The first light of dawn stretched over Greyhaven, painting the towers gold and red.
Yet the city moved not in celebration, but in quiet obedience.
Aren walked through the palace halls, unguarded, unchallenged.
Every noble, every courtier, every soldier gave way as he passed.
Even the crown, heavy with history, sat unused.
Power no longer rested upon it—it rested in the Wolf's presence, his shadow, his will.
Rowan knelt in the audience chamber, silent and broken.
He realized at last that the crown he sought could not protect him.
Not when fear ruled hearts and whispers controlled minds.
Aren stopped before the throne, hands resting lightly on its armrests.
"The Wolf does not need a crown," he said softly.
"The crown only signifies what the kingdom already knows: obedience is the true ruler.
Fear binds. Shadows guide. And inevitability wins."
Lysa, standing behind him, nodded.
"Every province obeys. Every city bends. Even the prince's court trembles."
"Yes," Aren replied. "The kingdom is mine—not through armies, not through conquest, but through mastery of the unseen."
Outside, Greyhaven was silent.
The streets, the towers, the markets—every corner echoed the pulse of the Wolf.
The north, the south, the fractured east—all held in the web of shadows.
Aren gazed from the highest tower, the wind carrying whispers of obedience and fear.
The Wolf had not merely taken the kingdom.
He had become its heartbeat, its shadow, its inevitable hand.
The throne room remained empty, yet the city knew: the Wolf had ascended.
The kingdom was his, in every whisper, every fear, every shadow.
And no crown, no sword, no army could ever change that.