The grand banquet hall of the Valerian Empire breathes a suffocating, gilded opulence.

Towering black marble pillars rise toward vaulted ceilings where massive iron chandeliers cast a sharp, amber glow over the assembled nobility. 

This is a high-level political summit—a gathering of every dominant vassal lord, general, and tribal chieftain sworn to the Western Crown. The air is thick with the scent of roasted stag, visual displays of wealth, and the underlying tension of competing territories vying for the Emperor's favor.

At the highest platform above the hall sits Draven Thorne. Black formal attire. One hand rests lazily against the arm of the obsidian throne. His expression remains unreadable beneath the warm glow of imperial firelight. 

To his lower right sits Anastasia. Silver embroidery shimmers softly across the dark western gown draped over her shoulders, the cut elegant without trying too hard to display wealth.

Weeks inside western territory have changed her posture subtly. Straighter now. Calmer.

Standing in a rigid, flawless line along the stone steps of the dais are his three elite extensions of war. 

General Rowan stands with his massive arms crossed over his chest, his stern face carved out of iron.

Below him, captain Mason tracks the shifting movements of the guests with razor-sharp vigilance. At the base, Milo maintains a tense, ready stance, his hand hovering near his formal silver-hilted shortsword.

Always prepared.

The fragile peace of the banquet fractures when an foreign Alpha named Jarek steps forward to present his territory's tribute wine.

Jarek is a brute from a newly integrated western border territory—arrogant, freshly blooded, and entirely ignorant of the invisible dead-lines drawn within the palace.

Cedric spends the first half of the banquet trying desperately to gain Draven's notice through louder laughter, longer speeches, and aggressive boasts about border victories no one cares about. Draven ignores him completely, which only makes him more reckless. By the time the ceremonial wine service begins, 

The Alpha rises from his seat carrying a crystal goblet. "To the glory of the Valerian Empire," Cedric announces loudly.

Goblets lift politely across the hall. Draven inclines his head once. Nothing more.

Cedric smiles too broadly, then turns toward Anastasia. "And to the eastern beauty who has apparently bewitched half the western court."

The atmosphere shifts instantly—subtle and dangerous. Mason's fingers tighten against his sword hilt. Rowan's scarred gaze lifts slowly. Even Milo stops breathing for a second.

Anastasia doesn't react. She simply continues sipping wine calmly beneath the candlelight.

Cedric steps closer anyway. Too close. Drunk confidence shines openly across his face. "I must admit," he drawls, "Black Hollow's loss appears to be western fortune."

Still, Anastasia doesn't answer. That silence irritates him immediately. Cedric leans slightly downward beside her chair, then—with deliberate disrespect—his fingers brush against her shoulder. 

Anastasia finally looks up with cold gray eyes, completely empty of emotion. Then, without warning, she lifts the wineglass in her hand and throws the contents directly into Cedric's face.

Red wine explodes across his expression and formal uniform. The sound of crystal hitting marble echoes sharply through the hall.

Cedric freezes in shock and humiliation, murderous rage flashing instantly across his face before he controls it. Barely. 

The banquet hall goes dead silent. The Wolf King remains perfectly still on the obsidian throne. No anger touches his face, and there is no visible reaction at all.

Cedric slowly wipes wine from his mouth, his eyes burning toward Anastasia now—predatory and ugly. But he laughs a forced laugh. "Clearly, eastern women remain spirited."

Nobody joins him. Because behind Draven's throne, three swords have already shifted half an inch free from their sheaths. Rowan's eyes look murderous now, Mason's jaw tightens sharply, and young Milo looks genuinely ready to kill someone inside the imperial banquet hall.

Still, Draven says nothing, which somehow frightens the room even more.

Cedric finally retreats toward his seat with wounded pride radiating from every movement. But his eyes keep drifting toward Anastasia afterward.

---

Hours later, the banquet ends beneath falling midnight snow. Nobles depart through the eastern palace corridors while servants extinguish candles one by one across the great hall.

Cedric leaves separately. 

Alone, angry, and humiliated beyond repair, the southern Alpha crosses the lower corridor toward the guest wing with dark thoughts boiling inside his skull. An eastern woman, a discarded Luna—and she dared embarrass him publicly? 

He would fix that personally. His mouth twists slowly into something ugly. The western palace is enormous, confusing, and easy enough to lose people inside. Especially women.

Cedric turns down the west corridor—and stops.

Someone stands there already. Rowan, Mason, and Milo wait beneath the dim corridor lanterns. All three western wolf guards block the passage completely.

Cedric frowns immediately. "What is this?"

Nobody answers. The palace suddenly feels much colder. Cedric's instincts sharpen.

Then, another shadow emerges behind him—massive, calm, and absolute. Cedric's pulse stops.

Draven Thorne stands at the far end of the corridor wearing black gloves and an expression devoid of anything remotely human. 

The Alpha King looks at Cedric the way empires look at problems before erasing them.

Cedric's mouth goes dry instantly. "Your Majesty—"

Draven speaks over him quietly. "We do not tolerate hands where they do not belong."

The corridor temperature drops sharply, and Cedric's breathing becomes uneven. "It was unintentional."

No response. No emotion. Draven takes one slow step forward. "You considered forcing yourself into her chambers afterward."

Cedric's eyes widen violently. "How—"

The Wolf King's gaze turns glacial. Inside the western palace, nothing remains hidden from him. He turns suddenly toward the side corridor.

Too late. Mason moves first, then Rowan, and then darkness swallows the hall completely. 

He is gone. His chambers are empty, his servants gone, and his banners removed from the palace registry. Even his name disappears from the official guest records before sunrise, as though the man himself had never entered the Obsidian Citadel at all. It is an imperial cleansing—absolute, efficient, and terrifying.

The next morning, nobles gather again for diplomatic negotiations beneath the eastern conference chamber. Silver dishes line the long table, and documents stack neatly beside crystal glasses, though the conversation remains subdued.

Anastasia enters quietly beside Greta, then stops. One seat remains empty near the southern delegation—Cedric's seat. 

No explanation is offered, no mention made.