Betrayed By One. Bound To Three-Chapter 86: Unfit To Rule.

Silas sat at the head of the long wooden table, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he listened to the elders argue.

The room smelled faintly of burning oil and old parchment, the heavy curtains drawn just enough to keep the afternoon light from fully spilling in. Shadows clung to the corners of the council chamber, stretching and shifting with every flicker of the flames in the sconces.

"The matter cannot be delayed any longer," Elder Varin said, his voice thin but sharp. "The pack needs stability. The throne cannot remain in uncertainty while the princess runs wild with rogues."

A murmur of agreement followed.

Silas did not immediately respond.

He let the silence stretch, let their impatience build. It was a tactic he had learned long ago—people revealed more when they were desperate to fill quiet.

"She is the rightful heir," another elder countered, though without much conviction. "We cannot simply—"

"She abandoned the pack," Varin snapped. "That alone disqualifies her."

Silas finally leaned back in his chair, his expression carefully neutral, though a faint smile threatened at the corners of his lips.

"Perhaps," he began smoothly, "we are looking at this the wrong way."

All eyes turned to him.

Before he could continue—

A scream tore through the silence.

High-pitched. Sharp. Panicked.

The sound echoed through the stone halls of the packhouse, cutting through the chamber like a blade.

Every elder froze.

Another scream followed, louder this time, followed by hurried footsteps and distant shouting.

Silas was already on his feet before anyone else moved.

"What was that?" one of the elders demanded.

The doors burst open before anyone could answer.

A maid stumbled in, her face pale, her chest heaving as though she had run the entire length of the packhouse.

"My lords—" she gasped. "It’s Lady Loretta—she’s—she’s—"

"Speak," Silas snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through her panic.

"She’s dead."

The words landed heavily in the room.

A collective breath was drawn.

"What?" Elder Varin rose abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "That’s not possible—she was fine this morning."

The maid shook her head frantically. "You have to come see—please—"

Silas didn’t wait for anything more.

He was already moving.

The corridor outside was alive with chaos—maids whispering, guards rushing, the tension spreading like wildfire through the packhouse. Silas moved through it all with long, deliberate strides, his expression hardening with each step.

By the time he reached Loretta’s chambers, a small crowd had already gathered outside the door.

"Move," he ordered.

They parted instantly.

Silas stepped inside.

The room was still.

Too still.

The scent hit him first—sharp, bitter, unmistakable. Burnt flesh.

Loretta lay sprawled across the bed, her body unnaturally still, her skin marred with dark, angry burn marks that twisted across her arms, her neck, her chest. The sheets beneath her were stained, the fabric clinging to her as though even in death, the damage refused to release her.

For a moment, Silas simply stood there. His heart pricked only for a moment, but he pushed it aside before it could take effect.

Then slowly, he stepped closer.

His gaze moved over her body, calculating, cold, assessing every detail.

The marks. The effect has worked exactly how he had anticipated. The sight was enough to fool anyone into believing that she died from a disease.

A flicker of something dark passed through his eyes.

Then it was gone.

He exhaled slowly, his expression shifting into calcution.

By the time he turned toward the door, his face carried exactly what it needed to.

Shock.

Concern.

Authority.

He stepped back into the corridor, where the elders had now gathered, their expressions tense and expectant.

"Well?" Varin demanded. "What happened?"

Silas let a beat pass.

Then another.

Just enough to make them lean in.

"The disease," he said quietly. "It’s spread further than we anticipated."

A ripple of unease moved through the group.

"Impossible," one elder muttered. "She wasn’t showing symptoms—"

"She was," Silas cut in smoothly. "Subtle ones. Easy to miss."

His gaze swept over them, steady and unwavering.

"And now it has taken her."

Silence fell.

Fear settled in its place.

Elder Varin swallowed. "Then this is worse than we thought."

"Yes," Silas agreed. "Much worse."

He stepped forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough to draw them closer.

"This is what happens when we allow instability into the pack."

Their attention sharpened.

"When we allow rogues to come and go as they please. When we turn a blind eye to threats simply because they are tied to bloodlines we are too afraid to challenge."

The implication hung heavy in the air.

Selena.

"She brought them here," Silas continued, his tone hardening. "She chose them over her own people."

A murmur spread through the elders, uneasy but growing.

"And now," he added, his voice dropping into something colder, "we are seeing the consequences."

"You think this is their doing?" one elder asked, hesitant.

Silas met his gaze without flinching. "What else would explain it?"

No one answered.

Because the seed had already been planted.

Elder Varin’s expression darkened. "If what you’re saying is true..."

"It is," Silas said firmly.

The room shifted.

The doubt that had once lingered began to solidify into something else.

Anger.

"She is not fit to rule," Silas pressed, his voice rising just enough to carry authority. "Not if her decisions put the entire pack at risk."

A pause.

Then—

"She is not fit to choose who sits on the throne."

That did it.

The elders erupted into low, heated voices, the tension finally spilling over.

"This cannot continue—"

"The pack comes first—"

"We cannot allow this—"

Silas remained silent now, watching as the chaos unfolded exactly as he intended.

Elder Varin raised his hand, calling for order.

When the room finally quieted, his voice was firm.

"Then it is decided."

Every eye turned to him.

"The princess has shown reckless judgment," he declared. "By associating with rogues and bringing them into our territory, she has endangered this pack."

A beat.

"She is no longer fit to rule."

The words settled heavily in the room.

"And as such," Varin continued, "she forfeits the right to influence the succession of the throne."

Silas lowered his gaze slightly, hiding the satisfaction that flickered beneath.

"Until this threat is eliminated," the elder finished, "Selena and those who follow her are to be considered a danger to the pack."

Another pause.

Then the final blow.

"They are no longer welcome here."

The decision echoed in the chamber like a verdict.

Exile.

Silas lifted his head slowly, his expression composed, grave.

"Then we will do what must be done," he said.

But behind the mask—

There was nothing but calculation.

Because the game had just shifted in his favor.

And this time—

Selena would not see it coming.