Chapter 116: Die first !

King Jared sat at the head of the table in the grand food hall with a slightly bored look on his face. His gaze was low, almost heavy-lidded, as if he could barely muster the will to remain present.

His wife, Clara, sat beside him, regal and distant. He gave his food more attention than he gave her. Each movement of his hand—from plate to mouth—was methodical, indifferent. The silver spoon clinked against his plate with quiet rhythm, echoing faintly in the enormous hall.

Around the vast, arched space, council members and high-ranking figures within the court sat in stiff lines, positioned according to rank and bloodline. Candlelight flickered against the tall stone walls, casting long shadows over sharp faces and twitching ears.

The distinguishing trait—their beast—the mark of what they truly were, betrayed their restraint. Large, muscular bodies sat draped in rich garments, but the furry ears atop their heads twitched constantly, reacting to sounds, scents, and emotions with a life of their own. Unruly. Primal. Barely contained.

Everything looked serene. Orderly. Servants—also werewolves—moved swiftly through the rows, pouring wine, setting down dishes stacked with steaming meats and wildroot vegetables. They moved with precision, eyes lowered, hands graceful.

But the illusion of peace was paper-thin.

At the far ends of the table, laughter and conversation floated like mist. The lower-ranked guests ate with ease—some even cheerfully, tearing into meat with satisfaction. But the closer one got to Jared, the more the air seemed to choke. Plates remained full. Jaws worked stiffly. Some only mimed the act of eating, holding food to their lips without biting, as if the very idea of chewing might be taken as a slight.

At the very top of that strained circle sat Lord Falson, a man built of muscle and tension, who internally cursed the day he accepted his council title. Strategist. Spy master. Unlucky fool.

He didn’t lift his gaze. Didn’t move. His thoughts tangled around themselves as he debated whether to speak, or remain silent and invisible. It was a gamble either way. With King Jared, silence could be just as damning as words.

The thought had barely settled when a soft sound pierced the tense air—the scrape of silver against porcelain.

Falson’s entire body tensed.

Before the king even opened his mouth, Falson’s gut told him: this wasn’t going to end well.

"Falson."

Just his name. Nothing more. But it cut through the air like a drawn blade.

He rose quickly, face schooled into calm neutrality, though his stomach coiled like a trapped animal. He didn’t dare to show hesitation, though he had no updates—nothing worth the king’s attention.

And yet Jared spoke again, low and precise.

"...I understand that you have no new information to give. If you had... you would have given it already."

The words landed like stones in Falson’s chest. Cold truth, as always. He bowed his head deeper, brows furrowed tightly, not daring to defend himself. Not daring to meet the king’s eyes.

"Zyren has called for another peace meeting. He thinks trouble is on the horizon."

The statement tightened the air across the table like a noose. Falson’s brows drew lower, thoughts racing.

"My king! You think he’s planning to make a move?" he asked, keeping his voice steady even as unease flickered behind his eyes.

Further down the table, Brilla—a sharp-eyed councilwoman with tightly wound silver braids—sat still as stone. She didn’t speak. Neither did Kannedy, a hulking man with a scar down one eye who oversaw the military. Both remained utterly still, resisting the urge to even shift in their seats.

They all knew the roles.

Brilla governed welfare. Kannedy the forces. Falson was the spy and the mind. If he

looked rattled, if he feared the king’s tone—then the rest of them would do well to remain silent and unseen.

"Make a move and go against the peace treaty? Zyren? No."

Jared’s voice was calm—too calm. His tone sliced through the hall with an unnerving finality. Kannedy, though disturbed, kept his expression smooth and nodded stiffly, offering no comment.

"Zyren was the one who asked for it and ensured it came to be after the hundred year war."

"War isn’t something Zyren wants. But I’m definitely not against it."

There it was.

The entire hall, though appearing composed, collectively stilled in a way that was visceral. They all heard it. Every ear—beast or otherwise—perked toward the word: war.

The conversation had sounded casual, subdued even. But now? Now the blood had thickened in the room.

Even Clara, who had been eating quietly at her husband’s side with perfect grace and detachment, paused mid-motion. Her fork hovered, suspended in the air. Her eyes widened slightly as she turned toward Jared, surprise flickering across her porcelain features.

"Yes, you heard me."

Jared’s voice carried now—no longer intimate, but deliberate. It filled the space, claiming it.

His eyes swept the table. The long, gilded table where every powerful wolf in the kingdom now sat frozen in silent attention.

"Vampires will always be our natural enemy. We can sign treaties all we want, but a day will come when we are weaker. When our bloodlines grow more mixed..."

The word hung in the air like a curse.

More and more werewolves had begun coupling with humans—despite the ban. And children born of those unions were halflings, neither strong nor loyal enough to carry the true blood forward.

"They might have less population than us, but the ones with bloodline powers can take out entire villages by themselves."

"Regardless of now... our sole aim is to wipe them off the face of the earth."

His voice was thunder now. Final. Ancient. And though he sat still, a storm brewed beneath his words. It echoed off the marble, wrapped around every flickering flame, every breath held in the room.

His father had died chasing that vision.

And his father before him.

The only reason Jared had signed the treaty was because he’d been too young—too weak—to carry on the war. But he had not forgotten. He had never let go of the goal.

No one at the table was eating now. The food was forgotten. The servants stood back, eyes lowered, barely breathing.

Then, Jared’s voice softened—not in warmth, but in focus. He leaned into his chair, his expression cruel and composed, a slow smirk curling at the edge of his mouth.

"He has invited me to their main city this time around. I will go."

His eyes found Falson. The weight of it was unbearable. Even without lifting his gaze, Falson felt it, scorching down his spine like fire.

"Falson. During this trip, we will find a way to kill Zyren... or you might as well offer your head to me on a stick."

The silence that followed wasn’t silence at all. It was suffocating.

Falson’s heart thundered in his chest, pounding so loudly he thought it might betray him. Jared had just issued a command. An ultimatum. An execution order hidden in royal silk.

And everyone at that table knew exactly what had just been said.