Chapter 20: The Throne of Crimson

The air in the grand hall was thick enough to chew on. The "summit" had officially devolved into a hostage situation. I was standing next to Kaelen, and honestly, the view from the epicenter of a political implosion was… surprisingly decent. Alpha Liam’s supporters had drawn their blades. My brother and sister were nowhere to be seen, hopefully, they were halfway to the Canadian border with Alessia. That left me here, standing next to a guy who had just turned his own father into a lawn ornament. "You’re shaking," Kaelen murmured, his voice cutting through the rising roar of the room. He didn't look at me; his eyes were fixed on the mutinous pack leaders. "I’m not shaking, I’m vibrating with enthusiasm," I muttered, my voice barely audible over the shouting. "Seriously, though—do you have a plan B, or is your strategy just ‘let’s see how many wolves I can take out with a butter knife’?" Kaelen actually smirked, a dangerous, lopsided thing. "Strategy? Elian, I don’t need a plan. I have an audience." He stepped forward. He didn't yell. He didn't puff out his chest. He just looked at the room, and the silence that followed was so violent it felt like a physical blow. "The Crescent Moon and Pacific Rock alliance is dead," Kaelen stated, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. "The former King was soft. He allowed rats to nest in the walls. I am not that King." He gestured to me, his hand resting on my shoulder in a way that felt less like a protective gesture and more like a claim. "And this… *human*… found every single cent you stole. He did more in twenty-four hours than your elders have done in a century." The room erupted. It was a cacophony of snarls, howls, and the ringing of steel against stone. "Kill them!" someone screamed from the back. Guards—Kaelen’s *real* guard, the ones loyal to the blood, not the money—surged forward. It wasn't a fight; it was a cleanup. I didn't watch the violence. I watched Kaelen. He was in his element, moving through the chaos like a storm front, his movements precise, brutal, and completely mesmerizing. He wasn't just taking back his throne; he was remaking the world in his image. When the dust settled, only Kaelen and I were left standing on the dais. The floor was… well, let's just say it needed a serious deep-clean. Kaelen walked up to me, his clothes stained with blood that wasn't his. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch surprisingly gentle given the carnage he’d just facilitated. "You said you wanted to be useful," he whispered, his golden eyes burning into mine. "Congratulations, Elian. You’re not just an advisor anymore." I looked out at the broken hall, at the defeated wolves, and finally, at the man who had just rewritten the rules of the werewolf world to keep me in his orbit. "Does this mean I get a better view?" I asked, my voice steady despite the adrenaline fading into a hollow ache. He pulled me into his space, his arm locking firmly around my waist. The possessiveness in his grip was absolute. "You get the throne, little fox," he said, his voice a low, gravelly promise. "I didn't conquer this place to be King. I conquered it so no one else would dare look at you." I should’ve run. I should’ve been terrified. But as I leaned into his touch, I realized the trap had fully closed. I was the King’s mate. I was the architect of his reign. And honestly? I think I was starting to like the view from the top.