The chamber was carved from the mountain's heart, a place of raw stone and defiant survival. The air was thick with the smells of damp rock, old smoke, and the faint, sharp scent of unwashed wool. Torches sputtered in iron sconces, their light dancing over the scarred faces of the five wolves seated at a long, battered wooden table. Tattered banners bearing the faded silver crescent of the Silvermoon pack hung from the walls, not as relics of a glorious past, but as grim reminders of a fight that had never ended.
Connall walked into the Hall of Echoes with Althea a step behind him, Daire at their side. The low murmur of conversation ceased as if a blade had severed it. The air grew thick, heavy with the weight of ghosts and a decade of loss.
The council's gaze fell upon him, and any hope for a warm welcome died in his chest. They did not see a prince returned. They saw a ghost wearing a stranger's skin. Their eyes swept over his worn leathers, the lean, hungry look of a packless rogue who had slept in too many cold places. They saw the feral caution in his posture, the way his eyes tracked every shadow. This was not the proud boy they had lost; this was a hardened survivor, and their faces tightened with a collective, agonizing disappointment. He saw it all, and a familiar, bitter shame warred with a surge of feral defiance. He had to consciously force his shoulders back, to mimic the posture of a prince he hadn't been for a decade.
Then, their gaze shifted to Althea.
A flicker of recognition dawned in their eyes, instantly curdling into open hostility. Whispers slithered through the chamber, a venomous hiss of a single word.
*"Bloodfang."*
The name was a physical blow, a desecration. A woman with haunted eyes physically recoiled. Another wolf, younger, slammed his fist softly on the table, his knuckles white. Althea's presence here, in their last sanctuary, was an unforgivable insult. She met their hatred with a stoic calm, her chin high, but Connall felt the tension radiate from her, a rigid line of defiance.
An ancient wolf, his frame gaunt but his eyes sharp as flint, pushed himself slowly to his feet. He leaned on a gnarled staff, his gaze fixed on Connall. His voice was frail, thin as autumn leaves, yet it carried the weight of years.
"Kaelen Silvermoon," the elder, Aldhelm, said, his use of Connall's birth name a fresh wound. "By the Goddess, we believed you were a ghost." His tone was not one of celebration. It was a eulogy for a prince who had returned as something they no longer recognized.
***
Before Connall could find his voice, a fist slammed onto the wooden table. The sound cracked through the tense silence like breaking bone. A powerfully built warrior with a jagged scar bisecting his face shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. His eyes, burning with a furious grief, were locked on Connall. This was Cathal, the captain Daire had spoken of, his authority radiating like heat from a forge.
"A ghost he should have remained!" Cathal snarled, his voice a low, brutal growl. "He returns to us not with allies, not with a plan, but with the daughter of the butcher who left our children fatherless and our elders as carrion on the fields of the Mating Moon! Explain this outrage, or be cast out with her."
Connall's own anger rose, a defensive fire he fought to control. He had expected questions, not an immediate trial. "The will of the Moon Goddess is not an outrage, Cathal." He forced the words out, the phrase tasting like ash. "She is my fated mate. The bond manifested the night we met. It is a command from the Goddess herself."
A wave of revulsion swept through the council. One of the wolves spat on the stone floor. "The Goddess would never curse the Silvermoon line with such filth," he hissed. To them, a bond with a Bloodfang was not a blessing but a taint, a sign of utter corruption.
Althea, who had endured their hatred in silence, finally spoke. Her voice was level and clear, cutting through the angry haze. She did not plead or defend herself. She stated facts. "Guntram Volkov betrayed my father as surely as he did yours. He murdered his own Alpha to seize a throne he did not earn. He hunts us both. Your true enemy is in your old dens, not standing beside your prince."
Cathal let out a harsh, ugly laugh. "The lies of a Bloodfang whelp. Do you think we are fools? We will not be swayed by a traitor's words or a madman's delusions about fated bonds." His glare was pure poison. "She is the enemy."
***
Cathal rose to his full height, his shadow swallowing the table. He spoke not to Connall, but to the entire room, his voice the unquestioned law of this broken pack. "We have survived ten years in this rock. We have bled for it. We will not risk the lives of our people for a prince who has clearly lost his mind. You have one path back to us," he said, his gaze finally pinning Connall. "Renounce her. Cast the she-wolf out and let her face the wild alone. Prove your blood is still Silvermoon."
The ultimatum hung in the air, cold and absolute. Connall felt cornered, the hostile faces pressing in on him. The bond throbbed, a dull, persistent ache in his soul, a physical reminder that casting her out was impossible. It would be like tearing out a part of himself. He looked at Althea. She stood unflinching, her expression a mask of pride, but he saw the flicker of something in her eyes—not fear for herself, but for him. For the choice they were forcing him to make.
In that moment, something shifted inside him. The feral rogue receded, and a flicker of the Alpha Prince he was born to be ignited. His spine straightened. His voice, when he spoke, lost its rough edge, replaced by a sliver of cold, hard command.
"No."
The word was quiet, but it silenced the room.
"She stays," Connall continued, his gaze meeting Cathal's without flinching. "She is my mate. We face Guntram together, or we face him alone. That is my decree."
Cathal's hand went to the hilt of his sword. "You have no power to make decrees here."
"Enough."
Aldhelm held up a thin, wrinkled hand. The simple gesture held more power than Cathal's rage. The guards tensed at the chamber entrance, but held their ground. Aldhelm's ancient eyes studied Connall, then Althea, seeing more than just a rogue and his enemy mate.
"The boy makes a king's decree, but lacks a king's power," Aldhelm said, his voice raspy. "Cathal's fear is justified. Our people's safety is paramount. But an edict of the Goddess, even if it appears as a curse, cannot be so easily ignored." He turned his head slowly, his gaze falling on Cathal. "There are older ways. Ancient laws designed to test such impossible things. Laws not for comfort, but for truth, however sharp its edges."
Aldhelm's gaze swung back, locking onto Connall with piercing intensity.
"You claim the rights of an Alpha King, bound by the Goddess to an enemy. The laws of our ancestors demand you prove it. You will not be judged by our words, but by the Rite of Proving. Prepare them." The elder's voice dropped, resonating with the weight of forgotten ages. "At dawn, we see if this bond is a blessing… or a weakness that will kill you both."
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🌕 **[End of Episode]**
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