Chapter 700: Hold My Beer, Your Majesty

STORMVEIL KEEP — THE SOVEREIGN’S COUNCIL HALL

Months ago, Drakenfell had called a war summit. The packs met at a mutual camp with tents. This time, five packs had sounded the alarm. Any emergency council called by three or more packs convened at Stormveil Keep.

Stormveil Keep was old enough to have opinions. One of the oldest fortresses on the continent outside Drakenfell. Inside it, Sovereign’s Council Hall was less a chamber and more a small stadium with a round table in the middle and pack crests carved into every headrest. The seating climbed the curved walls in stone tiers, cut right out of the rock, like a coliseum built for politics instead of combat.

Tiberon Drakenfell entered and the hall adjusted.

Conversations lowered by a register. Heads turned. Alphas already seated straightened their spines by involuntary degrees.

He wore combat armor beneath a formal cloak. The combination said I came from a battlefield and I dressed for a council and I considered both equally important, which was the Tiberon Drakenfell dress code and had been for thirty years.

Behind him, his delegation filed through the doors in formation. Hale Ironholt, Beta of Drakenfell, whose physical frame occupied a doorway the way furniture occupies a room, unavoidably.

Hyran Thornfell, Master Mage, whose robes were immaculate despite the siege he had been managing fifteen hours ago and whose immaculacy was a professional statement rather than a personal one.

Gavriel Sterling, the best Gamma in Skardos, whose green magic was currently behaving itself through what Gavriel could only describe as a sustained act of internal negotiation.

And Dexmon Drakenfell, Crown Prince and Commander of the Draken Forces, whose gold eyes carried the residual heat of a battle recently fought and a conversation recently avoided.

Tiberon crossed the chamber floor. His stride was measured. Unhurried. His presence was his opening statement, and the opening statement required zero words. He took Drakenfell’s seat at the round table.

Hale, Hyran, Gavriel, and Dexmon ascended to Drakenfell’s pews. The sitting was coordinated without discussion, each man finding his position in the tiered row behind their king.

The mood in the hall was grim. The usual pre-council energy, the low buzz of political maneuvering and alliance maintenance and the social choreography of twenty kingdoms occupying the same room, was absent. In its place sat something heavier. Seven kingdoms had been attacked. Seven. The number hung in the chamber like smoke that had nowhere to go.

Riven Nightspire entered next. Behind him, his Beta, his Gamma, his son, and Maelor Vantheos, Master Mage of Nightspire, whose robes were as immaculate as Hyran’s and whose immaculacy carried an editorial commentary on Hyran’s that only Hyran could read and absolutely found irritating.

When Nightspire took his seat, Tiberon did not acknowledge him. He did not acknowledge Tiberon. The non-acknowledgment was so thoroughly unremarkable that it was, to anyone watching closely, the most remarkable thing in the room. Two kings whose alliance was the most dangerous secret in the room.

Maelor’s eyes found Hyran’s across the chamber. The look lasted half a second. The half-second contained a full professional assessment, a status update, and the mutual confirmation that both of them were alive, which was information neither would admit to caring about and both were quietly relieved to receive.

Alpha Bloodmoon entered behind Nightspire. His charm had been weaponized since adolescence, and the weapons were always loaded. His armor was polished to a shine that suggested either meticulous maintenance or the employment of staff whose sole purpose was ensuring their king’s reflection was always flattering. Both were true.

He surveyed the room the way a man surveys a party he is too important for and too entertained by to leave.

More Alphas followed. Frostwyrm. Ironreach. Ashbound. Valegrave. Darkhowler. Each entrance producing its own calibration in the room, each delegation filling its pews, each crest finding its chair.

The hall fell silent.

Twenty seats at the round table. Eighteen occupied.

Two empty.

Viremont. That was expected.

But Shadowclaw’s empty chair was surprising.

The emptiness had weight. Shadowclaw was the largest pack in Skardos. The most territory. The most wolves. The most land. If the coordinated attacks had targeted Drakenfell, the logic was iron that they had targeted Shadowclaw as well.

And Shadowclaw’s seat was empty.

Alpha Blackvein spoke first. His voice was blunt and undecorated, his vocabulary trimmed of pleasantries by decades of military service.

"Has anyone received word from Shadowclaw? Status of their kingdom. Confirmation of whether they were attacked."

Silence.

The silence was the silence of eighteen kingdoms realizing simultaneously that none of them had information about the largest pack on the continent.

Alpha Ironreach leaned forward. His face carried honest, weathered gravity. His integrity had never been questioned, mostly because questioning it would have required finding a flaw, and the finding had never produced results.

"If they struck Drakenfell, they struck Shadowclaw. The two are the strongest military kingdoms in Skardos. You cannot cripple a continent without addressing both. The absence of a report is concerning."

Mindlinks started. Everyone pretended they weren’t doing it.

Tiberon’s eyes flicked to Hyran. The flick was brief. The brevity was a command disguised as a glance.

Hyran understood. He always understood. The glance translated to: what do we know, and the translation was instantaneous because Hyran Thornfell had been reading Tiberon Drakenfell’s glances for two decades and the vocabulary had been exhaustive since year five.

Dexmon and Gavriel both turned to look at Hyran as well with more hostility than necessary. Nothing felt wrong through their matebonds. Both their wolves were calm. Both were ignoring the fact that the other was looking at Hyran in the same way or that they had a matebond with the same girl. It was an elephant that was going to stay an elephant for now.

Hyran gave them both a flat, unimpressed look right back.

Hyran: I communicated with Aeron this morning. He confirmed that Serena is safe and that Shadowclaw’s keep was secure.

Tiberon: Were they attacked last night?

Hyran: Aeron did not report any attack on Shadowclaw territory.

Tiberon gave a single nod. The nod was received by the room as confirmation that Drakenfell’s intelligence network had verified Shadowclaw’s safety, which was true as far as the information extended and false in every direction it did not.

Dexmon: If they were attacked, I would have felt it last night.

The statement was delivered with the easy confidence of a Crown Prince whose mate was safe and whose intelligence was current.

Hyran: We all would have through our Hidden Flame marks. She’s fine.

Gavriel: Has Aeron informed Serena yet about the attacks?

Hyran: No. I told him not to. She didn’t come running to help yet. That means she doesn’t know.

Every word was reasonable. Every word was wrong. And nobody in the room, including the man who said them, had any idea how wrong they were about to find out.