The Midnight Prince

False Prophecy

The Midnight Prince

Future Ashen-Dorian POV

Three nights before Prince Solan found the cabin, Dorian Calder learned a valuable truth.

A missing princess was useful.

A dead princess was a tragedy.

But a stolen princess?

A stolen princess was power.

The palace was drowning in panic.

Servants whispered in corners until guards barked them apart. Noble families clustered in gilded halls with pale faces and hungry eyes. Messengers rode in and out of the courtyard so quickly the horses foamed beneath their saddles. Every candle burned too low. Every bell sounded too sharp.

Fear had a scent.

Dorian breathed it in as he walked through the east corridor.

Sweet.

Warm.

Obedient.

The kingdom did not need truth tonight.

It needed someone to blame.

And Dorian would give them Ashen Drakewood.

Not because Ashen mattered.

The boy was supposed to have been nothing. A pretty-faced omega with a bruised throat and servant hands. A mistake in a noble bloodline. A shadow so forgettable that even his own father had learned not to look at him.

But then the ring had rejected Callan.

Then Moon had escaped.

Then Dorian had learned one deeply irritating fact.

The little cinder wolf was not as weak as everyone believed.

That made him useful.

And useful things could be twisted into weapons.

Dorian stopped before a private council chamber guarded by two of his own men disguised beneath palace silver. They bowed their heads as he approached.

Inside, Councilman Varric Thorne stood with his hands braced against the long table, staring at the parchment spread before him as though it were a death sentence.

In a way, it was.

Varric was an older wolf with a silver-threaded beard, narrow eyes, and the kind of dignity frightened people trusted. He had served three kings, advised two queens, and buried enough scandals to know that truth rarely survived a room full of powerful men.

Tonight, his dignity was cracking.

“You are late,” Varric said.

Dorian smiled. “And yet you waited.”

Varric looked up.

There were deep shadows beneath his eyes.

“You said I would hear from them by moonrise.”

“You will.”

“My wife—”

“Alive.”

“My daughters?”

Dorian removed his gloves one finger at a time.

“Also alive.”

Varric’s jaw trembled once before he forced it still.

“If you touch them—”

Dorian laughed softly.

The sound made Varric flinch, which was satisfying.

“My dear councilman, if I intended to touch them, you would not be standing here arguing with me. You would be on your knees begging.”

Varric’s hands curled into fists.

Dorian stepped closer to the table and glanced at the parchment.

The prophecy looked beautiful.

Ancient script.

Weathered edges.

Moon-temple phrasing.

The witch had done excellent work.

A lie always lasted longer when it wore old clothes.

Varric followed his gaze. “This is blasphemy.”

“No,” Dorian said. “This is politics.”

“It invokes the Moon Goddess.”

“It invokes fear. The Goddess is merely decoration.”

Varric’s face tightened with disgust.

Dorian enjoyed that too.

A man who hated what he was doing was far easier to control than one who enjoyed it. Enjoyment made people bold. Guilt made them careful.

Careful men followed instructions.

Dorian tapped the parchment once.

“You will present this to the court.”

Varric shook his head. “The queen will question it.”

“Let her.”

“Prince Solan will question it.”

“Prince Solan questions breakfast.”

“And the king?”

Dorian’s smile thinned.

“The king wants his daughter home.”

That would be enough.

Kings spoke of justice until their children went missing. Then justice became a luxury they could afford only after the child was safe.

Varric looked down at the prophecy again.

His voice lowered. “You do not understand what you are asking me to do.”

“I understand perfectly.”

“No, you do not.” Varric lifted the parchment with shaking fingers. “If the court believes this, Ashen Drakewood will be hunted. Perhaps killed.”

Dorian tilted his head. “You say that like it is a flaw in the plan.”

Varric stared at him.

For the first time, Dorian saw something like hatred in the man’s eyes.

Good.

Hatred meant Varric was still alive inside.

That meant his fear had something to protect.

Dorian reached into his coat and withdrew a small silver locket. He placed it on the table.

Varric stopped breathing.

The locket was plain, scratched at the edges, and engraved with three tiny roses.

His wife’s.

Dorian opened it with his thumb.

Inside was a painted miniature of Varric’s two daughters.

One dark-haired.

One fair.

Both smiling.

Both unaware that their father would condemn a stranger tonight so they could keep breathing.

Varric’s face collapsed for half a second before he rebuilt it.

“Where are they?”

“Safe.”

“Where?”

Dorian closed the locket.

“With people who obey me better than you currently are.”

Varric reached for the locket.

Dorian pulled it back.

“Ah. Not yet.”

Varric’s voice broke. “Please.”

There it was.

The word powerful men hated most.

Please.

Dorian leaned close enough to speak gently.

“Present the prophecy. Confirm what I say. When the court asks if the signs are true, you will say yes. When they ask if Ashen Drakewood is the false wolf, you will say the prophecy allows no other reading.”

Varric closed his eyes.

“And my family?”

“Will live.”

“For how long?”

Dorian smiled.

“That depends on how convincing you are.”

The door behind them opened.

The witch entered without sound.

She wore the face of a palace healer tonight: gray hair braided under a modest veil, hands stained with harmless herbs, eyes lowered in false humility.

But Dorian knew the truth beneath the glamour.

He knew the sharpness of her real face. The black veins that crawled up her wrists when she cast blood spells. The way she looked at him as if he were a tool she had not decided whether to keep or break.

Dorian disliked being looked at that way.

But he needed her.

For now.

“You have the glamour?” he asked.

The witch’s eyes lifted.

“Of course.”

Varric recoiled slightly. “This is madness.”

The witch smiled.

“No. Madness is believing a court full of wolves can tell the difference between prophecy and theater.”

Dorian chuckled.

Varric looked ill.

“How long will it hold?” Dorian asked.

“One minute.”

His smile faded. “That is all?”

“One minute,” she repeated. “No longer. False moonlight burns when worn too long.”

Dorian’s fingers tightened around his gloves.

“I need the court convinced.”

“Then be convincing quickly.”

He hated her.

The witch stepped closer, her gaze moving over him like a blade checking meat.

“I can make your aura appear silver-white. I can cast a pale wolf-shadow behind you. I can mimic frost-light around your hands and shoulders.” Her smile sharpened. “But do not try to shift. Do not let anyone touch you. Do not let the queen’s priestesses near you. And when it fades, pretend humility. People believe lies more readily when the liar seems burdened by them.”

Dorian’s irritation eased.

That, at least, he could do.

He had worn nobility since childhood.

What was one more mask?

Varric’s voice was hollow. “And if someone asks why he cannot show it again?”

Dorian looked at him.

Then he smiled.

“The Moon Goddess reveals what she wills. I cannot summon her sacred sign like a dog performing tricks for court amusement.”

The witch’s lips curved.

“Good.”

Varric looked between them as if trapped in a room with two different kinds of monster.

He was.

Dorian handed him the prophecy.

“Come, Councilman. Let us save the kingdom.”

The royal court had never looked more eager to be deceived.

They filled the throne room in layers of silk, steel, fur, and fear. Nobles stood shoulder to shoulder beneath moonstone pillars. Alphas from visiting packs whispered to their Lunas. Guards lined the walls with spears in hand. Servants hovered near doorways, pretending not to listen while hearing everything.

At the far end of the chamber, King Aric PentNova sat on the moon-carved throne with a face made of stone.

Queen Selene sat beside him.

Unlike her husband, she did not pretend to be stone.

She looked like a blade.

Beautiful.

Still.

Sharp enough to cut through bone.

Dorian bowed deeply before them both.

He held the bow a breath longer than necessary.

Respect looked better when grief wore it.

“Your Majesties,” he said, voice carefully roughened. “I come before you not for myself, but for Princess Moona.”

The queen’s eyes did not soften.

Good.

Let her suspect.

Suspicion without proof was only frustration in finer clothes.

King Aric leaned forward. “Have you found my daughter?”

Dorian lowered his gaze.

“No, Your Majesty.”

A ripple of disappointment moved through the court.

He waited until it settled.

“But I know who took her.”

Solan stood near the left side of the throne, arms crossed, expression dark.

“You seemed less certain when you returned half-conscious and covered in rogue blood,” he said.

A few courtiers murmured.

Dorian turned toward him slowly.

“Grief has made us all sharp, Prince Solan. I forgive the edge of yours.”

Solan’s eyes narrowed.

Perfect.

Make the prince look rude.

Make himself look gracious.

Dorian turned back to the king.

“Ashen Drakewood took her.”

The court erupted.

Torren Drakewood, standing among the noble alphas, stiffened.

Lady Seraphine’s face went pale in a way that pleased Dorian deeply.

Callan stood behind them with one arm bandaged, face bruised, anger painted beautifully across his features. He played wounded brother well enough.

Not as well as Dorian played savior.

But well enough.

King Aric rose halfway from his throne. “The omega boy?”

Dorian let the silence breathe.

Then he said, “He was never merely an omega.”

That fed the room exactly what it wanted.

Fear needed surprise to grow teeth.

Varric stepped forward then, parchment clutched in his hand.

His face was controlled, but Dorian saw the sweat at his temple.

Good man.

Good father.

Weak tool.

“Your Majesties,” Varric said, bowing. “Before Lord Calder speaks further, the council must present something recovered from the sealed moon archives.”

Queen Selene’s gaze sharpened. “Recovered by whom?”

Varric swallowed.

“By council authority, Your Majesty.”

“Which authority?”

“Mine.”

The queen stared at him.

Dorian could almost hear the room holding its breath.

Varric did not look at him.

Brave enough not to seek reassurance.

Frightened enough not to stop.

He unrolled the parchment.

His voice carried through the hall.

“When the White Wolf rises beside the Moon Princess, the throne shall either be saved by his hand or drowned beneath frost and blood. Beware the false wolf crowned in moonlight, for he shall bring war to the crown, death to the royal line, and winter to the kingdom’s heart.”

The court went silent.