GALA OF ASHES
634 Words
The hall smelled of polished wood, burning candles, and fear.
I knew because every wolf present—highborn, lowborn, human advisers—was holding their breath for me to fail.
I walked in stiff, shoulders squared, and tried to remember the rules of etiquette. Rowan’s death had stolen everything but my pride, and I intended to keep it.
The gala was held in the Ashcroft Sky Tower. Lights glittered like stars caught in glass, chandeliers dripping like frozen waterfalls over the sea of impeccably dressed wolves. Every camera lens, every councilor’s eye, every sharp whisper was aimed at me. I was a spectacle. A warning. A sacrifice.
And the council called it “unity.”
A sharp tap on my shoulder made me flinch. Lucien Ashcroft stood there, impeccable as ever, hands at his sides, jaw tight. His dark eyes swept the hall with calm authority. The crowd parted subconsciously, leaving a narrow corridor of silence in his wake.
“You ready?” His voice was low.
“No,” I whispered. “But I’ll survive your council’s theater.”
The Head Councilor’s voice rang out, echoing off marble and steel.
“Lady Vale, please address the assembly.”
I froze. My heart threatened to rip from my chest. No. Not like this.
A microphone was thrust into my hand. The hum of equipment vibrated through my fingers. Cameras zoomed in. Lucien’s presence loomed behind me, warm and suffocating, like the shadow of a storm I couldn’t outrun.
“You are expected to… express gratitude,” the councilor said smoothly. “And to acknowledge the necessity of your brother’s execution.”
I laughed. Not the small laugh that passes for humor.
A harsh, bitter, raw sound that made a few heads turn.
“I should die laughing,” I said, voice quivering but loud enough for all to hear. “Because you have the audacity to call this justice?”
A whisper ran through the crowd: the Vale girl dares…
I clenched the microphone, knuckles white. Lucien’s gaze snapped to me—alert, restrained.
I inhaled, summoning every ounce of composure, and began:
“Peace built on blood never lasts. My brother did not betray the packs. He was framed. He was murdered. And you sit here, dressed in finery, pretending to mourn order, when all you’ve done is serve your own vanity.”
The room went silent.
Not a whisper. Not a blink. The air pressed down on me like stone.
Lucien’s eyes—once calm—blazed. I felt the bond stir beneath my skin, tugging at me like fire. My wolf roared inside, furious, protective, desperate. I hated it. I hated him.
“You dare—” the councilor started.
“I dare,” I snapped. “Because Rowan’s name deserves more than whispered lies. Because truth is stronger than fear. And because I am his sister.”
A few gasps echoed. Cameras clicked. The council murmured in shock. Lucien’s hand twitched at his side. He didn’t move, didn’t correct me. He simply stood there, the storm contained within the calm of his dark eyes.
I wanted to run. To vanish. To sink into the shadows of the hall and disappear forever.
Instead, I finished:
“Any man or wolf here who dares to claim my brother was a traitor… will answer to me.”
The councilor’s face flushed. Whispers turned to agitation.
Lucien stepped closer, almost unnoticed, and whispered into my ear:
“Good. Very good. You’ve made them fear you.”
My pulse thundered. I hated him. I hated that I trusted him in that moment.
He smiled faintly, just a flicker. Approval. Encouragement. Something I wasn’t ready for.
And in that instant, I realized: surviving the gala was only the beginning.
Because surviving him… would be far harder.
- Writer
