The throne room of Vareldis had never been so divided.
Beneath the towering arches of black stone, the most powerful werewolves in the kingdom, the Council of Alphas stood in tense silence. Their golden eyes gleamed in the dim torchlight, their hands curled into fists, claws barely restrained. Some bared their teeth, others murmured low, their growls vibrating through the hall like distant thunder.
All of them were waiting for her to break.
Lady Elinore Gerville sat on the Lycan King's throne. A human, draped in royal black, her hands resting lightly on the carved arms of the seat. The contrast was almost blasphemous. This throne, made of dark iron and ancient wolfbone, had never been touched by mortal hands. And yet, here she was, regent of Vareldis, chosen by the late King himself.
"King Royd's decree is clear," Elinore said, voice steady. "By his will, I am to rule until his heir returns."
Across from her, Alpha Varkas Houndrake, one of the most ruthless werewolf warlords let out a sharp snarl.
"This is an insult, Regent. A human sitting on a throne of wolves?" His eyes, molten gold, locked onto her like a predator sizing up his next kill. "You are nothing. You have no right to rule us."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber, some agreeing, others remaining silent. The council was split.
Elinore held his gaze. "King Royd saw otherwise."
"He was a fool to trust your kind," Varkas spat. "I say we tear up this decree and take back what is ours."
He stepped forward, towering, deadly. The tension in the room thickened as other alphas shifted, muscles coiling in preparation for violence.
Elinore didn't move. Didn't flinch. Instead, she slowly tilted her chin up, meeting Varkas's rage with a calm, unwavering stare.
"If you wish to remove me," she said coolly, "then do it."
The air stilled.
For a moment, the only sound was the distant howl of wind against the stone towers. The Alphas watched, waiting. Would he strike her down? Would she die right here, right now?
Varkas' jaw clenched. He was a monster, but even he knew the truth. If he killed her, he would be going against King Royd's final command. Defying the will of the king, even a dead one, would send the kingdom into civil war.
Elinore watched as realization settled into his bones. Slowly, reluctantly, he stepped back.
But his next words were laced with a promise.
"You won't last, human," he murmured. "This throne will eat you alive."
She smiled. "Then let it try."
A heavy knock shattered the silence.
The great doors of the throne room swung open, and a royal messenger stumbled inside, breathless, his cloak dripping with rain. His voice echoed through the chamber, delivering the words that would shake the kingdom.
"The Lost Prince has returned!"
******
The ride back to the palace had been brutal.
Prince Randall Astor pulled his horse to a sharp stop just beyond the castle gates, his hands tight around the reins. The rain had turned the stone roads into rivers of mud, and his cloak was soaked through, but he barely noticed.
He shouldn't be here.
His father was dead.
Randall should have felt something. But all he could taste was bitterness. A century ago, he had left this kingdom, left the throne behind, wanting nothing to do with his father's rule. He had spent a hundred years drinking, fighting, and running. And now? He had returned to find the throne stolen by a human.
He kicked his horse forward. Let's see this Regent.
The throne room doors slammed open a second time that night.
Elinore barely had time to react before a figure strode in, rain dripping from his cloak, his golden eyes burning with fury.
Randall Astor.
The lost prince. The runaway heir.
Elinore didn't move as he stalked forward, wet boots echoing against the stone floor. He was taller than the werewolves around him, broader, his presence a storm brewing at the edges of the room. His long, dark hair was damp, strands clinging to his sharp jawline.
But it wasn't just his presence that sent a ripple through the court. It was the power rolling off him.
Randall wasn't just a werewolf. He was a Lycan.
And Lycans did not bow to humans.
The Council of Alphas remained silent, watching and waiting.
Randall stopped at the foot of the dais, looking up at her, his rage palpable.
"Get off my throne."
Elinore met his eyes, expression unshaken. "It isn't yours yet."
His growl was low, dangerous. "You dare—"
"I follow the law," she cut him off. "And the law says you are not king. Not yet."
The tension in the room crackled like lightning.
Randall clenched his jaw. He had imagined many things upon returning. That the council would be in turmoil. That the throne would be waiting for him.
But never this.
Never a human woman sitting where his father once ruled.
His eyes darkened. "You really think you can rule wolves, Regent?"
Elinore leaned forward, unbothered by his threat. "I already am."
A challenge. A dare. A war waiting to begin.
The Council remained still. No one would interfere in this moment.
Randall exhaled sharply, stepping closer. His claws extended, just slightly.
If she were anyone else, any other human, she would have backed down.
But Elinore only watched him, measured and unreadable. And Randall hated how much that unsettled him.
His voice dropped lower, quieter. "Enjoy your time on my throne, Regent. Because soon, you won't be on it at all."
He turned and left, leaving only the scent of rain and fury behind.
Elinore watched him go, her fingers tightening on the arms of the throne.
The lost prince had returned.
And whether he wanted it or not...
His kingdom was now hers.