The Luna's Choice

Chapter Four

By the time Lyanna reached the eastern corridors of the palace, the celebration behind them no longer sounded like a celebration at all.

The music had stopped entirely, and in its place came the echo of hurried footsteps, shouted orders, and the low, desperate whispers of panic spreading through the royal halls like fire through dry glass. Guards flooded the palace in heavy formation while servants rushed between corridors. One of them carried a bloodstained cloth that made Lyanna’s stomach turn the moment she saw it.

It was the blood of their king.

Despite the dread flooding the palace, she couldn’t help but notice that Alaric had not let go of her hand once. Even now, as the royal guards escorted them through the palace, his grip remained firm around hers, steady enough to ground her against the chaos unfolding around them. His expression had changed completely from the composed restraint he carried during the banquet. Whatever softness had briefly existed there earlier in the evening had now disappeared, replaced by something colder and sharper, likely caused by the understanding that his father’s death was not merely a tragic accident.

It was a blunt threat to the kingdom.

“This wing has already been secured,” one of the guards was saying as they approached a set of silver doors near the eastern tower. “The council chamber is under watch, and Crown Prince Caelen has ordered every entrance to the palace sealed until further notice.”

Further notice.

The words struck Lyanna harder than they should have.

The doors opened quickly at their approach, revealing a private sitting room lined with tall windows overlooking the cliffs below. Moonlight spilled across dark marble floors and velvet furnishings, illuminating the space in pale silver as the guards stepped inside first to inspect the room before finally allowing Alaric and Lyanna through the entrance.

Only once the doors shut heavily behind them did Alaric release her hand.

The absence of his grip felt strangely immediate.

Lyanna stood idly near the door, unsure of what to say or what her next step should be. Knowing how to act around your new husband, whom you barely know after his father, who also happened to be the king, had just mysteriously died, was not part of her training as the Luna of the Silvercrest Pack. She could not even fully grasp the situation yet.

The king was dead.

Even after repeating the words in her head, her mind resisted the fact as though refusing to accept something so enormous could happen so suddenly. One moment King Edric had been standing before the court delivering a toast, and the next he had collapsed bleeding onto the marble floor while the entire kingdom watched.

Nothing about it had felt real.

Alaric moved toward one of the windows, running a hand slowly across his jaw as silence settled heavily between them. For the first time since the banquet hall erupted into chaos, Lyanna finally allowed herself to look at him properly.

Grief looked strangely on him.

There was tension in the rigid line of his shoulders now, in the dangerous stillness that had settled into his posture ever since they left the hall. He looked less like a prince in mourning and more like someone already preparing for war.

“You should sit down.”

His voice broke through the silence without warning.

Lyanna blinked slightly. “What?”

“You look pale.”

Only then did she realize her hands were trembling faintly at her sides.

Slowly, she crossed the room and lowered herself onto one of the velvet chairs near the fireplace, though the warmth burning there did little to settle the cold unease crawling beneath her skin.

For several moments, neither of them spoke.

Finally, Lyanna looked toward him carefully. “Alaric, I’m sorry.”

A sad, short scoff escaped him. “Why would you apologize? You weren’t the one who poisoned my father.”

“Do you think it was poison?”

Alaric did not answer immediately.

“Honestly, I do not know what to think yet,” he admitted at last, his gaze still fixed beyond the windows. “But my father did not simply collapse.”

The words settled heavily between them.

Lyanna thought again of the blood spilling from the king’s mouth. The panic in Caelen’s voice. The horrifying stillness that followed.

And then Eira’s words returned to her with sudden clarity.

This was not poison.

A chill moved slowly down her spine.

Before she could decide whether to mention it, another sharp knock sounded against the doors, and the guards outside opened them almost immediately. Her father stepped into the room, and relief struck Lyanna instinctively at the sight of him, powerful enough that she nearly stood before remembering herself. Yet the feeling vanished almost as quickly as it appeared once she noticed the expression on his face.

His dark gaze swept quickly across the room before settling first on Alaric, then finally on her.

“You are unharmed.”

“Yes,” Lyanna answered quietly.

Silas inclined his head once, visibly relieved by the answer, though whether the relief came from concern or practicality, she could not tell anymore.

Behind him entered General Brannoc Greaves, broad-shouldered and severe beneath his dark military attire. The commander’s presence filled the room almost immediately, carrying with it the unmistakable tension of a man trying to contain a situation already spiraling beyond control.

“The palace remains sealed,” Brannoc informed Alaric. “No one enters or leaves without authorization from the crown.”

Alaric finally turned away from the window. “And Caelen?”

“He has assumed temporary authority until the council convenes.”

Something unreadable flickered briefly across Alaric’s face before disappearing almost instantly.

Even now, with the king’s body barely cold, politics had already begun moving beneath the surface.

Silas stepped farther into the room, folding his hands behind his back. “The court is demanding answers. Several of the pack leaders are already accusing one another.”

“Of course they are,” Alaric said flatly.

“The Shadowmere delegation believes this was orchestrated by Nightbane extremists. Nightbane believes Riverclaw had motive to destabilize the crown after the trade disputes last winter. Redgrave is demanding the palace guards be interrogated immediately.”

Lyanna stared at him, dumbfounded. It had only been an hour, possibly less, and already the kingdom was turning on itself.

“The body?” Alaric asked.

Brannoc’s jaw tightened slightly. “The healers found no trace of ordinary poison.”

Alaric’s expression darkened almost imperceptibly. “And no wolfsbane?”

Brannoc shook his head. “Whatever killed the king worked quickly. Too quickly.”

For the first time that evening, something resembling genuine unease crossed Silas’s face.

“Eira insists the death carries traces of old blood magic.”

The words seemed to change the air itself. Even the guards near the doors shifted visibly at the mention of it.

Lyanna frowned faintly. “Blood magic?”

Silas’s gaze moved toward her carefully, as though debating how much to reveal.

“There are older forms of magic tied to wolf bloodlines,” he said finally. “Most were forbidden generations ago.”

“Forbidden by whom?” she asked quietly.

“The crown.”

Something about the answer unsettled her immediately. Before she could ask another question, footsteps echoed sharply outside the room before the doors opened once more.

Caelen entered surrounded by guards. The atmosphere changed the moment he stepped inside. Authority followed him now in a way it had not earlier that evening, settling naturally across the room despite the visible exhaustion shadowing his features. His formal attire remained stained faintly with the king’s blood near one sleeve, though he either had not noticed or no longer cared.

For one brief moment, silence settled between the brothers.

Lyanna could feel it immediately. Not hostility exactly, but distance. The kind carved carefully over years.

Caelen’s gaze moved first toward Alaric, then toward Lyanna seated near the fireplace. “I trust you are both unharmed.”

“We are,” Alaric answered.

Caelen nodded once before turning toward Brannoc. “The council chamber is prepared. The pack leaders are waiting.”

Brannoc inclined his head immediately.

“And the palace?” Caelen asked.

“Locked down completely.”

“Good.”

The word came colder than Lyanna expected.

Caelen finally exhaled slowly, rubbing one hand across his face before speaking again.

“No one leaves the palace until we know who killed our father.”

The sentence struck Lyanna like ice water. This couldn’t be possible. Did they intend to keep hundreds of people locked inside this palace until they found the killer? For the first time since arriving at the palace, true fear settled fully into her chest.

The realization must have shown on her face because Alaric glanced briefly toward her before looking back at his brother.

“You believe the killer is still inside the palace.”

Caelen’s expression hardened. “I believe someone murdered the king in front of the entire court without detection. Until proven otherwise, everyone in this palace is a suspect.”

Even Vanya, who had been standing quietly behind him, looked unsettled by the statement.

Silas spoke carefully. “That accusation includes the ruling packs.”

“It includes everyone,” Caelen replied.

The room fell silent again.

Outside the windows, thunder rolled faintly across the distant sea.

Lyanna suddenly became aware of how alone she truly was within these walls. Her father stood beside the future king discussing murder and political suspicion while the ruling packs of Asterra prepared to tear one another apart before the king’s body had even been buried.

And somewhere within the palace, a killer remained hidden among them.

A knock interrupted the silence once more before one of the younger palace omegas hurried into the room, visibly pale.

“Your Highness,” he said breathlessly, looking toward Caelen. “The eastern guards found something.”

Every face in the room turned toward him.

Caelen stepped forward immediately. “What?”

The messenger swallowed hard.

“A servant attempted to flee the palace through the lower corridors.”

Brannoc’s expression sharpened instantly. “Who?”

“We do not know yet, sir. But…” The boy hesitated visibly. “He was carrying this.”

Slowly, he held out a small piece of fabric with a symbol inked on it. The symbol had been stitched into the black cloth in deep crimson thread, vivid against the dark fabric like fresh blood beneath moonlight. A crescent curved around the shape of a wolf’s claw, its sharpened talons extending downward while intricate markings twisted through the design in patterns that resembled ancient runes woven into flames. Though beautifully crafted, there was something deeply unsettling about the emblem, something feral hidden beneath its elegance, as though it belonged to a history the kingdom had spent generations trying to bury.

“And where’s the servant now?” Alaric asked, showing the slightest hint of suppressed urgency.

“He…” His lips parted as if to speak, then pressed into a thin line while he shifted his weight and regained the courage to continue. “He had a wolfsbane vial, Your Highness. He’s dead.”

“Rogue bastard,” Brannoc mumbled, forcing the words through gritted teeth.

“The rogues have declared war,” Caelen said, running his fingers through his thick dirty-blond hair.

Lyanna’s breath hitched because she knew what that meant.

The name settled over the room like a shadow no one dared challenge.

The Rogue King, Kieran Blackthorne.