Silas turned slowly, as if every movement was dragged through molasses. The fire behind him flared up again in protest as the last threads of that ribbon disintegrated into ash. His eyes, rimmed with silver light and unspoken grief, met Wings'.
The man's posture was stiff with unease, and his fingers curled around the thick envelope containing the Alpha King's crest. The missive was sealed with gold wax and stamped with a sharp insignia—the twin wolves encircling the sun, a symbol older than Silas' throne and heavier than the guilt coiling in his chest.
He took it with fingers still warm from grief. The seal cracked beneath his thumb with a sound too loud in the quiet chamber.
Wings waited, silent and unmoving.
Silas unfolded the parchment with effortless ease. His eyes flicked over the words once—twice—and then a third time, slower.
He exhaled deeply.
To Duke Silas Silverclaw, Lord of the Southern Border,
'By command of the Alpha King:
