—Safira, do you feel nothing for your Solar Wolf?
She teased.
—You seem to leave him too quiet, the poor thing cowers beneath your paw.
She played, glancing at Theodor while her eyes lingered on his golden hair.
—Theodor can still become a better Alpha,
she murmured.
—I cannot give up for that reason alone. I still have hope in him.
Safira remained silent for far too long.
The kind of pause that was not disdain. It was choice.
—Feelings, I have, — she answered at last, her voice less sharp than usual. —The problem lies precisely there.
Elizabeth arched a brow, amused.
—So there is a heart beneath all that pride.
—Do not confuse feeling with indulgence, — Safira countered. —The Solar Wolf is strong, strategic, far too handsome for his own good… and dangerously accustomed to being forgiven.
She growled low, more to herself than to Elizabeth.
—He has everything it takes to be a better Alpha. That is what irritates me. Wasted potential stinks more than incompetence.
Elizabeth tilted her head, observing Theodor at a distance. The daylight made his golden hair appear almost unreal, as if the sun had chosen him on purpose. He spoke now with another Alpha, serious, attentive, gesturing sparingly. When he listened, he truly listened. When he spoke, he was heard.
—He listens when he wants, — murmured Elizabeth. —Today, he listened.
—Because he was cornered, — Safira corrected. —I want to see him listen when there is no Council, no temple, no shadow of Samael looming over him.
Elizabeth smiled faintly.
—You are demanding.
—I am a she-wolf, — Safira retorted. —Demand keeps the pack alive. Blind affection kills.
She followed Elizabeth's gaze to Theodor, and for a moment her voice lost its edge.
—I do not hate him, — she admitted. —If I did, I would have torn more than his dignity today. What I feel is vigilance. And expectation.
Elizabeth twirled her glass once more before sipping.
—So it is not indifference.
—Never was, — Safira murmured. —It is a test.
Theodor's laughter sounded again, more restrained now. He seemed to seek something in the hall without noticing. Not Elizabeth exactly. Presence. Reference.
—See? — Safira pointed. —He senses when you are not orbiting.
Elizabeth let out a soft, almost indulgent sigh.
—Still, I cannot give up for that alone, — she repeated, firmer this time. —Not yet.
Safira did not argue. Which, coming from her, was significant.
—Hope is dangerous, — she said simply. —But I admit… he has not killed it yet.
Elizabeth smiled, calm, her eyes shining with that dangerous mix of affection and calculation.
—Then let us see if he grows, — she murmured. —Wolves are not born complete. They must prove themselves.
Safira stretched inside her, alert, satisfied not to be the only one watching.
—Very well, — she concluded. —But if he fails again… I will not be patient.
In the hall, the sun continued to shine.
And the Moon, silent, merely observed the sea of stardust scattered at her feet.
The murmurs died first. Then came the footsteps.
They were not hurried. They did not need to be.
The entire hall felt it before seeing it.
The tall doors opened without formal announcement, as if the very stone knew who crossed that threshold. The scent changed. Ancient musk, resin, power that does not ask permission.
Theodor's father entered first.
Tall. Shoulders too broad for his age. The gray hair at his temples was no sign of wear—it was a warning. Golden eyes swept the hall as one taking inventory of what was still worth keeping alive. Every wolf straightened instinctively. Not out of respect. For survival.
Behind him, one step back, the Queen Mother.
Silent as a sheathed blade.
Clad in dark tones, nothing flashy, for she needed to compete with no one. Her discreet crown rested firmly, and her eyes—cold and sharp—fell on Elizabeth even before acknowledging her own son. Quick calculation. Precise reading. She did not look at people. She weighed destinies.
The elite's circles rearranged like insects fleeing light. Whispers died in throats. Glasses froze mid-air. Even the music of the lyres faltered for a moment before recovering, weak, submissive.
Theodor felt the impact as a blow to the chest.
He straightened too late.
His father stopped a few steps from the main table. No smile. No frown. Only observation, as if evaluating a cracked structure struggling to hold a roof too heavy.
—I see the banquet continues… lively, — he said, low, but loud enough to cross the entire hall.
The Queen Mother inclined her head slightly toward Elizabeth. A minimal, precise gesture. Acknowledging not the bride, but the future queen who could be useful—or dangerous.
Her gaze then slid across the hall.
It paused where Dandara was not.
A detail too small to escape notice.
—Where is the other one? — she asked, without naming.
It was not curiosity. It was a preemptive accusation.
The silence that followed was thick.
In the corners, the gossipers had already organized. This was no longer hall chatter. It was politics. Succession. An exposed mistake under harsh light.
Safira growled low inside Elizabeth.
—Now it gets serious, — the she-wolf murmured. —The game has begun.
And in the middle of the hall, amid expectations, alliances, and old resentments, Theodor realized too late.
The banquet was no longer a celebration.
It was an ongoing judgment.