The war chamber smells like old leather and disappointment. Perfect atmosphere for what’s about to be the most humiliating conversation of my life.
Toren’s already pacing when I walk in, which means he’s been stewing about this for a while. The good news? He’s not throwing things yet. The bad news? That’s probably coming.
“You lost control in front of the entire court.”
Straight to the point. No pleasantries, no asking how I’m feeling after nearly wolfing out in public. Just cold, hard facts delivered with all the warmth of a funeral announcement.
I say nothing because, honestly, what’s there to say? Yeah, I fucked up. Yeah, I scared three potential brides into probably never wanting to see another royal court as long as they live. Yeah, I’m the family disappointment yet again.
He stops pacing and fixes me with that look—the one that says he’s calculating exactly how much political damage I’ve caused this time.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
“What would you like me to say?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “That I’m sorry? That it won’t happen again? We both know how well promises work out for me.”
“This isn’t a joke, Cassian.”
“Trust me, I’m not laughing.”
He runs a hand through his hair, and for just a second, he looks less like a king and more like the father who used to sneak me extra dessert when I was a kid. Then the moment passes, and we’re back to royal duty and political necessities.
“The northern lords are already sending ravens,” he says, resuming his pacing. “Lady Yara’s father is ‘reconsidering’ the southern alliance. The eastern clans think we’re harboring a liability.”
Each word hits like a physical blow, but I keep my face neutral. Can’t let him see how much this is destroying me from the inside out.
“So what’s the solution? Lock me in a tower? Send me to live with hermits in the mountains? Or are we going straight to the execution option?”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“I’m being practical. Face it, Toren—I’m a walking political disaster. Every time you try to use me for something important, I find new and creative ways to fuck it up.”
He stops pacing and turns to face me fully. There’s something in his expression I can’t quite read. Frustration, yeah, but something else underneath it.
“This is your final chance.”
And there it is. The ultimatum I’ve been expecting for years.
“No more failed bonds. No more wolves running from you like you’re diseased.”
Diseased. Christ, even my own father sees me that way.
“Go to Valen’s court.”
Wait, what? “Valen’s court?”
“They have she-wolves there. Unmarried ones. Different bloodlines, different politics. Maybe a change of scenery will help you… control yourself.”
“Or maybe their she-wolves will run screaming too, and then we’ll have even more enemies.”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
The casual way he says it stings more than it should. Like I’m just another chess piece he’s moving around the board, hoping this time it might actually be useful.
“Play nice,” he continues, and there’s steel in his voice now. “Find a mate. Prove you can be the asset this kingdom needs instead of the liability you’ve become.”
“And if I can’t?”
The silence stretches between us like a blade.
“The throne goes to someone who can.”
There it is. The threat that’s been hovering over us both for years, finally spoken out loud. If I can’t get my shit together, if I can’t prove I’m worth keeping around, he’ll find someone else to be his heir. Some distant cousin, maybe, or he’ll remarry and start over with new kids who won’t embarrass him at every turn.
The worst part? I can’t even argue with the logic. What kind of future king shifts into a wolf during formal diplomatic proceedings?
“I understand,” I say, and I’m surprised by how calm I sound.
“Do you? Because this isn’t just about finding you a wife anymore, Cassian. This is about proving you deserve the title you were born with.”
“I said I understand.”
He studies my face like he’s looking for cracks in my composure. Part of me wants to give him what he’s looking for—break down, rage about the unfairness of it all, prove that I really am as unstable as everyone thinks.
But I don’t. I just stand there and take it, because what’s the alternative?
“When do I leave?” I ask.
“Tomorrow. I’ve already sent word to Alpha Valen. He’s expecting you within the week.”
Of course he has. Probably had this whole plan mapped out before he even called me in here.
“How long do I have?”
“As long as it takes. But Cassian?” He moves closer, and when he speaks again, his voice is quiet. Almost gentle. “Don’t come back empty-handed.”
The dismissal is clear, but I don’t move immediately. There’s something burning in my chest—shame, anger, disappointment, maybe all three at once. This conversation will replay in my head for weeks, every word a fresh reminder of how thoroughly I’ve failed everyone’s expectations.
“Is that all, Your Majesty?”
He flinches slightly at the formal address. Good. Let him remember that he’s not just my father anymore—he’s my king, and I’m his disposable heir.
“That’s all.”
I turn to go, but his voice stops me at the door.
“Cassian.”
I don’t turn around.
“Don’t make me regret giving you this chance.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, and walk out before he can see the lie written all over my face.