The kingdom was silent, but fear pulsed through every corner like a heartbeat.
Aren walked through Greyhaven at night, unseen yet felt in every shadowed alley, every quiet street.
Even the palace seemed alive with tension.
Guards hesitated before doors. Servants whispered behind closed curtains. Nobles counted their breaths, unsure if they were being watched.
Aren paused in the throne room.
The crown gleamed under torchlight, yet it meant nothing.
Power no longer came from gold or title—it came from the shadows, and from the hearts of those who trembled beneath him.
Lysa approached, voice barely audible:
"The kingdom obeys, but fear breeds resentment. How far can we push them?"
Aren's eyes were sharp, cold as steel:
"Fear is infinite if tempered carefully. Obedience grows from shadows, suspicion, and inevitability.
They must fear me, yet believe themselves free. That is the heart of control."
Caelis nodded silently.
"The north, the south, the east… all bending. Even Rowan can no longer act without us knowing."
"Yes," Aren said. "Even kings fall before the invisible hand of the Wolf."
Outside, the city lay beneath a pale moon, silent and obedient.
Every whisper, every hesitation, every glance now served the Wolf.
Aren turned from the throne and looked toward the mountains in the north, the rivers in the east, the plains in the south.
"The kingdom is mine," he said softly.
"But the heart of fear… that is eternal.
And from it, all power flows."
The shadows shifted around him.
The Wolf was not just a ruler—he was the pulse, the unseen force, the inevitable hand that controlled Greyhaven and the lands beyond.