Chapter 275: Choose

ÉTIENNE

The doors had barely sealed behind Céline’s screaming when the air in the chamber shifted. Not relief. Not resolution. Something tighter, more calculated. I watched the elders exchange glances, those quick darting looks that passed between men who’d spent decades learning which battles to fight in public and which to bury in private. The most likely new acting presiding elder now that Severine’s grandfather was dead, a man named Varen whose face looked like it had been carved from the same stone as the walls, cleared his throat with a sound that demanded attention.

"There remains another matter," Varen announced, his voice carrying that particular weight of someone who’d been waiting for the right moment to introduce discomfort.

Dorian was still staring at the closed doors. His hands rested on his knees, fingers curled slightly, as though he were holding something invisible that kept threatening to slip away. I could see the pulse in his throat, steady but pronounced, the only sign that he was still with us rather than following his daughter down whatever cell they’d dragged her into before she would be booted out.

"What matter?" Dorian asked, not turning around.

Varen stepped forward, his robes whispering against the stone floor. "The situation with Beaumont, Alpha. Apparently, there is a coalition forming against us. We have heard... rumors. Disturbing ones. Propaganda, we are sure, spreading through the territories faster than wildfire through dry grass."

Another elder, younger than Varen but with eyes that suggested he’d learned cynicism early, leaned forward in his seat. "They are calling it a perversion of the mating bond. An assault on the sanctity of our institutions. Armand of Beaumont has been quite vocal in his accusations."

"Armand is a fool who lost his daughter to a better man," I muttered, the words slipping out before I could catch them.

Varen’s gaze snapped to me, sharp and assessing. "Perhaps. But he is a fool with three allied packs now committed to his cause, and more considering their options. They march within the week unless Margaux is returned to him. Returned and divorced from the man he claims is a rogue infiltrator."

The chamber had been cooling since Céline’s exit, but I felt the temperature drop further. Not from the stone walls. From the way the elders were looking at me now. Not as Dorian’s heir. Not as the man who’d stood in this same room and accepted their scrutiny before. As a problem. As the loose thread that, if pulled, might unravel everything they’d built.

"We require reassurance," Varen continued, his tone formal, stripped of the personal. "The council must know where you stand, Dorian. Where Valcourt stands. Because from where we sit, your heir apparent has brought war to our doorstep. A war framed not as territorial dispute but as moral crusade. They are painting us as corrupt, as complicit in some grand deception. And they are using him to do it."

Dorian finally turned from the doors. His movements were slow, deliberate, the careful motions of a man who understood that every gesture in this room would be catalogued and remembered. He straightened in his chair, rolling his shoulders back, assuming the posture of authority he’d let slip while watching his daughter condemn herself.

"Étienne is my son," Dorian stated, his voice carrying to the far corners of the chamber. "Named heir before witnesses. Bound to me by blood and law, regardless of how he came to this pack."

"Bound by law perhaps," the younger elder interrupted, "but not by birth or blood. The Beaumont propaganda claims he is Archambault. Son of a disgraced line. A rogue by definition, hiding behind your protection. They say he married Margaux Beaumont under false pretenses, that he infiltrated her pack to destroy it from within."

"They say many things," Dorian replied, his voice hardening. "Most of them are lies designed to justify Armand’s wounded pride."

"But effective lies," Varen countered. He began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back, the movement of a man thinking through complications he hadn’t anticipated. "Effective enough that three packs have pledged swords to Beaumont’s cause. Effective enough that our own people are whispering in the halls, questioning whether we have been compromised. Whether... you have been compromised."

I kept my seat, though every instinct screamed at me to stand, to pace, to do something with the energy coiling in my chest. I watched Varen’s circuit around the chamber, tracking his movement the way I’d track prey in the forest. He was building toward something. They all were.

"Armand claims his daughter is being held against her will," the younger elder added. "That she calls under duress. That she begs for rescue from a mate who abuses her, who forces obedience upon her. He has made this about more than territory, Dorian. He has made it about the safety of daughters everywhere. About the protection of the mating bond itself."

"Margaux is not held against her will," I snapped, the control I’d maintained during Céline’s tirade finally fraying. "She chooses to stay. She chooses me. Her father is manufacturing a narrative because he cannot accept that she made a choice he didn’t approve of."

"Be that as it may," Varen stopped pacing and faced Dorian directly, "the perception exists. And perception, in times of war, becomes reality. The question before this council is simple: do we stand behind your heir, knowing it means war with Beaumont, which we might be able to handle, but also potentially others? Or do we seek accommodation? Do we distance ourselves from the source of the conflict before it consumes us all?"

Dorian stood. The movement was sudden enough that several elders flinched. He stepped forward, placing himself between me and the council, his back straight, his chin lifted. I could see the tension in his spine, the rigid line of his shoulders, but his voice came out steady, absolute, the voice of an Alpha who had made his decision and would not be moved from it.

"I will not sacrifice my son to appease Armand’s wounded pride," Dorian declared. "I will not validate lies by treating them as truth. Étienne is Valcourt. He is my heir. And any who suggest otherwise can address their concerns to me directly, here and now."

Silence filled the chamber, heavy and expectant. I watched the elders’ faces, reading the calculations happening behind their eyes. Some looked convinced, or at least unwilling to challenge Dorian’s authority openly. Others looked troubled, their gazes sliding away from Dorian’s intensity, finding the stone floor, the tapestries, anything but the man demanding their allegiance.

Varen was not among those who looked away.

"You speak with conviction," Varen acknowledged, his tone respectful but unbowed. "And the council respects your authority, Alpha. We do not question your right to name your heir. But we must speak of practicalities. Of loyalty beyond this room."

"What are you suggesting?" Dorian asked, his voice dropping into a lower, dangerous register.

"I suggest nothing. I state facts." Varen spread his hands, a gesture of openness that didn’t reach his eyes. "Your extended family has been vocal in their opposition since you named Étienne, who went by Theodore then, as heir. Your cousins, your late brother’s children, the distant relations who see themselves as more legitimate claimants than a bloodless former rogue son. They have challenged your judgment in private councils. They have questioned your fitness to lead."

"They are ambitious," Dorian acknowledged. "And wrong."

"They are numerous," Varen corrected. "And they have been waiting for weakness. For proof that your attachment to your new heir clouds your judgment. This war, this coalition, this scandal... it provides them opportunity. They will use it."

The younger elder leaned forward again, his voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. "We have heard whispers that your cousin Alpha Noah has allegedly been in contact with Beaumont’s emissaries. That he offers them intelligence on our defenses, on our numbers, on your state of mind. That he promises to deliver Valcourt from your ’madness’ if they support his claim to the Alpha’s seat instead of starting a war."

I felt the words like a physical blow, not to me but to Dorian. I saw his hand twitch, the slight tremor in his fingers before he clenched them into a fist. Noah. I knew the name. I’d heard it muttered in hallways, seen the way certain guards stiffened when particular cousins entered rooms. The family Dorian had spent decades holding together through sheer force of will, now circling like vultures scenting blood.

"Noah is a snake," Dorian said, his voice controlled, but I heard the strain beneath it. "He has always been a snake. But he is family, and I have tolerated his ambitions as with my daughter, because blood demands certain loyalties."

"Blood demands nothing," I interrupted, rising from my seat despite myself. The movement drew every eye in the chamber. "Blood is water if the heart behind it is rotten. I watched my own bloodline destroyed by men who claimed pack ties while holding the knives. If your cousin conspires with Beaumont, he is not family. He is an enemy."

Varen turned to me, studying me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. "You speak from experience, Archambault?"

"I speak from knowledge," I replied, meeting his gaze without flinching.