FATE BENEATH THE SILVERMOON

“Today, you shall breathe your last for attempting to assassinate your king,” Pierre declared coldly, his sword pressed firmly against Sam’s neck. “Any last words?” Sam let out a low chuckle, unfazed. “What could a dying man possibly say?” He lifted his eyes, meeting Pierre’s without fear. Sam smiled—not wide, not frantic. Calm. Almost satisfied. “You are lucky, my king,” he said softly. “You didn’t eat the food. Next time, you might not.” Pierre scoffed and straightened. “No,” he said calmly, almost amused. “The lucky one here is you. I could have thrown you into the beasts’ den and let them feast on your flesh. Or burned you alive. Or cut away your limbs one by one until death finally claimed you.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Instead, I am giving you the easiest end.” Pierre turned toward the court. “Enough of this nonsense. Let this serve as a warning to any who dare walk the same path.” With one swift motion, he slashed. Sam’s head rolled across the marble floor. Pierre didn’t flinch as the blade fell. Gasps echoed through the courtroom as blood splattered across the walls and pillars—but Pierre felt nothing. Not triumph. Not guilt. Only the familiar stillness that settled in his chest whenever justice demanded blood. Bastien, Pierre’s uncle, stepped forward, his expression approving. “You did the right thing, my king. We thank the Moon Goddess for sending that Being who saved you that night.” He chuckled softly. “Otherwise, you would have been dead meat.” “Enough talk, Uncle,” Pierre said sharply, raising his hand. “You are dismissed.” “Yes, my king,” the warriors and nobles chorused as they filed out. Soon, only Pierre remained—until Hugo, his Beta, approached and bowed deeply. “There are matters I must bring to your attention, Alpha.” “First,” Pierre said, grimacing at the blood-soaked floor, “call Etienne to clean this mess. It disgusts me.” “Yes, Alpha.” Moments later, Etienne arrived and bowed. “My King—” As he stepped forward, his foot caught the edge of the rug. He stumbled, fell, and his tools clattered to the floor. Pierre and Hugo exchanged a glance, suppressing sighs. “Hugo,” Pierre muttered, “Where did you find a wolf like this? Clumsy as ever.” Hugo grinned. “He’s… talented at his work, Alpha. Don’t let the stumble fool you.” Etienne sprang up, brushing himself off with a grin. “Ah, just keeping you on your toes, my King! Now, let’s get this mess clean before the scent of blood lingers too long.” Pierre’s lips curled into a dangerous smile. “Do it well—or you’ll join Sam.” “Don’t worry,” Etienne said confidently, kneeling and starting his work. When he finally left, Hugo spoke again. “Alpha, the vampires have struck.” Pierre’s eyes darkened. “The land occupied by the wolves who refused to align with us has been invaded.” “I warned them,” Pierre said coolly. “I told them to leave and come under my protection. They refused. Now the vampires see its value.” A slow, confident smile appeared. “They have made a grave mistake by challenging me—Pierre, Alpha of the SilverMoon Crest .” He turned sharply. “Prepare the warriors. We strike tonight.” “Yes, Alpha.” Later, the warriors gathered at their usual meeting spot. “I didn’t expect him to execute Sam himself,” Ervin muttered, rubbing his jaw. Jay snorted. “That’s because you still believe mercy survives the throne.” A sudden voice cut through their conversation. “Why burden yourselves with another man’s headache?” They turned—and nearly leapt from their seats. “Captain Hugo,” Jake stammered. “What brings you here?” “So I’m not welcome?” Hugo asked dryly. “No, no, I just—” “Enough,” Hugo interrupted. “Prepare for battle tonight. We strike the vampires.” “Yes, Captain!” they replied in unison. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the wolves gathered before the palace, awaiting their Alpha. Pierre emerged moments later. “Uncle!” a small voice called out. Louis—Pierre’s nephew— five years old ,ran toward him. Pierre lifted the boy easily into his arms. For a moment, the weight of the crown lifted. Louis laughed in his arms, unaware of blood still drying on the palace floor. Pierre held him a second longer than necessary. “Are you going to battle?” Louis asked excitedly, swinging his fists. “I can fight too!” Pierre chuckled softly. Louis was one of the few souls he cherished. “When you come of age,” Pierre said gently, “you will fight beside me.” “O-okay…” Louis muttered, disappointed. “When I return, I will train you myself.” Louis’s face lit up. “Really?!” Pierre nodded. Laughing, Louis ran off before his mother could scold him. Bastien approached and bowed slightly. “Good luck, my king.” “Won’t you join me, Uncle?” Pierre asked. Bastien shook his head. “No. I will remain behind and guard the palace. An old man deserves his rest.” Pierre nodded. “Very well.” As he turned away, he paused. “And Julien? Will he not join us?” “Julien is ill,” Bastien replied calmly. “He remains in his chambers.” Pierre’s gaze lingered on his uncle’s face. Too calm. Bastien did not avert his eyes. Did not fidget. Did not explain further. After a heartbeat, Pierre turned away—but the unease followed him like a shadow. “Then I take my leave.” Pierre faced his warriors. With a collective roar, they shifted into their wolf forms and vanished into the night. Bastien watched until the last of them disappeared. Only then did the smile come—slow, deliberate. “We shall see,” he murmured, the words meant for no one… and for death itself.