Silas sat at the head of the long wooden table, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he listened to the elders argue.
The room smelled faintly of burning oil and old parchment, the heavy curtains drawn just enough to keep the afternoon light from fully spilling in. Shadows clung to the corners of the council chamber, stretching and shifting with every flicker of the flames in the sconces.
"The matter cannot be delayed any longer," Elder Varin said, his voice thin but sharp. "The pack needs stability. The throne cannot remain in uncertainty while the princess runs wild with rogues."
A murmur of agreement followed.
Silas did not immediately respond.
He let the silence stretch, let their impatience build. It was a tactic he had learned long ago—people revealed more when they were desperate to fill quiet.
"She is the rightful heir," another elder countered, though without much conviction. "We cannot simply—"
