The golf course stretched endlessly beneath a pale sky, a masterpiece of perfectly trimmed grass rolling like green velvet toward the horizon. Soft wind whispered through the trees lining the fairways, carrying the faint scent of pine and wealth. It was the kind of place where powerful people came to pretend they were at peace—where deals were sealed with polite smiles and silver putters, and the illusion of control felt almost real.
Elena Cromwell stood mid-course, club balanced lightly in her hands, her posture flawless. She swung with surgical precision. The ball soared clean and elegant across the field, landing exactly where she intended.
Just like her.
A servant nearby offered a light, deferential clap. "Perfect shot, ma'am."
She didn't smile. Didn't acknowledge him. Her gaze remained fixed on the distant ball, mind already moving three steps ahead as always.
Then the wind shifted.
It wasn't stronger. It wasn't noticeably colder. But something changed—subtle, wrong, like a shadow falling where none should be.
Elena's grip tightened around the club until the leather creaked. Her instincts, honed by ten years on the All Alpha's throne, stirred with a familiar dread. That same feeling she hadn't tasted in a decade.
Slowly, she turned.
Far across the field, where the manicured green bled into shadowed tree line, a figure stood motionless. Too distant to make out clearly, yet close enough that the air itself seemed to bend around him.
Her breath slowed. Her eyes narrowed.
For one unguarded second, her composed mask cracked.
Fear—raw, real, and unfiltered—flashed across her face.
He didn't move. Not yet.
He let the distance stretch. Let the memory crawl back into her mind. That broken hall. That throne. That cold, unforgiving voice.
Then he started walking.
No rush. No urgency. Just inevitability.
Each step fell silent against the grass, yet somehow heavy, as though the world itself acknowledged his return and bent beneath the weight.
The servants felt it too. One stepped back involuntarily. Another lowered their head without understanding why.
Elena didn't move. She didn't call for guards. She didn't speak.
She waited.
Because she knew running would only make it worse.
He came closer. Closer still. Until his face finally resolved from the haze.
Unchanged. Not older. Not softer.
Just colder.
Then a voice cut through the tension, smooth and edged with sharp awareness.
"Long time no see… partner."
Jonathan Lannister stepped into view from the side path, hands casually tucked into his pockets, posture relaxed. But his eyes locked onto the approaching figure with the precision of a man who had once trained to become the royal knight second only to the throne.
Luke Ross stopped.
Not because he was blocked.
Because he chose to.
A brief, loaded silence settled between them, thick with history that had never truly been buried.
Luke spoke first, voice low and calm.
"You're still standing."
Jonathan offered a faint smirk. "Same to you."
Another pause.
"Thought you were dead."
Luke's gaze didn't waver. "You should've made sure."
The wind stilled completely.
Elena steadied her breath, forcing her grip on the club to remain controlled even as her pulse hammered. Her voice emerged steady, every syllable polished.
"What is the meaning of this? Why are you here?"
She held his gaze, desperately trying to bury the fear beneath layers of authority.
Luke tilted his head ever so slightly. Not amused. Not angry. Just acknowledging something inevitable.
"Did you forget what I said…?"
A deliberate pause.
"Or do you want me to take you down memory lane?"
The words struck like a silver blade. Elena's expression hardened instantly, the crack in her armor sealing over with practiced speed.
"You haven't changed," she said, taking a measured step forward. "Still as ill-mannered and disrespectful as ever."
Luke didn't react. Didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.
"I do have respect," he replied evenly.
A beat.
"For those who deserve it."
His eyes locked onto hers, colder now, stripped of any pretense.
"You just happen to be the exception."
The air tightened, heavy with unspoken violence.
Jonathan stepped in slightly, his tone no longer casual. "Alright… enough."
He turned his sharp gaze on Luke. "What do you want?"
Luke shifted his attention briefly to Jonathan, then back to Elena. Straight to the point.
"Fine."
He took one measured step forward.
"Miss Iris is seventeen."
The silence stretched, taut and dangerous.
"By the age of eighteen… she will be ready."
Another pause—not hesitation, but deliberation.
"Ready to inherit Lord Lucian's legacy."
The weight of those words dropped fully, undeniable.
Luke's voice never rose, yet it carried absolute finality.
"Until then…"
A slow, controlled breath.
"I would advise you—"
A slight, deliberate emphasis. Not a request.
"—to step down from the throne."
Silence fell, heavy and unavoidable.
No overt threat. No raised aggression.
Just a statement.
Like something already decided.