Chapter 127: The Ghost of Katrina
Zane~
The room was suffocating.
Not because it was hot—the palace was always cool, scented with sage and wolfsbane—but because of the serious matter that came in with those two men. The moment the doors creaked open and Owen and Michael Blackthorn stepped inside, the air fogged. Not with fear but with purpose.
I sat straighter in my chair beside the throne, tea forgotten in my hand.
"Owen Blackthorn and his son, Michael," the herald announced.
My father’s posture shifted by half a degree. Anyone else wouldn’t have noticed, but I’d learned to read him well even though it had been long I shared a roof with him. He was no longer lounging with that bored ’I’ve seen worse’ air. He was alert.
The Blackthorns weren’t here to talk about shrunken chickens or bird-possessed mates. No, their energy was too tightly wound, like a too stretched elastic ready to snap.
"Your Majesty," Owen said with a deep bow, his voice steady, carrying the age and command of someone who’d seen far too many winters. "We come before the crown with a grave matter."
I didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. All I could do was stare at Griffin’s grandfather. And his father, Michael, who looked like he hadn’t slept in a decade. Shadows rimmed his eyes, and there was a stiffness in his gait like grief had settled into his bones.
My father didn’t respond immediately. He let silence stretch just long enough to draw out every ounce of tension. Then he said, "Speak."
Owen nodded. "We’ve uncovered evidence of a crime—a slaughter committed years ago by the Silverfang Pack."