The kingdom no longer whispered—it obeyed.
Greyhaven's streets were alive with movement, yet every action was guided by the unseen hand of the Wolf.
Aren stood atop the cathedral tower, wind tugging at his cloak.
Below, the lords bowed in silent council. Soldiers marched without question. Merchants traded cautiously, every coin weighed against unseen consequences.
Even Rowan, once a prince of power, moved like a shadow in his own palace.
Lysa approached, voice quiet, reverent:
"Every corner bends. The crown sits untouched. The people obey… but… will this last?"
Aren's gaze swept the horizon, cold and unyielding.
"Fear lasts as long as it is maintained. Shadows endure where vigilance never falters. The Wolf does not claim kingdoms—he shapes them, binds them, and ensures they cannot rise again without breaking themselves first."
Caelis spoke from the edge of the tower:
"Even distant provinces… even the fractured east… they whisper loyalty. No rebellion, no resistance."
"Yes," Aren said softly. "Each step we've taken, each whisper sown, each doubt nurtured… has built a legacy that cannot be undone.
This is the Wolf's inheritance: obedience, inevitability, and shadows eternal."
Rowan realized, finally and completely, that he had lost everything.
The crown was meaningless.
The throne was meaningless.
The kingdom itself—its cities, its lords, its soldiers—was no longer his to command.
It belonged to the shadows, to fear, and to the Wolf.
Aren lifted his hand toward the horizon.
"The kingdom bends.
The lords obey.
The people fear.
The Wolf endures.
And the legacy… is absolute."
The night fell quietly over Greyhaven.
Every street, every alley, every tower pulsed with the heartbeat of the Wolf.
And that heartbeat… would never cease.