Morning came with the sharp toll of the palace bells.
Elinore sat at the head of the long council table, poised and unreadable as the Council of Alphas gathered in the war chamber. The high-vaulted ceilings made the space feel imposing, though the real weight in the room came from the men and women sitting across from her.
They were watching her. Always watching.
Most of them despised that she sat here at all.
She did not let them see how little their stares affected her.
She placed a hand on the royal decree in front of her, its weight a quiet reminder of the dead king's final will. It was the only shield she had in this den of wolves.
"Where is the prince?" Varkas Houndrake growled, his golden eyes flashing in annoyance.
Elinore did not answer immediately. She lifted her tea cup, taking a slow sip, before setting it down with deliberate care.
"The prince will arrive shortly."
Varkas exhaled sharply, muscles tensing. "You should not be the one speaking for him. You should not be here at all."
"And yet," she said smoothly, "here I am."
A few alphas exchanged looks, but no one spoke.
Varkas' lip curled, but before he could retort, the doors swung open.
Elinore did not turn as footsteps echoed through the chamber, slow and heavy.
But she felt him enter.
A shift in the air. A presence too large, too charged to ignore.
Randall Astor had finally decided to show up.
She lifted her gaze just as he strode to the seat beside her. The seat of the king.
He did not sit.
Instead, he leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed over his chest, his golden eyes sweeping over the council.
There was something careless about him, yet his presence was impossible to dismiss.
The lost prince. The reluctant heir. And the man who had spent last night pacing outside her door.
Elinore let the silence stretch. She wondered if he realized that the entire room was waiting.
For him to speak. For him to take control. For him to be the king they had been waiting for.
Randall exhaled, tilting his head slightly toward her. "Well? Get on with it, Regent."
Elinore did not blink. She turned her attention back to the council.
"The first order of business is the status of our eastern border patrols."
One of the older alphas, Corbin Blackclaw, cleared his throat. "We've had reports of increased movement in the outer villages. Small skirmishes. Unclaimed werewolf packs causing trouble for the local lords."
Randall let out a short, dry laugh. "And why is this my problem?"
A silence fell over the chamber.
Elinore set her tea cup down, carefully.
"Because you are the prince of Vareldis," she said. "And one day, you will be its king."
Randall scoffed. "If a few rogue wolves want to cause problems, let the packs handle it."
"The packs do not govern," she said evenly. "The throne does. You do."
His golden eyes flicked to her, something sharp and assessing beneath them.
Then he smirked. "No, Regent. You do."
Her fingers curled against the table. The game he was playing was clear.
"Perhaps you are right," she said smoothly. "Until you are fit to rule, I suppose the responsibility does fall to me."
Randall's smirk vanished. For the first time that morning, he actually looked at her.
Elinore met his gaze, voice quiet but firm.
"Until you are fit to rule," she repeated.
Randall's jaw tightened.
He pushed away from the table abruptly, the scrape of his chair loud in the chamber.
"Fine," he muttered. "Tell me where to start."
A victory. Small, but undeniable.
Elinore turned back to the council, voice steady.
"Let us begin."
By mid-afternoon, Elinore was certain of two things.
One, Randall was wholly unprepared to be king. Two, he was determined to make this as difficult as possible.
Their first lesson had been a disaster.
After leaving the council meeting, she had brought him to the strategy room, where maps of Vareldis and its territories stretched across the long wooden table.
Elinore had spent years studying these maps, memorizing every village, every trade route, every stronghold.
While Randall, he had barely glanced at them.
He leaned lazily against the table, arms crossed, his golden eyes half-lidded with pure boredom.
"You're telling me I have to memorize all of this?" he said, dragging a hand through his hair.
Elinore exhaled sharply. "You should have already known it."
Randall grinned. "And yet, here we are."
She resisted the urge to throw something at him.
"Tell me, Your Highness," she said, smoothing her expression into something calm. "When was the last time you spent longer than a week in Vareldis?"
Randall blinked, caught off guard.
His smirk faltered.
He knew the answer. And so did she.
"You've spent many decades running from this throne," she continued. "Do you truly believe you can sit upon it without knowing the kingdom you abandoned?"
The amusement in his expression faded completely.
For a long moment, he did not speak.
Then, he stepped closer. Too close.
Elinore held her ground, refusing to step back.
Randall tilted his head, studying her with an expression she couldn't quite place. And then, in a voice that was almost too soft for him, he asked...
"Why do you care so much?"
Elinore stilled.
Her fingers curled against the table.
Because I have no choice. Because your father left this throne to me. Because if I fail, my people will suffer.
But she did not say any of that.
Instead, she simply replied, "Because I will not allow this kingdom to fall."
Randall searched her gaze, unreadable. Then with an exhale, he finally turned toward the maps.
"Alright, Regent," he muttered. "Teach me."
A reluctant prince. A human regent.
And a throne neither of them would surrender.
The war between them had only just begun.