Greyhaven, once a city of banners and councils, now breathed only in whispers.
The kingdom had bent to the Wolf, yet its heart still pulsed beneath the surface—quiet, fragile, and watched.
Aren walked through the silent streets, Lysa and Caelis at his side.
No one dared approach. No one dared speak.
Even the crown in the palace sat untouched, a hollow symbol of what power once meant.
"The Wolf does not leave scars," Aren murmured.
"He leaves obedience. Shadows. Fear. And a kingdom that moves without question."
Reports arrived from every corner of the realm:
The north remained loyal, quietly obedient.
The south had fallen completely under control, alliances dissolved without battle.
The fractured east whispered of rebellion but dared no action.
Greyhaven itself had become a city of shadows, its ruler powerless before the Wolf's unseen hand.
Lysa spoke softly, almost to herself:
"Is there nothing that can challenge him?"
Aren's gaze was sharp, his voice calm, yet absolute:
"Every kingdom has its rulers. Some lead with swords, some with gold. But the Wolf rules through inevitability.
The legacy is not in glory or banners—it is in silence, shadows, and hearts that bend willingly."
Even Rowan, confined and powerless, understood the truth too late:
The crown no longer held authority.
The Wolf held it all—the loyalty of the provinces, the obedience of lords, the fear of soldiers, and the whispers of every citizen.
Aren turned from the palace towers to the horizon.
"The kingdom is mine," he said, voice low, cold as winter.
"And the legacy of the Wolf… will endure long after crowns are dust, swords rust, and kings are forgotten."
Outside, Greyhaven slept silently.
The Wolf's shadow had become the heartbeat of the kingdom.
And that heartbeat… would never stop.