Chapter 4 The Weight Of Thrones

Logan Cross

The council chamber smelled of aged wood and old power. I sat at the massive table, watching the pack elders file in with their carefully neutral expressions, and felt the weight of the Alpha mantle settle across my shoulders.

Seventy-two hours since I'd announced Isabel's banishment. Seventy-two hours since my father had tried to warn her, since I'd been forced to play a role so convincing even I'd started to believe it.

The door opened, and Seraphina entered. She moved like liquid fire in her crimson gown, every line of her body calculated to remind everyone in the room what power looked like. She took the seat beside me, placing her hand on my arm with possessive grace. Around the table, the elders' eyes fixed on us with hunger.

"The ceremony was flawless," Elder Marcus said, his weathered face carefully composed. "The territorial dignitaries have been suitably impressed. Your alliance with the Blackwood Pack should significantly strengthen our position against the northern territories."

Marcus. My mentor in all but name. The man my father trusted with secrets that could topple kingdoms. The man who was absolutely lying right now.

"Excellent," I said, keeping my voice level and my expression neutral. "We'll begin immediate discussions with the Blackwoods about resource sharing and territory expansion."

Seraphina's hand tightened on my arm. She was good, disturbingly good. But I'd been trained by Lysander Cross, a man who'd perfected the art of appearing trustworthy while orchestrating things that couldn't be spoken of. Compared to my father's manipulation, Seraphina was an amateur.

The council dispersed slowly. I waited until we were alone, then turned to Seraphina with calculated tenderness.

"You were magnificent tonight," I said, taking her hand. "They believed everything."

She smiled, but there was something in her eyes that hadn't been there before. Doubt, perhaps. Or the first crack in whatever carefully constructed personality she'd built for this infiltration. "Logan, about Isabel..."

"Don't," I interrupted, keeping my voice soft but laced with Alpha command. "We don't speak her name. She's gone, and dwelling on sentiment is a weakness we can't afford."

The lie tasted bitter. But lies were what I did now. What I'd always done. What my father had taught me to do from childhood.

After Seraphina left, I moved through the mansion in darkness. My private study was located behind a painting of my ancestor, a painted mockery of the Alpha ideal. Inside, on my desk, was a burner phone.

I'd had exactly forty-seven seconds with Kael before the ceremony. Forty-seven seconds to convey that Isabel needed to be found, protected, and brought to safety. Forty-seven seconds to trust my half-brother, the man my father had exiled years ago to keep his existence secret with the only thing in the world that actually mattered to me anymore.

The phone buzzed. A single message: Found her. She's safe. But Logan, she's asking questions about the historical gaps. She's figured out that this isn't random.

I stared at the screen, allowing myself one moment of genuine emotion before burying it beneath calculated response.

Kael didn't know the full scope of what my father had done. Neither did Isabel. They were operating under the assumption that Lysander's crimes were historical, contained. They didn't understand that the present crisis was merely the visible edge of something far deeper. The genetic research. The binding spells. The ancient council that had been orchestrating werewolf society for centuries while keeping most Alphas blissfully ignorant.

I discovered the truth three years ago when I was twenty-five. I found the prophecy, an old text written in a language that predated pack hierarchy. It spoke of a hybrid awakening, an omega-Alpha union that would dismantle the carefully constructed power structures that kept humanity enslaved.

My father had shown me the prophecy without explanation, just watched as I read the implications. Then he'd asked a simple question: "If everything we've built rested on preventing one person from discovering their true nature, what would you be willing to do?"

At twenty-five, I'd given him the answer he wanted to hear. I would do anything.

At twenty-eight, I understood what that answer had cost.

The problem was that I'd already rejected my fated mate. The bond between us had been real, terrifyingly, inconveniently real. Every instinct I had as an Alpha screamed at me to reclaim her, to bind her to me permanently, to protect her from a truth that would destroy everything she believed. But fated bonds created vulnerability, and vulnerability was a luxury I couldn't afford if I was going to protect her properly.

My phone buzzed again. Another message, this one from my father: The binding spell is prepared. When it activates, her omega abilities will be permanently sealed. She'll live a normal life, free from the burden of her potential.

I deleted the message without responding. My father had a gift for reframing atrocity as compassion.

The knock on the study door came at 2 AM. I opened it to find Lysander standing in the hallway, looking exactly as he had at the ceremony—implacable, controlled, ancient in ways that had nothing to do with his physical age.

"She's safe with Kael," he said without preamble.

"I know."

"And she's asking questions that will lead her to conclusions we're not prepared for her to reach."

"Also expected," I said. "Isabel is intelligent. That's why the prophecy identifies her as a threat."

My father's expression hardened. "The binding spell..."

"Won't work if she's bonded to someone else," I interrupted. "The spell is designed to target pure omega bloodlines. Mixed Alpha-omega genetics would require a different approach."

Understanding flickered across Lysander's face. "You're planning to have Kael claim her."

"I'm planning to present her with choices, which is more than either of us ever had," I said quietly. "And I'm planning to ensure that whatever happens next, happens on her terms."

"You're playing a dangerous game, Logan. The council doesn't tolerate insubordination."

"The council has spent centuries believing that fear and manipulation were the only languages we understand," I said. "Perhaps it's time we taught them otherwise."

Lysander studied me for a long moment, and I saw something shift in his expression. "You're in love with her."

"Yes," I admitted. "And I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure she never finds out that I was part of the conspiracy to suppress her potential."

"That secret will destroy you both when it emerges," Lysander warned.

"Probably," I agreed. "But at least she'll be alive to hate me for it."

After my father left, I stood alone in my study and allowed myself to remember the three months with Isabel. The way she'd laughed when I'd brought her coffee with too much cream. The vulnerability in her voice when she'd asked if I thought she was worthy.

My phone buzzed. A news alert: Warehouse fire on the outskirts of Crescent Moon territory. Multiple casualties reported.

My hand clenched around the phone. Kael had written that they would be safe.

I pulled up the secondary phone and called him directly. It rang twice before he answered, and I could hear chaos in the background, sirens, shouting, water on flame.

"She's alive," Kael said before I could speak. "We got out. But Logan, the hunters weren't random. Someone gave them specific orders. Someone who knew exactly where we were."

My blood ran cold. "Who?"

"That's what you need to tell me. Because the only people with that kind of information are on your side of this war. And if you're asking me to protect her, I need to know whether I'm protecting her from external threats or internal ones."

The line went dead.

I sat in darkness, understanding finally that the game had changed. Isabel was alive and asking questions. The hunters knew where the safe house was. Someone in my inner circle was reporting to the council. And Kael, my half-brother, my most valuable asset, was beginning to understand that the conspiracy we were fighting wasn't something my father had invented.

It was something we were all part of.