Shattered Bonds A Second Chance Mate (by Yui) novel Chapter 166

Chapter 166

Chapter 166

News gallops faster than hooves.

A

65 younisert

By the end of the week, the story of an Italian Lycan King “seizing” French land wore a dozen masks and none of them looked like the truth.

So when the summons arrived–neutral ground, called by the neighboring Alphas–we went. Not to beg.

To be seen.

So, we decided to travel light.

Francesco, Alfonso, Marlow, Luc. Me–with Audrey and Monica flanking so closely they might as well have been stitched to my shadow.

“Next time you try to slip out without me,” Audrey murmured as our horses crested the ridge, “I’m tying bells to your boots.”

Monica didn’t look away from the road. “I’ll sew them on.”

I smiled into my scarf and let the wind take it. “Duly noted.”

Valmont was all granite and river.

The citadel rose from a gray bluff where three waterways met–a place old packs chose for hard conversations.

We passed the outer gates under banners that weren’t ours and dismounted in a long courtyard that smelled of wet stone, coal smoke, and the wary sweat of wolves who didn’t yet know what story to believe.

Eyes followed us. Some curious. Some calculating. A few hungry.

Francesco’s presence rolled outward like steady thunder, not loud, not showy. Just true. He took my hand before we crossed the arch into the Hall of Accord, and the murmur in the air changed; people straighten when a spine enters a room.

The hall’s high beams were blackened with centuries of smoke.

A ring of iron stood at center–the Oath Circle–scarred by claws and time.

The gathered Alphas and elders arrayed themselves around it in a rough crescent. I recognized a few by scent from the letters Alfonso had read at our table; the Western Marsh alpha with reeds braided into her hair, the slate–eyed

from the riverlands who always finished each other’s sentences as if they shared one wolf between them.

A silver–haired woman in a dark cloak raised a staff–the Conclave Keeper. “By the rivers and the moon that looks on all borders,” she said, “we sit in neutral claim. Speak truth or hold your tongue.”

She pointed once at us, once at the circle.

Francesco stepped forward. I moved to his right; Alfonso to his left with a folio tucked against his ribs, the sum of ten weary days‘ documentation. Marlow stood behind like a shadow leaning on its own patience. Audrey and Monica took the flanks, their hands never far from steel or salve.

The Keeper’s gaze slid to a man whose crest was a pale heron. He didn’t bother hiding his smirk. “Valois will open,” she said.

The slate–eyed Alpha Valois–Dorian, if Alfonso’s notes were right–spread his hands. “We welcome the Italian King to French soil,” he said, voice silk over wire. “And congratulate him on his… acquisition.”

A ripple of laughter.

Not friendly…

But, Francesco didn’t blink, neither did I.

“Rumor says,” Dorian went on, “that a holiday became a harvest. First a council in your country burned to ash, then a territory folded like damp bread. We mourn the former Alpha Henri–may the river take him–and ask why the King thought to make a lesson of France.”

The Keeper’s staff knocked once: mind your teeth. He inclined his head, a parody of chastened.

Alfonso cleared his throat. “We have records-”

“Records,” Dorian purred, “are stories that learned to walk.”

“Then listen to mine,” Bethany’s voice called from behind us.

I turned.

Julius and Bethany had come after all, traveling through the night, the stubborn line of elders on a road they would not let us walk alone. Bethany’s hand shook a little on her cane; her eyes

did not.

The Keeper considered, then nodded permission. “Witnesses stand.”

Bethany did not step into the circle. She did not need it.

“Former Alpha, Henri, let a demon in our home,” she said, calm as a cup on a saucer. “Called it by his dead Luna’s name and fed it our daughters. He would have given us all. The King cut its head and broke its chain. If you want to be angry, be angry that we needed saving.”

She sat. Julius’s weathered palm closed over hers.

The room’s murmur shifted, a weight rolling from one side to another.

Dorian’s smile thinned. “Old griefs make fine cloaks. But a king who kills an alpha—”

“Henri killed himself,” Marlow said mildly. “We only pulled the rope down.”

The Conclave Keeper’s staff tapped again–less warning than acknowledgment.

Eyes slid toward us like the wind had changed.

“Forgive me,” said the woman with reed–braids–the Western Marsh alpha. “I hear rot. I smell smoke. I hear the laughter of children that had not laughed for years, and I do not think that is conquest.” She tilted her head. “But I also hear fear. And fear breeds war. Prove what you say, King.”

Francesco stepped into the iron ring.

He didn’t posture.

Verify captcha to read the contentVerify