The Lycan's Queen : A tale of fate

"Given."

The whisper-shout echoed faintly through the corridors, halting Given mid-stride. This was the second time he had heard the familiar voice, and now he was sure it wasn't just his imagination.

"You all go ahead. I will meet you by the field. Prepare the lycan, and don't uncuff him until I get there," he said firmly to the guards around him.

As they departed, their voices carried a teasing undertone, "See, the boss is also scared of the lycan."

Ignoring their chatter, Given waited until their footsteps faded into silence. Just as he turned, her voice came again—an insistent whisper-shout calling his name for the fourth time.

He followed the sound, his eyes narrowing as he spotted a head peeking out from behind a slightly ajar door. Stepping inside and shutting the door behind him, Given found Lyric pacing anxiously.

Her movement was quick, her steps uneven. It was a habit she shared with her grandmother, and though the resemblance in action was striking, Given always tried to see Lyric for who she was, separate from her lineage.

As she passed close by, he reached out, gently but firmly stopping her in place. His hands rested briefly on her waist before retreating. "What's wrong?" he asked, his calm demeanor masking the flicker of concern in his eyes.

Lyric didn't answer immediately. Instead, her hands shot up toward her face, but Given was quicker. He caught her wrist before she could bite her nails, a habit she would regret later when her composure returned and she was getting ready for a manicure.

"My sister..." she began, her voice frantic as her wide eyes locked onto his. "My sister Evelyn—she asked me what happened last night. I was sweating, and she manipulated the truth out of me. I told her that we shared a kiss."

Given's reaction was immediate, his voice as steady and controlled as ever, though there was a sharpness beneath it. "What?"

He didn't give her time to explain further. "Why would you tell her that, princess? You do know that it was a mistake and it didn't mean anything, right? We just... accidentally happened to slip into each other's embrace and kiss."

The words stung like a whip, and Lyric felt tears prickling at the back of her eyes. She nodded after a moment, her voice caught in her throat.

Given released her wrist, the warmth of his touch replaced by an aching cold.

"Princess," he continued, his tone heavy with unspoken weight. "You have to know that this information could guarantee me an execution or a prison sentence. But hopefully, your sister won't say anything. Hopefully."

The word lingered in the air like a plea wrapped in a warning. Swallowing hard, Lyric nodded again, her heart racing with a mix of guilt and frustration.

She wanted to say more, to challenge his dismissal, but before she could find the courage, Given reached for her wrist again. His touch was warm, firm, and steady—like a serpent, deadly yet mesmerizing. He was the kind of serpent that didn't strike unless provoked, and Lyric had never seen him attack.

"Yes," she said at last, pulling her wrist from his grasp despite her heart yearning for the contact to remain. Her voice was stronger now, even if her resolve wavered. "I will make sure."

Without waiting for his response, she turned and left, shutting the door behind her.

As she walked down the corridor, Lyric's mind raced with hopes that he would come after her. She longed to hear his footsteps or feel his presence behind her.

But that... that never came.

Meanwhile, in the courtroom, Elara stepped through the grand doors with a fragile confidence that wavered at the edges. She hoped—prayed—that she could make it through the day unscathed.

Though many had advised her and assured her of her role, doubt still clung to her like a shadow. She didn't feel deserving of this seat, this power—not in this moment, not ever.

As the attendees rose from their seats and lined up to bow to her, Elara's mind drifted back to the first day she awoke in this place. She had been in a wedding dress, dazed and disoriented.

It felt like a lifetime ago. Yet, the feelings hadn't changed. She still felt like an imposter in this world, wearing a title that didn't belong to her.

It was maddening, how one could muster confidence in the solitude of their chambers, only for it to shatter the moment they faced the gaze of others.

Elara approached the throne at the far end of the courtroom, where King Theron sat with an air of authority. His head was held high, the golden crown upon it gleaming under the light, as though it was molded for him and him alone.

He did belong here.

He wore the crown as if it were second nature. But as Elara's gaze lingered, a fleeting thought crossed her mind. 'He wears the sheep's skin too well .'

She bowed to him reluctantly, and once she was seated, the clerk stepped forward, addressing the room in a clear, steady voice.

The elder lord beside her—Cade's loyal friend, Lord Sol —leaned in slightly. His weathered face carried a mixture of concern and curiosity. "Where is your right hand, Your Majesty? Given should be here," he asked in a low voice.

Elara swallowed, willing her voice to remain steady. Without shifting her gaze, she replied, "He had some important matters to handle. He won't be joining us."

Her eyes flickered to the clerk and the man whispering into his ear. Curiosity bubbled within her, but the presence of Lord Sol beside her made it impossible to eavesdrop without drawing attention.

"May I, before we start?" The interruption came from the audience. Lord Cade had risen to his feet, his imposing figure drawing every eye in the room. "May we know where the Queen's right hand is?" Cade asked, his voice carrying a thinly veiled challenge. "We all know this meeting cannot begin without the Queen's right hand present."

"And why is that, Lord Cade?" Lord Elliot, seated further down, asked in an even tone.

"Because," Lord Cade began, his gaze sweeping the room, "we all know the Queen is not in a state to answer any of our questions, let alone make decisions that impact the kingdom. At this moment, her right hand—my son—is her mind. She cannot function—"

"I assure you, Lord Cade," Elara cut him off sharply, her voice firm and unwavering, "I am very well aware of what is happening in this castle. I am fully capable of making decisions that serve both the kingdom and this court. My health is of no concern to you, or anyone here. What should concern you is the welfare of the kingdom."

The room fell silent, the weight of her words pressing down on those gathered.

Elara turned her attention to the clerk, whose astonished expression mirrored the collective shock of the court.

"As your Queen, I order the meeting to start," she declared, her tone leaving no room for argument.

The room remained hushed, the collective surprise palpable. The court had expected a frail and uncertain queen, one who could be easily swayed.

But now, her actions spoke volumes, and the impressions they had of her began to shift.