Above the manor's mainland that sits high within the ancient volcanic keep of Blackfen in a chamber dark and solemn with the heavy scent of salt and smoke, someone paced around.
The soft thud of his boots echoed in the room as the figure approached the heart of the room. The illumination of flames from the hearth cast upon his features where a table sat gruffly, hewn from a single massive block of dark oak carved in the shape of a ship's hull.
This table was unlike any ordinary one, with every coastline, mountain, and river etched with masterful precision and painted in faded hues of grey, gold, and green.
His shadow slid over curved mountains and coastlines as he moved around the table like a grim sentinel, his gloved hands resting on the map, tracing the line of the coast from Irongate to Stormhill.
He uses a small carved wooden piece as a marker to track the tide of war and from the look of things, Stormhill was gaining enough leverage on the western flank.
Then he moved one piece across the board, setting it down with a hard clack echoing in the hollow chamber. Each piece stands for a House fallen, a city taken, or a promise yet unfulfilled with the specific hues of grey, gold, and green.
Houses denoted with grey hues were Valois, Ashvalor, Drune Sea, Draegor, Kaeithorn, and Thornmere. A few houses denoted with gold were Greymarch, Dravaryn, Tyrell, and Arryn while some denoted with green hues were Seravelle, Velaryon, Ebonvale, Stormhill, Lannister, Greystreds, Wallowail, and lastly, Veximoor.
Those cold eyes moved from one piece to another and his hands traced the map, only to return to the painted border of Veximoor, carrying the sigil of a wolf's head above a crown of Iron.
The King above the Seven Kingdoms.
He moved the piece slightly, just a finger's breadth enough to touch the carved stag of his own House. The two sigils met upon the parchment plain, locked in mock eyesore battle.
Princess Anastasia Bathory of Secktom Pack, he thought. His pawn.
Lord Vaeron took another step, still tracing the border in detailed movement. He appeared renewed, his skin cleansed of blood and his armor free of the grime that had marked him before. And unlike earlier, he was dressed in a simple white long-sleeved shirt and black pants. His hair, as usual, was left to rest gracefully on his shoulder, with the whorl-shaped mask still on.
He was suddenly reminded of those fiery blue eyes fueled by rage and defiance earlier. It painted his mind in a picture that darkened his thoughts.
He'll admit it moved him, but what moved him the most was the raw truth he saw in her when she knelt before that foolish harpy.
He could agree he'd seen the better sides of her, little to be precise, but her innocence… it irritated him—no it infuriated him. However, it wasn't innocence he witnessed earlier. It was a strong burning contempt when she looked at him.
It amused him quicker than expected. That was the plan, to feel her heart with so much pain, so much hatred, until she turns against her kind with them. Until she learns how to use those emotions in his plans.
Truly, he'd arranged no amusement for the day, not until that little spy was captured. She had found a secret way through the western ridge into the heart of his domain without any trace had it not been her slight mistake that led his men toward her.
It was her lingering scent of rosewater, so unlike anything from his realm apart from that of the werewolf Princess. He was certain of the scent, and even clearer when she was captured.
He would've made her death slower as usual, but his little wolf bride seemed to relate to it, making everything more entertaining.
Naive. Quiet. Untainted… it was the hunger of another kind he felt toward her: A cruel curiosity. He wanted to watch the light die in her eyes. He wanted her to learn the world he built, for the insufferable things their kind laid against each other.
When he spoke of death, he saw the way she looked at him for a fleeting moment, as if he were something still redeemable to grant his mercy but she didn't understand that he had buried mercy long before he buried souls. Mercy wasn't built for someone like him—it wasn't pleaded for. It was revulsed. Revoked. Revamped.
The only mercy he could ever grant wasn't that of life but death, and she knew that now.
King Vladimir thought he was smart by giving his precious child to him in exchange for a peace alliance. She was the first purest of the pure werewolf clan. He agreed to the false alliance on his part, just to sell the belief that Veximoor was beyond reach. But in truth, he'll turn the Princess against her kind, and get what he wanted. What he always wanted.
'You monster!' That voice struck his senses sharply, and his eyes darkened in return. He preferred her tone when she moaned the monster he was than curse it.
So many people had called him names worse than a monster; Devil, Beast, The Sour Fruit, Hand of Death… and he never felt infuriated the way he felt after she did. Like a slow silent madness itching to burn her until her soul was one of the condemned in Hell.
What did she think of him before now? Lucifer's Bone, as described in tomes. The Red God? Beast? The Lord of Sin, as he was vastly known? He almost scoffed, slowly pacing around the table.
If killing one person makes him a monster, it amused him to know what would become of him when he wipes out the entire werewolf clan.
A knock suddenly interrupted the silence. "Come in," his cold voice echoed in the dimly lit room.
Lady Agnes walked into the room with her carefully measured footsteps click-clacking against the stone floor as she slowly approached the man at the far end of the table.
Her gown trailed behind her like a carpet, permitting every gracious step to appear ethereal. She looked more like a living perfectionist than a mere Lady who weaves ways into politics and expenditures, letting the faint scent of jasmine announce her presence. A woman who owned nothing yet took everything.
"Apologies for the intrusion, my Lord," Her voice was smooth, respectful, and practiced when she said. "I was told you'd returned."
Lord Vaeron didn't lift his gaze immediately, even upon her arrival. He stood over the carved map table brushing the edge of Veximoor's border. It was only when Lady Agnes moved close enough did he acknowledged her.
"What do you want, Agnes?"
She ignored the bite in his tone like she always did. Instead, she moved towards him, ignoring the deathly aura emanating from the creature.
"I just wanted to see you," She said when she got closer, stopping when the distance was a few inches apart with her smooth hands gliding across the table, displaying her perfectly shaped nails. "Since you refused to see me after last night,"
He didn't respond. Last night was supposed to be easy for him, but it was treacherous than it ought to have been. Her blood… it drove him insane to the extent he would've committed the unforgivable and drawn lines between two worlds.
He had been tempted to barge into her room to finish whatever he started—no matter if it meant killing her… but instead, he stood far away as it could kill him.
Fortunately, his rationality was able to balance his thoughts but his primal hunger remained unquenched and unsatiable. At a time like that, there was only one way to fix him, which was when Lady Agnes came in.
He fucked her, just like he always does to others whenever he gets bored, hungry, or in need. Just like whenever he needed the pleasure and thrill, but that time, all he could see was those blue eyes.
It was engraved in his hellish mind like no thoughts nor imagination would dare cross. It stayed and lingered, forcing his fixation to be short-lived.
Lord Vaeron's attention returned to the map on the table, glaring at the House crest bearing Veximoor on it. His little wolf had become something he should get rid of before it's too late, however, the mission had always been ahead of everything.
"And here you are," he finally replied.
Lady Agnes clicked her tongue not in any way to sound rude, and stepped closer to him, enough to perceive his intoxicating old wood spice.
"I would admit, I was hoping you would show up after our short ordeal. I was willing to give you something far better,"
Neutral to her obvious seduction, "Hope is a dangerous fickle thing, Lady Agnes. A woman of your type and status should know better than that,"
"And yet, we know much better than we ought to, especially when we perceive a liability of some sort," She said, giving him a look, expecting he would acknowledge her presence this time.
She was about to touch him when his icy stare froze her hand and seared her bones in warning, and she drew back immediately.
His reaction didn't surprise her much. Instead of feeling pained, she was suddenly reminded of the wolf Princess—now Lady of the Manor—and she clenched her teeth.
Without another word, she moved towards the opposite side of the table and placed her hands neatly before her, letting her gaze drift just long enough for him to realize she was admiring the map… but truly, assessing him.
"It seems quite the spectacle unfolded in the courtyard today," She said casually, like discussing the weather. "The guards have not stopped whispering."
Lady Agnes didn't miss the flex in his jaws when she mentioned, but pretended not to, tracing the coastline of Drune Sea with one finger.
Lord Vaeron didn't respond immediately, but when he did, it was bored. "You didn't leave your land to repeat rumors, did you?"
She ignored the disdain in every word of his. "Only the speculations to feed my boredom," she said. "A spy executed in front of half the stronghold, and the princess… such an unexpected reaction, don't you think?"
She wanted to know more about that girl who had become the Lady of Dreadwyn in a short while. Agnes knew it was for an alliance of sorts, as much as she knew mortals should also seek the same. Moreover, she'd done so with the creature of death who not only blatantly refused to make her his wife, but rejected the thought of it. And all of a sudden, he was married? The immortal Lord of Sin? How?
She'd done everything possible to be where she stood today, only for a wolf Princess to still the spot she worked and invested so much in. It didn't only pain her, but also hurt her ego.
He moved a carved piece across the map and slid decisively against Stormhill's crest before speaking. "State why you're here,"
Agnes didn't mind the dismissal. She was used to earning his attention rather than receiving it freely, and that brought a ghostly smile to her lips. "She's different. I know you can sense it," The fire crackled from the pyre, yet she continued.
Walking away from that end of the table, "She reacted strongly, far more than a princess should display. Or perhaps, far more than the rumoured 'Princess Anastasia' should,"
The suspicion has never died away from those jade-green eyes. Right from the moment she met her, she'd felt something off about the girl. She was different, different in a way that she couldn't place her fingers on.
Soft. Docile. Naive… all those were sewn in her no matter how much she tried to act cold and unyielding. The incident in the courtyard today became another suspicion that the rumored Princess Anastasia didn't react to mongrels. Then what was that? An act? A ploy? Ruse? Or perhaps, the shrewd identity of her true self?
He moved the carved piece of Stormhill with an indifferent sweep of his fingers, as though the matter bored him. "A sheltered girl fainting at death? I see nothing unusual,"
She looked at him like a master manipulator and paced the table in safely cautious steps. For a moment, her eyes didn't falter away from the Lord but drank in the sight of him.
Choosing her words carefully, "Why would Veximoor sacrifice their precious daughter for a peace alliance with their most chivalrous enemy?" She questioned the obvious as the deaf could, and ignored the word 'chivalrous'. A monster like him was far from being chivalrous. "And assuming they did, don't you sense the wrongness in her? In everything?"
Lord Vaeron finally lifted his eyes. Wrongness in her? And he let a quiet humorless laugh escape.
He didn't know why that ticked the edge of him, but it did and he had expected this. Yes, even the blind could tell Vladimir wasn't a mere Alpha who would cross his arms and watch one of his precious daughters wed their most precarious enemy. They were far too valuable for that, and of worth.
He had known it was only a matter of time for people to sniff the absurdity in the girl claiming to be Anastasia, and soon, not just people, but the gods.
But he also knew which knot to tie around them instead. Corrupting the mind of one can and would corrupt the minds of others. "Veximoor is falling apart, Agnes," he said smoothly. "Their king clings to peace like a dying man clings to air. Desperation makes men generous,"
The girl could be his daughter but he had seen the potential in her. The potential he could use to his advantage. His little wolf wasn't really naive after all because pain can shape people the way you want them to be.
Miserable. Intolerable. Sickening. Deranged. It twists them to be either strong or weak, and the strength was what he had captured in those frail eyes.
Lady Agnes frowned, not wholly convinced but she could only accept and not pry anymore. After all, she didn't come all the way here to talk about the rumored Princess.
The thought of her somehow soured her stomach.
"And she?" She asked. "What does she seem like to you, if I may ask, My Lord?" She stood close to him until they were a finger apart, looking up to the devilishly breathtaking creature that didn't for once falter.
"No, you may not," he retorted blandly, and that stopped her for a half a second.
Wearing a seductive smile to mask her pain, Agnes moved her finger through his wrist and all the way up to his arm then his shoulder.
He didn't stop her this time, but that didn't mean her touch didn't repulse him. It was everything so unlike her. Why didn't it feel the same way when she did? Why was it so different from the others? Why didn't it repulse him the way it did to him now?
What power of touch did the wolf Princess have over him already?