Chapter 87: The Whisper in the Hall
The hollow corridor of the Syndicate court lay steeped in silence, save for the rhythmic flicker of oil-fed torches that sputtered against the high stone walls. Camille walked with quiet purpose, the hem of her midnight-blue robe whispering against the marble floor. Her pulse had settled since her confession to Celeste, but her thoughts still tangled in knots. She needed air, space to think. The burden of being a vessel was already a weight, but the fear in Celeste’s eyes haunted her more.
She paused by a narrow alcove and leaned into the cold stone, the chill biting into her bare arm. Just a moment of stillness, she thought. Just a moment to catch her breath.
Voices carried from deeper down the hallway, sharp, conspiratorial, and dangerously hushed.
"He grows bolder," came a voice Camille recognized instantly: Sterling, the High Alpha. His cadence was clipped, his disdain barely masked. "If we wait longer, the boy will think the council belongs to him."
Camille instinctively pulled back, pressing herself against the alcove’s curve. Her heart climbed into her throat.
Another voice, unfamiliar but authoritative, responded, "Rhett is popular. His blood stirs the young. They see hope. Strength."
Sterling scoffed. "Fools. They see defiance dressed in charm. And charm burns when it gets too close to fire. He is not like his father."
A pause. Then, deliberate and final:
"We remove the boy. The girl will obey."
Camille blinked. Her breath hitched audibly in her throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling the sharp inhale that wanted to explode into a scream. Remove Rhett? Use her? Her legs threatened to buckle beneath her.
"You overestimate her loyalty," the strategist said. "She’s unstable. Too many contradictions in her blood."