[System: Biometric match confirmed. Access granted to Attendant Anna.]
A biting, salt-crusted wind swept across the White Wolf harbor, carrying the metallic tang of blood and the promise of a reckoning.
On deck, Ragnar looked lethal in his black suit, the fabric straining against the sheer mass of his shoulders. His presence was overwhelming that the harbor guards instinctively lowered their heads as he passed. Charlotte followed a half-step behind him, clad in a heavy black uniform. Her eyes were downcast, but in the shadows of the gangway, her lips curled into a cold, lethal smile.
She was back.
"Welcome, Ragnar. Edric. Rowan."
A high, melodic voice rang out as Valeria approached, dressed in a white lace gown and flanked by a sycophants. She wore a practiced, graceful smile, but she raked her gaze over the three men, searching for even a flicker of the obsession she craved.
"You've all traveled so far; you must be exhausted. I've prepared a welcoming banquet in your honor," Valeria said, offering a shallow curtsy. She emboldened by their silence, she reached out to hook her arm through Ragnar's.
Ragnar let out a sharp grunt and sidestepped her without a second thought. "I couldn't care less about the coronation theatrics." he said, his voice grating. "I'm only here for the sake of clan stability."
Edric adjusted his glasses with practiced grace, smoothing over the tension with practiced ease. "We're grateful for the welcome, Lady Valeria, but we'd prefer to head straight to our quarters."
Rowan scoffed. "I'd rather spend the night in a lab than at a party," Rowan added, his tone as biting as ever. He didn't even give Valeria a passing glance.
Valeria's mask slipped for a second, but she quickly recovered her poise. "Of course. I'll escort you to the guest wing myself."
As they walked, Valeria hovered around the three men, desperate to engage them, trying to spark conversation about childhood memories or future clan alliances. But as they entered the palace proper, her gaze finally landed on the figure trailing Ragnar.
"I don't recognize this one." Valeria's voice sharpened with suspicion, laced with a strange, instinctive irritation.
Valeria was like a viper—she didn't need to see the face behind the mask to sense a threat in her territory.
Valeria pointed at her and barked an order to the nearby guards. "Our guests must be comfortable, but their staff will be handled separately. Men, take this young lady to the servants' quarters."
"No need," Ragnar snapped, stepping in front of Charlotte. His eyes flashed with a feral light. "Anna is my personal guard. She manages my Berserker symptoms. She stays with me."
Valeria opened her mouth to argue, but Ragnar cut her off before she could get a word out.
"Are you questioning how I manage my own guard, Lady Valeria? Because it sounds like you're overstepping."
Edric and Rowan exchanged a look. Though they were burning with envy that Ragnar got to "claim" her so publicly, they knew better than to break character.
"I... well, if she's the King's personal guard, we can certainly make an exception," Valeria squeezed out through gritted teeth. Her smile remained, but her eyes promised a slow death.
As Charlotte turned to follow Ragnar, she leaned in toward Valeria. For a split second, a razor-thin spike of Alpha dominance.
"Ugh!" Valeria drained of color. Her knees buckled, and she nearly hit the floor right there at the palace gates, a cold sweat breaking out across her brow.
"Something wrong, Lady Valeria?" Charlotte asked, her voice low and raspy behind her dull mask.
"It's... it's nothing." Valeria looked around in a panic, a primal dread rattling her bones. She looked at the servant girl, but saw only a pair of dull, vacant eyes. Fusty and spooked, she made a quick excuse and hurried away.
Charlotte watched her retreat with grim satisfaction. Just as she went to close the door, she caught a glimpse of a familiar figure in the shadows of the gallery. Authur met her eyes, his expression unreadable and weighted. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second—the signal that the trap was set.
Late that night, the White Wolf Palace was a sea of deceptive calm.
Charlotte sat in a hidden corner of Ragnar's suite, a custom-built deck balanced on her lap. Her fingers danced across a holographic interface, her eyes reflecting the flow of glowing blue code.
"Edric, trigger your media assets," she commanded quietly into her comms.
"Copy that, Charlotte. Every platform is about to see a very 'accidental' leak." Edric replied, his voice chillingly calm.
[KINGDOM MAIN STATION BREACHED. OVERRIDING PUBLIC BROADCAST CONTROL.]
The massive screens across the island, which had been looping promotional videos of Valeria's coronation, suddenly flickered and died.
A new video surged onto the displays. It was grainy but undeniable—the late King, speaking privately to Authur. "Valeria is rotten to the core; she is too narrow-minded to lead. Charlotte may be an orphan, but she has the spirit of a true King. Only she is fit to inherit my crown."
The island erupted. Within minutes, the sound of a thousand questioning voices rose like a fever.
Meanwhile, Valeria was racing toward the war room, her composure shattered by the broadcast. She needed to huddle with her inner circle, but Authur was already waiting for her in the hall.
"Valeria, have you heard the news?" Authur asked, blocking her path.
"It's a forgery! A lie planted by that traitor Charlotte!" Valeria shrieked, her mask of elegance finally falling away. "Authur, surely you aren't as stupid as the rest of them?"
"You're right, you aren't fit for the crown," Authur said coldly. "But the victor writes the history. I can quiet the masses for you. I can even show you how to wear the Royal Signet without it rejecting you. But the price is high: you must pardon every one of Charlotte's loyalists scheduled for execution."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Valeria stammered, trying to regain her footing. "I already told you, Charlotte stole the ring."
Authur didn't push. "Fine. You'll understand eventually," he said, turning to walk away.
Once alone, Valeria hurried to the deepest vault in the basement. She had no idea that a shadow-like figure was perched in the ventilation shaft above, recording her every move with an infrared lens.
Through the camera, Charlotte watched as Valeria pulled an ancient silver ring from a box, its surface etched with complex runes.
Valeria reached out to put it on, but the moment the metal touched her skin, it erupted in a violent red light. She screamed as the ring scorched her finger black.
She hurled the ring back into the safe, her face twisted in a manic rage.
Charlotte let out a silent, icy laugh. The ring didn't just burn; it judged. And as Valeria shrieked, Charlotte knew the throne was already hers.