The council chamber reeked of incense and old blood.
Massive stone columns loomed on either side, carved with the crests of every Alpha line—Draven, Vale, Greenwood, StoneRidge. Cold sunlight filtered in through narrow glass slits, casting fractured rainbows on the floor like mockery.
Aria stood in the center of the room, spine straight, cloak trailing behind her. No one had dared dress her in shackles—not after the outcry. But the message was clear in the way the guards flanked her, silent and heavily armed.
Across from her, the twelve council members sat in a semi-circle, draped in ceremonial black. At the center sat High Councilor Marek, lips pinched, his white beard braided with silver thread. His eyes never left her.
Kael stood just off to the side, hands behind his back, eyes unreadable. His Alpha crest gleamed like guilt on his chest.
Zara, sitting in the public gallery, caught Aria’s gaze and gave the faintest nod.
She was not alone.
“Aria Vale,” Marek began, voice carrying through the chamber, “you stand accused of treason, destabilization of council rule, and endangering the heir of the Draven bloodline. Do you acknowledge these charges?”
Aria’s voice rang out, cool and defiant. “I acknowledge that the council fears losing control. I do not acknowledge their right to silence the truth.”
A few gasps scattered from the gallery. Marek’s eyes narrowed.
“You speak boldly for one with no seat, no bond, and no sworn pack.”
Aria smiled. “Then you have nothing to fear from me.”
Whispers fluttered around the room.
Marek banged his staff once. “Silence. We are not here to indulge dramatics. Present your case.”
Aria stepped forward. “Very well.”
She reached into her cloak and withdrew a sealed document—Kael’s confession and the council history he’d risked everything to give her.
“This is a record of the council’s involvement in the suppression of the Vale line. It details broken treaties, erased births, manipulated lineage charts. I was never just the rejected mate. I was the rightful Luna your council erased from history.”
She threw the scroll at Marek’s feet.
Another wave of whispers. One of the councilors bent forward to examine it but Marek made no move.
“You expect us to accept this… unsigned hearsay as evidence?”
A voice rang out from the gallery. “It’s not unsigned.”
Heads turned.
From the shadows stepped Elder Thorne—Kael’s old mentor, long thought too ill to speak publicly again. He moved slowly, aided by a cane, but his eyes were sharp.
“I signed it,” he said. “I kept the records. And I have my own copy.”
Marek paled.
“I knew you’d come crawling back to finish what you started,” he hissed.
Thorne chuckled. “You should have burned the sanctum more thoroughly. Ash still remembers.”
Kael stepped forward at last. “I can confirm the testimony. I saw the sanctum’s ruins. I’ve read the scroll. I verified it against StoneRidge’s archives.”
Marek pounded his staff again. “This is not how justice is conducted!”
Aria’s voice cut through. “Then let’s speak of justice, Marek. Let’s speak of Evelyn—council-favored, council-protected. Where is she today?”
A ripple of tension passed through the room.
“She vanished again the night the sanctum burned,” Aria said. “You don’t find that convenient?”
“She’s dead,” a councilor offered weakly.
“Is she?” Aria asked. “Or did she run when the walls started talking?”
Silence.
Then the unexpected happened.
The child.
She stood at the edge of the chamber, barefoot, eyes too wide, voice too steady.
“She whispered to me,” the girl said. “Said I’d be better off without a mother like her.”
Aria’s heart stopped.
Marek’s face twisted. “This is madness.”
“It’s testimony,” Kael snapped. “From your so-called ‘heir’s’ own daughter.”
Whispers turned to murmurs, then to shouts. One councilor stood up, red-faced.
“We have no laws for this,” he spat. “No precedent.”
“Then make one,” Zara called from the gallery. “Or admit this court is nothing but costuming.”
Aria turned to face them all, calm and burning.
“You built this court on bloodlines and lies. But the truth has a voice now. You can exile me, condemn me, even execute me—but that won’t silence what’s already been set in motion.”
Marek leaned forward, voice low and venomous. “Do you seek to rule, Aria Vale? Is this your rebellion? Do you wish to take this seat?”
She looked around the room.
At the broken lines carved in stone.
At the crowd, shifting, uncertain.
At Kael—silent, solemn.
At the girl—watching with storm-gray eyes that mirrored her own.
Then she turned back to Marek.
“I don’t want your seat,” she said. “I want your fear. I want every Alpha who thinks power is their birthright to wake up knowing the Vale name wasn’t erased—it was planted. And now it’s growing back, thorn by thorn.”
Marek’s knuckles whitened.
Then a second councilor stood. Then a third. All eyes on Marek.
“You no longer have a majority,” one of them said quietly.
The chamber shifted. The floor seemed to tilt under the weight of centuries.
Kael moved to Aria’s side, silent, steady.
Marek raised his staff one last time. “Then I resign. Let the pack tear itself apart. I wash my hands of this farce.”
He stormed from the chamber, robes billowing like smoke.
The room held still.
Then, slowly, applause began.
Not thunderous. Not immediate. But real.
One voice at a time.
And Aria stood, tall and burning, as the tide turned.
