Chapter 4: Wolves Among Thrones

Three days into the journey, I realized something terrifying:

I was getting used to this.

The aches in my muscles were less noticeable. The cold didn't bite as hard. I no longer flinched at the sight of wild animals or travelers with swords. I still wasn't what anyone would call "strong," but I was no longer the soft, indoor-dwelling gamer from Earth.

Progress.

It was strange how quickly your body adapts when you have no other choice.

But more than that… my mind was sharpening.

Strategy had always been my game. That was how I survived my first two weeks in this world—outmaneuvering enemies, not overpowering them. Now, I felt that edge return. I was planning five moves ahead again. And for the first time since I arrived, I didn't feel like a child with a crown—I felt like a contender.

Not yet a king.

But definitely a problem.

---

The Highroad to Castle Arador cut through the heart of the kingdom like a scar. We rode through forests choked in fog, across hills with toppled statues and forgotten graves. Every mile carried the weight of the past—and the very present danger of being robbed, stabbed, or set on fire by bandits or rival lords.

I had a personal guard now. Two men: Oric and Dane. Hardened veterans, both skeptical of me but loyal to House Wyvrling for reasons I hadn't uncovered yet.

Lyra scouted ahead like a shadow on two legs. Arden rode beside me, his face unreadable, his sword always within reach.

Brother Caldus prayed. Loudly. And often. At first, I thought he was just eccentric. Now I was starting to believe he might actually be tapped into something.

The sixth time his muttering made a pack of wolves retreat, I stopped asking questions.

---

Castle Arador appeared on the horizon on the fifth day.

It wasn't a castle. It was a mountain shaped by arrogance and gold.

Blackstone walls. Towers high enough to scrape the stars. Dozens of flags from a hundred noble houses.

Even from a distance, it radiated power.

I hated it already.

---

At the gates, they stopped us.

Of course they did.

I handed the herald my name, my seal, and the king's summons.

He sneered like I was a beggar trying to crash a noble ball.

"Vihan Wyvrling," he drawled, barely concealing his contempt. "Oh, the ex-noble."

"Technically still noble," I replied. "I own land. You?"

His smile died. Good.

We were let in.

Barely.

---

Inside the castle, it was all gold and gloom. Firelight flickered on banners. Courtiers whispered like snakes in silk. Nobles paraded around in jewels while servants starved in shadows.

It was exactly what I expected.

I didn't belong here.

Not yet.

But I would.

---

My quarters were small but not insulting. A tower room with a view of the eastern gardens and a balcony just high enough for someone to fall to their death.

Paranoia, my old friend. I missed you.

Arden inspected the place for traps. Lyra disappeared to "gather information." Caldus began drawing strange runes in chalk on the walls, muttering about spiritual "protection." I let him. I'd take any edge I could get.

I didn't sleep that night.

Too much to do.

I studied the guest list.

Duke Heromar of Greymoor. My father's killer. Still breathing.

Countess Brienne of Westmark. Cold, brilliant, ruthless. Recently widowed. Dangerous.

Lord Serik Virewyn. The king's nephew. Arrogant. Popular. A threat.

And at the top of it all: King Alric Virewyn. Aging. Paranoid. Absolute.

They were all here.

And now so was I.

---

The High Assembly began at midday.

I wore my new clothes—black and silver, trimmed with crimson. The Wyvrling crest was stitched over my heart: a wingless wyvern curling around a sun.

People stared when I entered.

Some laughed. Some whispered. Some just looked confused, like I was a ghost.

Good.

Let them.

I took my seat—back row, near the minor lords. Exactly where they expected me to be.

Let them think I was weak. Unimportant. Forgotten.

The longer they underestimated me, the better.

---

The first day was ceremonial.

Oaths. Introductions. Long-winded speeches about honor and the divine right of nobility.

I smiled. Nodded. Clapped when appropriate.

But I was watching everything.

Who talked to whom. Who ignored who. Who was looking at me too long. Who wasn't looking at all.

Information is power.

And I was starving for it.

---

After the session, a few nobles approached me.

Most with pity.

Some with veiled threats.

One man tried to offer me a marriage alliance with his third daughter, who had a lazy eye and a dowry of "two mules and a haunted barn."

I politely declined.

Then, finally, someone interesting.

"Lord Wyvrling," came a voice like steel wrapped in velvet.

I turned.

Countess Brienne.

Tall, sharp-featured, clad in deep blue with gold embroidery. Her eyes didn't smile.

"You're braver than I expected," she said.

"I get that a lot," I replied. "Usually right before someone tries to stab me."

She chuckled. "And yet you're still here."

"Still standing."

"I admire survivors. Especially ones with ambition."

"Who says I'm ambitious?"

She leaned in slightly. "You wouldn't be here if you weren't."

Touché.

She handed me a coin.

Not gold. Not silver.

Obsidian. Carved with a spider on one side and a crown on the other.

"Come to the Midnight Court. Tonight."

And then she walked away.

Leaving only the faint scent of danger.

---

Midnight Court.

It wasn't a real court. It was an invitation-only gathering for nobles who wanted things done quietly, without the king's watchful eyes.

Spies, sorcerers, assassins, and opportunists.

My kind of people.

---

I told no one.

Not Lyra. Not Arden.

I went alone.

The meeting place was a wine cellar beneath the castle chapel. I found it by pressing the coin against a cracked statue of the Seraphim—a forgotten goddess of judgment—and the wall opened.

Very dramatic.

Inside, candlelight and whispers. Nobles in dark cloaks. Faces hidden. Voices disguised by magic.

They weren't here to play.

And neither was I.

---

Brienne was already inside, seated at the center.

"Welcome," she said. "We don't often get new blood."

"I bleed like anyone else," I replied.

"But not just anyone walks back into the lion's den after being devoured."

"You assume I'm here to make friends."

"I assume you're here to survive."

She nodded to a seat across from her.

"Sit. Listen. Then speak."

I did.

For the next hour, I heard things that made my skin crawl.

Rumors of rebellion. Assassination plots. Forbidden magics. Deals made in demon-tongue.

It wasn't a council. It was a market.

And power was the currency.

When it was my turn to speak, I kept it simple.

"I don't have much," I said. "Yet. But I remember what was taken from me. And I will take it back."

Someone scoffed.

Brienne didn't.

"You'll need allies," she said.

"Or enemies willing to die."

"Both," she agreed.

Then she offered me a deal.

Information on Duke Heromar.

The one who destroyed my house.

In exchange?

A favor.

Undeclared. Undefined.

I hesitated.

Then nodded.

Because revenge is never cheap.

---

When I left, the air outside felt colder.

Cleaner.

Like the truth had a scent.

I didn't know if I'd just made the smartest decision of my life—or sold my soul.

But I was closer to the game now.

Deeper in the web.

And I didn't plan on being anyone's prey.

---

Back in my chamber, I found a letter waiting.

Sealed in royal wax.

King Alric requested my presence the next morning.

Private audience.

No guards.

No witnesses.

I read the letter three times.

Then I burned it.

Not because I didn't believe it.

But because I needed no one else to know.

The king was watching.

And the game had officially begun.