Greyhaven had become a city of shadows.
Every corridor whispered obedience. Every courtyard carried fear.
The kingdom bent, not to law, not to armies, but to the unseen hand of the Wolf.
Aren stood atop the cathedral tower, the cold wind biting, eyes sweeping across the city he had shaped.
Lysa and Caelis flanked him silently.
"No crown," Aren murmured, "has ever weighed so heavily… yet no crown has ever been so complete."
Rowan, confined to the palace, moved like a ghost.
Even his advisors now feared him more than they obeyed him.
The prince realized, too late, that the kingdom had shifted beneath his feet.
The northern lords bowed.
The southern lords whispered obedience.
The eastern cities fractured quietly, each noble unsure whom to trust.
Greyhaven itself was a web—and Aren was the spider at its center.
Lysa spoke softly:
"Do we strike the crown now?"
Aren shook his head.
"No need. The crown belongs to the Wolf already. It is not a piece of gold or steel.
It is obedience. It is fear. It is inevitability."
Even Rowan understood.
The throne he had clung to was meaningless.
The kingdom's power had already shifted… to shadows, whispers, and the Wolf himself.
Aren descended into the palace alone, silent as the night.
No one saw him enter.
No one dared stop him.
And yet, the city knew he had come.
The Wolf among kings had arrived.
Greyhaven, the north, the south, the fractured east—all were his.
And the kingdom's true ruler no longer wore the crown.
He wore the shadows.