Chapter 4: Whispers at the Feast

The bells of Blackthorn Palace tolled low and resonant, announcing the evening feast. Servants flitted about the grand dining hall, arranging silver goblets, pouring dark wine, and lighting hundreds of candles that bathed the room in a golden glow. The hall itself was enormous, the ceiling lost in shadow, its stone walls lined with banners bearing the crowned wolf sigil. At the far end stretched a long table of carved oak, where nobles, warriors, and councilors had already begun to gather.

Elara’s stomach twisted as she stood just beyond the heavy doors. She wore a gown of deep crimson silk, chosen not by her but by the palace seamstresses who had arrived that afternoon. The fabric clung to her curves, the neckline scandalously lower than anything she had ever dared to wear. Her hair had been braided with threads of silver, her lips painted faintly red. She looked every inch the bride of a king, but inside she felt like a lamb dressed for slaughter.

The doors opened. A hush fell across the hall.

Kaelen entered first, his dark presence drawing every eye. He wore black lined with silver, a simple crown resting against his midnight hair. His aura was dominance incarnate—commanding, magnetic, inescapable. And beside him, Elara followed, her heart hammering at the weight of so many stares.

Whispers rippled through the hall as they moved toward the high table. Some voices carried envy, others disbelief, and still others pity. Elara kept her gaze forward, though her cheeks burned.

At the head of the table, Kaelen gestured for her to sit beside him. She lowered herself onto the cushioned chair, the carved wood cold against her back.

Almost immediately, she felt the weight of another gaze.

Lucien.

He sat opposite them, lounging with an easy smile, his golden-brown eyes fixed shamelessly on her. He raised his goblet in silent toast, his lips curling into that same disarming grin she already despised.

“Eat,” Kaelen commanded softly, his voice rumbling close to her ear.

Trays were brought forth—roasted meats, bowls of steaming vegetables, bread baked golden. Elara lifted her fork with trembling fingers, forcing herself to eat though her appetite was nowhere to be found.

The hall filled with conversation and laughter, but beneath it all lingered a tension she could not shake. Her ears caught fragments—nobles whispering about her purity, warriors betting quietly on how long she would survive the king’s bed, councilors murmuring about heirs and succession.

She lowered her fork, nausea curling in her stomach.

Kaelen noticed. His hand slid beneath the table, resting lightly against her thigh. The touch made her flinch, her breath catching, but his grip steadied her, firm and possessive. His golden eyes turned to hers, a silent command burning in them: Do not falter.

Heat spread up her leg where his hand rested, her skin tingling with unwelcome awareness. She hated how her pulse quickened, how her body betrayed her even in this moment of humiliation.

“You will grow used to their stares,” Kaelen murmured, his voice low enough only for her to hear. “They envy what they cannot have.”

She wanted to snap that she did not want to be envied, that she wanted her freedom. But the words stuck in her throat.

Across the table, Lucien’s smirk widened, as though he could read every thought that passed through her mind.

The feast wore on, heavy with wine and merriment that did little to ease Elara’s unease. At one point, Lucien leaned forward, his voice carrying clearly enough for those nearby to hear.

“Brother, she is radiant tonight. Truly, the prophecy chose well.”

Kaelen’s hand tightened on Elara’s thigh, his jaw clenching. “Careful, Lucien.”

Lucien’s grin was wicked. “What? I speak only truth. One cannot help but admire such beauty. Surely you don’t intend to keep her brilliance hidden away?”

A few nobles chuckled nervously, their eyes darting between the brothers. The tension was palpable.

Elara shifted uncomfortably, wishing desperately to vanish into the stone floor.

Kaelen’s eyes burned with fury, but before he could respond, Lucien added softly, “If you ever tire of her, brother, perhaps—”

Kaelen’s goblet slammed onto the table with such force that wine splashed across the wood. The hall fell silent.

“She is mine,” Kaelen growled, his voice echoing like thunder. “And I do not share what is mine.”

The silence stretched, heavy and sharp. Lucien only lifted his goblet again, sipping his wine with infuriating calm.

“Of course,” he said smoothly, though his eyes flicked to Elara with a glimmer that promised mischief.

The feast resumed, though the air never lightened again.

When at last the plates were cleared and the nobles dismissed, Kaelen rose, pulling Elara up beside him. His grip on her arm was firm, possessive, as he led her from the hall. The corridors stretched long and shadowed, the only sounds their footsteps echoing on stone.

Finally, Elara dared to speak. “Why does your brother look at me that way?”

Kaelen’s jaw tightened. “Because Lucien desires what he cannot have. And he will test my patience until the day he dies.”

The sharpness in his voice made her shiver.

“And if he does more than look?” she whispered.

Kaelen stopped abruptly, turning to face her. His golden eyes burned with fierce intensity as he leaned close, his breath brushing her lips.

“Then I will kill him.”

Elara’s breath caught. The darkness in his tone was not a threat—it was a vow.

Before she could respond, he pulled her into motion again, guiding her toward her chambers. When they reached the door, he paused, his gaze lingering on her mouth. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still, his hand tightening on her arm, his lips lowering as though he might finally claim what prophecy had delivered to him.

But then, as if fighting some inner war, he released her suddenly.

“Sleep,” he said curtly, stepping back. His voice was strained, rough, as though torn between desire and restraint. “Tomorrow, your lessons begin.”

Elara’s hand pressed against the doorframe, her knees weak, her body aching with confusion. She wanted to ask what lessons, to demand what he meant, but the words never left her lips.

Kaelen turned sharply, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor.

And in that moment of silence, Elara felt another presence.

She glanced down the hall.

Lucien stood there, half-hidden in the flickering torchlight, his smile slow and knowing.

“Sleep well, little bride,” he murmured, his voice a velvet promise.

Elara’s heart lurched painfully in her chest.

For if Kaelen’s touch was fire, then Lucien’s smile was poison—and she had just stepped into a palace brimming with both.