Stone benches curved around the great hall, each marked with old family symbols. Sweat and fur mixed with the faint smoke of incense. At the centre, a table held maps, knives, and rings—proof of power. Every shadow, every stone, whispered the Alpha King's rule.
The council chamber was built to intimidate, and just like it has been on most meeting days, today was pretty loud.
"Three meetings," an elder said sharply. "Three. And the Northern region sends no Alpha for council."
"They send taxes anyway," another elder replied. "Perfect records."
"But their Alpha no longer attends council. That is not loyalty." The elder snapped.
"What would you have them do, after the King's actions?" another asked. "He canceled their engagement. Publicly. Without explanation."
"The late king promised that union himself. And now, their daughter is disgraced. Which household will entertain that?"
Several elders nodded in agreement.
Cough. Cough.
Lord Kesh cleared his throat as he changed topics. "The neighbours crossed the river again last night, and that makes it the fourth time this month. Fourth. And now is not the time for idle gossip. We can no longer pretend that they're scouts anymore. They are testing us!"
"And so you want the King to give you permission to burn an entire village?" a known voice replied coolly.
Lord Kesh turned in the direction of the voice. "I want permission to remind them who owns the border."
"You can no..." The voice gets cut as the court doors open, before the argument could escalate into shouting, and at its entrance was none other than the Alpha Jayce -- the Alpha King, unceremoniously.
The Alpha King stepped inside, and with his presence came a shift in the atmosphere -- pressure settling low and heavy, like a storm choosing where to break.
Every conversation died mid-sentence.
Chairs scraped back. The Lords and Elders all stood. Heads bowed, including those two.
Some bowed deep. And others are just appropriate. Some stiffened and straightened like men bracing for impact.
The Alpha Jayce did not hurry. He walked to the high-backed chair at the head of the table, placed one hand on the stone, and did not sit.
"Continue," he said.
His voice was calm. That was worse.
"Your Majesty. We have reports that rebels from the eastern lowlands have crossed the river again. They did not raid, nor did they steal, yes, but they marked trees, Your Majesty." They left signs, and that has us concerned," Lord Kesh reported.
"Signs of what?" the Alpha asked.
Kesh hesitated. "We do not know their intent yet, but we believe that that does not bode well."
The Alpha King nodded once. "Intent is not action."
"No," Kesh continued. "But this cannot be overlooked. A dog that will not bite will not show you its teeth."
A murmur ran through the chamber.
Another councillor leaned forward. "Your Majesty, with respect, the eastern lowlands have always pushed boundaries. They test because they believe you are—"
He stopped.
The Alpha King's gaze had moved to him.
"Because they believe I am what?" the Alpha King asked impatiently.
The man cleared his throat. "New.
Silence fell again.
The Alpha King finally sat on the elevated royal seat.
The centuries-old seat did not creak under his weight. It never had. The chair had been reinforced generations ago for men like him. His hands rested flat on the armrests, fingers relaxed, posture immaculate. If anyone else in the room felt the tension, it did not touch his face.
"New," the Alpha King repeated. "My father ruled for over fifty years before his passing. I did not inherit chaos. I inherited order."
"Yes, Your Majesty," several voices said at once.
"Then why," he continued evenly, "are my borders being traced like prey?"
No one answered.
He leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. The maps shifted slightly under the pressure. "Send riders tonight," he said. "Not soldiers, only some of our riders. Let them be seen."
Kesh frowned. "Seen, but not armed?"
"They will be armed, secretly," the Alpha King said. "But they will not strike. Yet."
A younger lord scoffed quietly. "That makes us look weak, your Majesty.
The Alpha King looked at him.
The scoff died in the man's throat.
"Weakness", the Alpha smirked and continued, "is mistaking restraint for fear."
He stood again, towering now. "If they cross again after tonight, you will not need permission to burn anything. I will give the order myself."
That was power. Not shouted. Not dramatised. Delivered like weather.
Relief moved through the room, mixed with unease.
Another councillor shifted the topic quickly. "There is also the matter of the northern trade route. Merchants are refusing passage unless they receive guarantees of protection."
"They will receive protection," the Alpha King said.
"With respect, Your Majesty," the man pressed, "they want to know how."
The Alpha King smiled faintly. It did not reach his eyes.
"Because anyone who harms them will lose land," he said. "Then titles. Then sons."
No one argued that.
This was not a ceremonial ruler.
This was a man who commanded by presence alone.
A pause followed, long enough for someone braver—or stupider—to speak.
"What of the marriage treaty?" an elder asked carefully. "The sub-regional alliance. The one your father arranged."
The Alpha King's fingers curled once against the table, but he ignored the question.
"The delay is causing unrest, your Majesty," the elder continued.
"Is there something wrong? Could that be why the sub-leader of that region has stopped coming for council meetings?" Another joined.
"Be quiet!" the Alpha King growled. "If there's nothing else important to discuss, then this meeting is adjourned."
"No, your Majesty. We still have more state matters to discuss with you..." Some of the council members quickly interjected.
The elder who had started the marriage conversation did not push further. He had lived long enough to know when a subject was closed.
The council discussion then moved on—to taxes, to grain stores, to wolves lost on the southern cliffs. The Alpha King listened, corrected, and decided. At one point he rose and crossed the room to point at a map himself, issuing instructions so precise the scribes struggled to keep up.
"—Grain tariffs from the southern corridor have stalled again," Councillor Venn droned. d. d. "If we do not respond—"
King Jayce's vision blurred.
Not suddenly. Not dramatically. It came like heat rising off stone—slow, insidious. His stomach clenched. A sharp, humiliating nausea twisted beneath his ribs.
He inhaled once. Controlled.
No one noticed.
"…the merchants are already complaining. Public sentiment—"
The Alpha King turned sharply, one hand braced against the table as bile burnt his throat. He swallowed hard, jaw clenched, forcing the sensation down through sheer will.
A healer at the back stepped forward instinctively.
"I am fine," the King said, voice rougher now.
"Your Majesty..."
"Stay where you are," the Alpha Jayce snapped.
He straightened fully, shoulders squared, face unreadable again. "The council is not dismissed."
But eyes had already changed. Whispers had already been born.
A lord leaned toward another and murmured, "He looked pale."
"Stress," someone whispered back. "The borders—"
"No," a third voice said softly. "That was not stress."
The Alpha King resumed his seat, ignoring them all, continuing the meeting as if nothing had happened. His commands did not falter. His authority did not waver.
But beneath the table, his hand trembled once.
His mouth filled with saliva.
No.
Not now.
Alpha Jayce lifted one hand, precise. "Pause."
The word cracked through the chamber. Kesh stopped mid-sentence. Every councillor straightened. Quills froze. Even the guards by the doors adjusted their footing.
He rose.
The room followed him upward instinctively. Alpha presence pressed outward—measured, commanding—enough to keep order, not enough to alarm. He took one step forward.
The nausea surged.
His vision went white.
And then, without warning, the room tilted.
It was subtle at first. A tightness low in his stomach. Heat rising too quickly. The Alpha King paused mid-sentence, fingers still resting on the map.
"Your Majesty?" someone asked.
He straightened. "Continue."
But the pressure did not fade. It climbed. Sharp. Sudden.
He inhaled—and gagged.
The sound was wrong. Too vulnerable, too exposed. It echoed violently against stone.
Jayce bent at the waist, and a stream of vomit landed onto the council table, splashing on the elders close by.
For half a heartbeat, no one spoke. No one understood what they were seeing. Then a few that had been splashed were still yet to process what was going on.
Then—
Gasps rippled through the chamber.
"Oh—!"
"My King—!"
"Get water—no, a physician—"
Chairs scraped. A councillor dropped his datapad; it clattered absurdly loud. One of the younger aides made a small, panicked noise that sounded suspiciously like a squeak.
Jayce straightened slowly.
Silence snapped back into place.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, deliberate and unapologetic. His eyes—still sharp, still dangerous—lifted to scan the room.
No one spoke.
No one breathed.
"I am well," he said. His voice did not waver.
A councillor swallowed. Another nodded too quickly. Someone—no one would ever admit who—whispered, barely audible: "…is he poisoned?"
Jayce ignored them all. He turned and gestured once to the guards. "Clean this."
He resumed his seat as if nothing had happened.
The council obeyed.
Those splashed moved seats as the meeting continued, as if nothing of the sort had happened.
Proceedings resumed—stiffer now, faster, eyes flicking toward the dais every few seconds. Jayce listened, responded, and issued decisions with surgical clarity. If his stomach still twisted, if sweat gathered cold at the base of his spine, he gave no sign.
By the time the meeting adjourned, order had been restored. Authority intact.
Reputation untouched. Almost.
Outside the chamber, the palace corridors exhaled. Servants clustered near doorways. Guards leaned closer to one another than regulation allowed.
A junior secretary whispered urgently into his wrist-com. "Did you see that?"
"I swear he looked pale."
"My pregnant aunt is also like that sometimes."
"What nonsense, alphas can't—"
"Don't be stupid. Who told you only preg..."
"But what if—"
*
Far from the capital, in a quiet sub-regional estate, a man who was not at council bent over a basin and retched, gutting all the contents of his already empty stomach, confused, irritated, unaware that his body was echoing a king's far off in the state capital.