"Orders are dust when the Mate's life is at stake."
LORD RIVEN OSTEL'S POV
The Northern Kingdom's Royal Keep was a study in controlled panic. The silence following King Alaric's furious departure was a strained, dangerous thing, heavier than the roar of the ongoing siege. I sat in the King's antechamber, the temporary nerve center of the Capital, attempting to untangle the communications mess left by Vorrath's spies, but the parchment blurred beneath my gaze.
I was the Regent now, holding the crown in the King's absence, but the authority felt thin, brittle, and utterly unwelcome. Every fiber of my being screamed not for strategy, but for the one thing I was denied: Kael. My hand trembled, not from the pressure of the war, but from the raw, agonizing ache of separation. My wolf, Ostel, was a cold, violent hurricane in my mind, its fury a constant, cutting counterpoint to my carefully maintained Beta composure.
