterhead.”
The portraits lining the wall became Aeron’s next obsession. He pointed at the first-grim-faced Alpha King. “Unca.”
“Close enough,” I sighed.
Next frame. “Unca.” Next. “Unca.”
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Chapter Forty-Two – Rooms of Stone and Gold
“Excellent,” Cassia said. “Revised royal genealogy courtesy of Prince Aeron.”
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It should have been funny. It should have felt like home. But as I stood there, watching my son bounce and my cousins banter, the bond tugged inside me-slow, steady, insistent.
I knew without turning that Thorne was there.
The air changed, like gravity had shifted to accommodate him. He leaned on the doorframe, coat unbuttoned now, shirt sleeves rolled, eyes molten gold fixed on me. Not Aeron. Not the cousins. Me.
“Everything to your liking?” he asked, voice velvet over steel.
The entire room went still. They weren’t waiting for my answer because it mattered to the décor. They were waiting because it mattered to him.
I slid my hand into the pocket of the new coat Maris had insisted I try. My fingers brushed the extra seam stitched there-subtle, unnecessary. A reminder: live here now could sound dangerously close to
we own you now.
“The curtains stay,” I said.
Cassia groaned. “Gold curtains. Death by fabric.”
“Warm,” I answered, my gaze never leaving Thorne’s.
Something almost like a smile ghosted his mouth before restraint claimed it. “Council at four. Dinner at seven. Between them, I’ll show you the roof.”
“The roof?” I arched a brow.
“The city looks different when it’s under your feet.” And then, softer, meant only for me: “It helps.”
I wasn’t sure if he meant the view would help me, or himself. Probably both. But before I could decide whether to snark or nod, Cassia jumped in like she couldn’t stand the tension.
“The roof?” She propped her chin on her hand, eyes sparkling wicked, “Darling, you can’t just dangle that phrase in front of me. It sounds like either a euphemism or a kidnapping plot. Which one are we voting for?”
“Neither,” Thorne said smoothly, ignoring her, which was his favorite form of violence. His gaze stayed anchored to me. “The gallery windows look east. The horizon shifts your bones when you stand. there. I want you to see it.”
The bond inside me thrummed like it wanted to agree. I pressed my palm against Aeron’s curls
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Chapter Forty-Two Rooms of Stone and Gold
instead. “Maybe,” I said.
Cassia sighed. “Ugh, anticlimactic.”
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Wardrobe stylists swept in next-two Crescent wolves in charcoal-gray, carrying measuring tapes and polite nerves. They looked ready to faint at the sight of Thorne in the corner, silent and watchful, but they recovered fast. Maris orchestrated like a general: pins here, fabrics there, time limits enforced by a wrist flick.
Cassia immediately declared herself Creative Director. “Nothing that screams trophy wife. Everything she can stab someone in without flashing an accidental thigh. Balance, people.”
One stylist turned pale. The other scribbled furiously.
Caius tested seams like he was planning to smuggle knives in each pocket. Rhea lounged at the door, pretending disinterest while tracking every move like a wolf with young in the room.
And Aeron? Aeron decided the best use of Crescent’s luxurious carpets was a racetrack for Mister Dwagon. He narrated each lap with grave authority: “Zoom. Cwash. Zoom ‘gain.”
It should’ve been chaos. It was chaos. But it was also strangely grounding-like the palace couldn’t quite overwhelm us while Cassia was bickering over hem lengths and Aeron was demanding “dwagon pit-stops.”
We landed on three outfits: a black sweater soft enough to whisper but not grovel, trousers that fit like I’d been consulted instead of forced, and a coat with a collar sharp enough to hide behind or weaponize.
Cassia mourned the lack of sequins. “One glitter ban, and my life loses meaning.”
Julian, entering with the subtlety of a ghost, murmured, “The ban will hold exactly twelve hours. I’m preparing contingencies.”
“Contingencies?” I asked.
“Vacuum teams,” he said.
Cassia cackled. “You love me.”
“I tolerate you,” Julian corrected, deadpan.
When the stylists finally scurried out, the suite exhaled. Silence stretched, warm rather than empty. For a moment, it was just us, Cassia sprawled on the bed, Caius cataloguing drawers, Rhea leaning easy but alert, Aeron snoring on a pile of cushions he’d declared his “cookie frown”-which, yes, meant
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throne.
And Thorne-still by the door, coat shrugged off, sleeves rolled, every line of his body screaming control. His attention never wavered.
“Do you need me?” he asked finally.
The question was too soft to be a command, too steady to be casual. It was a vow disguised as an option.
“No,” I said, because pride was easier than honesty. My pulse betrayed me.
He heard it anyway. “Council at four. Dinner at seven. Between them, the roof.”
“Still not a euphemism?” Cassia teased.
Thorne ignored her. His eyes lingered on me one more beat, then he left the way storms roll off a horizon-without hurry, but impossible to miss.
The room shifted after he was gone. Not quieter, just… emptier.
Maris cleared her throat, gentle but pointed. “Shall I give you the tour, my lady?”
“Tour, tour!” Aeron chimed, popping up from his cushion fort with cookie crumbs stuck to his cheek.
Cassia clapped her hands. “Excellent. Outreach continues. He’ll rename all Crescent portraits by
supper.”
“Unca,” Aeron confirmed with toddler certainty, brandishing Mister Dwagon like a pointer stick.
The Green Route wound us deeper into the wing. Past the nursery and dressing rooms, past the private study with its curved desk and curated shelves, out onto a terrace framed by black stone balustrades.
The view hit like a fist and a balm all at once,
Crescent spread below us in precise tiers; rooftops spilling like slate dominoes down the cliffs, markets painted with color even at this height, harbors glittering with ships aligned like soldiers at attention. Beyond, the sea stretched knife-straight to the horizon, banners of foam snapping white against the cliffs.
Aeron plastered his nose to the railing. “Sky water ‘gain!”
Cassia tilted her sunglasses down. “I’ll give them this: they know how to stage a backdrop for my
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Chapter Forty-Two Rooms of Stone and Gold
eventual memoir.”
surf.
:
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“Focus,” Caius muttered, eyes sweeping the horizon like he expected assassins to crawl out of the
Me? I gripped the stone rail until my palms hurt.
This place was breathtaking. Terrifying. I couldn’t decide which weighed heavier. The city looked like control given form. Beautiful, yes. But built for power, not comfort.
And it was ours now. Mine, somehow.
The bond tugged in my chest like a compass needle, pointing toward Thorne wherever he was inside this fortress. The temptation to follow it was constant, low and insistent.
I pressed my forehead to the cool stone and whispered to the horizon: “Don’t disappear. Not again. Not into silk. Not into him.”
The wind stole the words. Maybe that was safer.
Back inside, Aeron resumed his trampoline campaign-this time targeting the state bed. Rhea raised one brow; Caius confiscated the cookie tin like a ceremonial guard. Cassia was too busy pretending to conduct an imaginary orchestra with curtain ties.
I tried to laugh with them. I did laugh. But underneath, the thought lingered: this palace didn’t smell
like me. Not yet.
It smelled like silk and power and pine-scented polish. And that terrified me almost as much as the
drones had.
A knock at the door jolted me. Maris reappeared, folio in hand. “Council session at sixteen-hundred, Lady Elara. Shall I escort you?”
“Escort?” Cassia snorted. “Sounds like we’re about to duel.”
“In a way, we are,” Maris said calmly.
Aeron piped up from the bed, “Cookies fo’ duel?”
“Always,” Cassia said, dropping a kiss on his curls.
I smoothed a hand down his back, forcing steadiness into my voice. “We’ll come after your nap, pup.
Promise.”
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Chapter Forty-Two
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He pouted but relented, already distracted by Mister Dwagon’s “battle woar.”
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Maris led us through another set of silent corridors, this time toward the east gallery. The Green Route meant few eyes-only the occasional bowing servant or nodding guard. Still, whispers followed us like smoke.
Luna.
The word chased me again, soft and sharp, until I wanted to scrape it off my skin.
The east gallery’s windows poured light over everything. Cassia twirled like a tourist. “Okay, fine. The view is euphoric. I take it back.”
I leaned against the glass, heart in my throat. From here, the city really did feel underfoot. Small. Manageable. Almost mine.
Almost.
Thorne’s promise echoed: It helps.
I wasn’t sure if it did. But I could admit this much-it made me want to try.
By the time we circled back, Aeron was asleep again, collapsed in the nursery with Mister Dwagon
under his chin and cookie tin under his arm like a crown jewel.
I tucked the quilt around him and lingered, brushing my fingers over the stitches my mother had made. The room smelled faintly of lemon and soap. Not me. But maybe it could be.
“Yours,” Aeron had whispered earlier.
I wanted to believe him.
Back in the sitting room, the staff had laid out trays: tea steaming, sandwiches precise enough to shame an architect, folders stacked like patient enemies. Julian had returned, tablet glowing, eyes sharp.
“Press lines are holding,” he reported. “The networks are replaying the bowing at the gates. Our stance is loyalty, not stunt. It’s working-for now,”
now..
“For now,” I echoed softly, brushing crumbs from my lap.
Julian’s gaze flicked to me, reading too much. He nodded once, curt. “We’ll reinforce.”
Cassia sprawled across the rug, threatening to bedazzle Crescent’s crest into something “festive.” Caius grunted and promised to hide all glue guns.
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And me? I sat with tea, the bond tugging at my ribs, whispering surrender disguised as safety.
I wouldn’t let it swallow me whole.
But goddess help me… part of me wanted to.
of Wolves
Chapter Forty-Three-Council of Wolves
Elara’s POV
By four o’clock, the palace already knew my pace.
The Green Route pulsed on my tablet-this way, no lenses. Rhea hovered behind me, Cassia clutched her bag like a blade, and Caius kept close to Aeron and Mister Dwagon while they debated whether dragons were allowed in government.
Thorne didn’t hurry. He set the tempo-sleeves rolled, throat bare, calm enough to make junior staff melt into the walls. The king walked like a man who expected a fight and wouldn’t mind it.
“Fifteen minutes,” Julian said as the corridor narrowed to ribbed stone and glass. “We’re holding them to it.”
“That’s not a meeting,” Cassia muttered. “That’s foreplay.”
“Be grateful,” Thorne answered, smooth as smoke. “Less chance anyone mistakes themselves for the main act.”
Aeron slipped his hand into mine. “Mama, dis da yelly room?”
“Sometimes,” I said.
Cassia slid a look at Julian. “If they monologue, I’m pulling a fire alarm.”
“I already scheduled one,” he said mildly. “Two minutes after Halden says ‘prudence.””
“You schedule my arson now?”
“Only your alibis.”
She snorted, “Buy me dinner first, Spreadsheet.”
“After you stop committing crimes in heels,” he murmured, eyes warm.
The council doors sighed open. Crescent’s chamber rose like an amphitheater-stone ribs, glass dome, the sea glittering beyond. Three rings of benches faced the floor, each seat with a red-lit mic.
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Drones hovered overhead like silent flies. A plaque at the entrance promised closed-session summary, clipped and captioned for the public.
Maris had already told me who mattered. Halden the hawk at the lectern. Valeria the polished climber near the front. Daven the pragmatist, steady thumb on his notes. Julian had flicked dossiers to my tablet en route, margin flags like loves his own voice and owns a vineyard-mention droughts.
We entered to a hush with teeth behind it. Rhea slid to the wall, Cassia and Caius bracketed me. Aeron squeezed my fingers twice-you ‘kay?—and I squeezed back. Yes.
“Record,” Halden ordered. A drone blinked green.
“Verified,” Julian answered from the booth.
Thorne sat, posture loose enough to look like leisure. I stayed on my feet, hand braced on the chair’s back-anchor, not décor.
“Fifteen minutes,” Thorne said, pleasant. “Use them well.”
Halden smiled like men do before they say no. “Majesty, even a king should consider the appearance of ”
“Efficiency?” Thorne offered. “We are.”
A ripple of laughter above, sharpened looks below.
Valeria rose, eyes angled toward the nearest drone. “Crescent honors partnership and lineage,” she said, giving Aeron a camera-ready smile. “But housing an untested heir in the capital creates a security risk we cannot ignore. And the… unusual status of the lady-”
“Human,” I said. “You can use the word. It’s fact. I don’t have a wolf.”
“A consideration,” she corrected smoothly, “that may weaken tradition and embolden threats.”
“You mean Ashthorne,” Cassia called, cheerful as a knife.
Daven stood, voice steady. “We’re not debating whether a child exists. We’re debating where he sleeps-and whether a bond we didn’t anticipate strengthens us or exposes us.”
“You didn’t anticipate it,” Thorne said. “That’s different.”
Halden leaned into the lectern. “Prudence demands relocating the boy to a secure off-site residence. Temporarily.”
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Halden’s jaw tightened. The room was sipping. “The
Thome stood
No slam Just a rise. And the chamber stilled like the tide had gone out
“Enough” His voice was quiet, absolute. He looked past Halden, straight to the drones that would spice this into clips. Here is the only statement this council needs. Elara of Valemont is mine. Aeron is my son. He is Northern Crescent’s future. That bond is not yours to debate. That blood is law
The words cracked the chamber open. Drones dipped for angles, councilors froze mid-breath
“You will treat her,” Thome continued, voice cutting clean, “not as a guest. Not as a problem. Not as a slogan. You will treat her as your queen.”
The silence after was heavier than thunder. Something old in me-tight, colled-unwound at the sound of it.
Halden groped for footing. “Majesty, the law-”
“Provides nothing that contradicts me,” Thome said. “Time’s up. Choose whether you hold this city with me or watch me hold it without you.”
Jultant’s voice sid in my ear. “Ten of ten for quotable. Seven for terror. Throtting the feed or letting it
Let it fly,” I whispered.
Aeron marched into the circle, Mister Dwagon under one arm, cookie tin under the other. Rhea went taut; Cassia wisely let him go.
“Hello,” he told the nearest drone, fearless. “No yelly. Inside cookies.”
Shoulders loosened. Even Halden almost smiled.
Aeron popped the tin, offered one to Valeria. “You bowwow,” he said. “Say fank you. Give back.”
Trapped by optics, she accepted. “Thank you… your-
“LI King,” Aeron supplied. “Mister Dwagon yikes cwumbs.”
Not policy-but the temperature shifted.
The rest dissolved into procedure. Daven requested a subcommittee for nursery security. Thorne
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