MATED TO THE SECRET ALPHA
Chapter 211: Decorum!

Chapter 211: Decorum!

He shot up, chair clattering backward, claws unsheathing with a loud shhk! as his eyes turned molten gold. "You smug, tea-sipping bastard!"

With a roar, Dren launched himself over the table.

Chaos erupted.

Thrones screeched on the stone floor. The heavy oak table cracked as Alphas leapt from their seats—some to hold Alpha Dren back, others just to avoid being caught in the crossfire. Beta Theon flinched back as the cups on the table flew past his face.

"Decorum!" Someone yelled. But no one listened.

Alpha Julius didn’t move. Not at first.

He merely lifted his teacup out of harm’s way as the mad, ego-bruised Alpha Dren lunged. Then, almost lazily, he rose – and in one smooth, surgical strike, slammed his elbow into Dren’s ribcage mid-air.

There was a crunch.

Dren coughed, doubling over as Julius caught him by the throat, his grip tight.

"Sit. Down," Julius said softly, voice like silk draped over a blade, but his eyes blazed with ice that could choke.

Dren snarled, but the others could already see his knees buckling. Blood dripped from his nose. His eyes were unfocused. Julius hadn’t even broken a sweat.

"You speak about Luna Reana again like that..." Julius leaned in, breath ice cold against Dren’s face. "...and I’ll make sure your next heat is spent bent over your own war table, begging for mercy."

He released Dren, who crumpled into a chair like a snapped puppet.

Silence reigned again—this time thick with tension.

"Anyone else feel brave?" Julius asked, casually straightening his coat.

No one answered.

Even Alpha Hargan, who had been barking the loudest, looked down at his clenched fists. Alpha Ronan swallowed hard. Malric had stopped smirking.

"Good." Julius turned his back to them, returning to his seat as if nothing had happened. He poured himself more tea. Delicate, serene.

Just then, the heavy double doors groaned as they opened.

Every Alpha turned.

A young council courier entered, pale as death, his throat bobbing as he clutched a single letter wrapped in black parchment, sealed in blood-red wax. The sigil stamped into it froze the room. It was the unmistakable eye of a red wolf.

No one moved.

"...That seal," Varun breathed.

Everyone knew who it belonged to. They’ve seen and read about it in the books. The Southern island’s sigil is a red wolf, but their Alpha has a sigil that is exclusive to him – a red wolf’s eye.

"Impossible," whispered Dren. "He’s not...this cannot be real. He hasn’t walked these lands in—"

"Centuries," muttered Hargan, standing slowly. "Four. Or five. No one knows."

The boy bowed, hands trembling as he placed the letter on the messy council table, then fled without a word.

For a long moment, no one dared reach for it.

Finally, Alpha Ronan – ever the bravest, or perhaps the most foolish – stood and approached. He stared at the seal as if it might bite him, then forced a grunt and broke it open.

The moment the wax cracked...

Wind.

A surge of unnatural wind roared through the sealed chamber, knocking scrolls off tables, extinguishing torches, yanking banners from the stone walls. The flames twisted upward, flickering blue, then gold, then blood red.

The Alphas stood frozen. Some reached for their swords. Others clutched their armrests, their teeth bared in primal terror.

Ronan staggered back a step, his eyes wide—but the letter unfolded itself, hovering in the air as it drifted open like it had breath of its own.

In a strangled voice, he read aloud:

"To the Council of Alphas.

I have heard the noise of squabbling hounds.

I will attend this meeting in person."

That was all.

But the power in those three words was enough to drop every jaw in the room. As if the unnatural phenomenon they just saw wasn’t enough, the ink vanished.

The parchment blackened. And in a quiet whisper of flame and frost, it crumbled to ash, spiraling into the air and disappearing into the shadows like it had never existed.

Silence fell just like their hearts dropped like a stone in an ocean.

They didn’t know Alpha Snow. They’d never met him, nor seen him, but they knew his name and the power he held from their fathers, who heard it from their fathers, and so on.

None of their ancestors...except those who lived in the times when Alpha Snow raised his claws, truly knew how much power that monster possessed. As old generations died and the new ones took over, the werewolf world forgot, or rather they took the stories they heard and history books as forklores –nobody truly believed in what they didn’t see with their own eyes.

Deep down, many of them believed that Alpha Snow was overhyped and given too much credit. Some of them believed ge was a dying old man, cursed by the goddess with immortality. They believed that the reason he had never stepped foot outside the southern islands in centuries was because he was too weak to leave.

Some claimed he had become more myth than man—an old legend propped up by fear and whispers, hiding away in rotting temples, and worshipped by his pack members who think him a god.

But now, it seem that wasn’t the case...?

Alpha Dennis, Killian’s cousin finally spoke up. He was the fiercest of them all. He clenched his jaw. "He’s coming," he whispered.

"He hasn’t stepped into the council in over five centuries," murmured another. "Why now?"

"What does he want?"

No one knew.

No one dared to ask.

It was Alpha Julius who finally pushed his chair back and stood, brushing invisible ash from his coat. "Meeting is adjourned," he said softly, and with that, he headed for the exit.

No one argued.

Not a single Alpha moved toward the doors.

Because the letter had not said when Alpha Snow would arrive. And no one wanted to be caught walking out when he walked in.

...

"Has the meeting been postponed?" Reana asked, dragging herself up against him. She threw her arm over his shoulder and pulled up until her jaw was resting on his other shoulder, her breath warm against his neck.

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