Chapter 112: Gods Don’t Steal

Words : 1205 Updated : Sep 17th, 2025

Chapter 112: Gods Don’t Steal Zane~ "Understood, Father." The words slipped from my lips—calm, controlled, effortlessly obedient. But inside, Red was roaring with laughter. "Come on, Zane, why not rub our mate in his face?" he whined. "Not yet," I murmured, biting back a grin. A sudden, sharp pulse cut through my mind. Not from my father. It was from Jacob. The mental link between my father and me shattered like fragile glass. The connection severed so fast that my father flinched, as if someone had physically yanked him backward. His eyes flickered with momentary confusion, but before he could question it, Jacob spoke. "It’s time we talked about why I’m here," he said. His voice was light—too light. Almost amused. Almost lazy. But the air around him had changed. Gone was the playful mischief in his brown eyes, the smirks designed to needle at my patience. Instead, something ancient stirred behind them, like the shifting tides of a vast, unseen ocean. My father’s gaze sharpened. The king in him—the ruler, the strategist—sensed it too. Without a word, he turned on his heel and strode toward the doors. "Please come," he said. "Let’s talk in my study. The walls have ears here." I exchanged a glance with Jacob, who merely smirked as if this entire situation was an amusing spectacle for him. He had that look in his eyes—the one that said he knew more than he was letting on. It was irritating. We followed my father out of the grand hall, his stride purposeful as he led us down the dimly lit corridors. The castle was silent, but I knew better. Shadows lurked, unseen eyes watching. My father wasn’t being paranoid. There were always people listening. Always waiting. When we reached his study, he pushed open the heavy oak doors and stepped inside. It was a lavish room, lined with towering bookshelves filled with centuries of knowledge and deceit. The scent of aged parchment, leather, and faint traces of my father’s cologne filled the air. The door clicked shut behind us. My father strode toward a cabinet in the corner, unlocking it with a small, ornate key. Inside, nestled among crystal decanters, was a bottle of whiskey older than me. He poured three glasses—one for Jacob, one for me, and the last for himself. Jacob took his glass with a lazy sort of amusement, swirling the golden liquid before taking a sip. "Generous," he mused. My father didn’t respond to the remark. Instead, he took a slow drink, letting the silence stretch before finally setting his glass down. Then, with the same eerie calm, he looked at Jacob. "You mentioned a coup," he said. "Tell me everything." Jacob leaned back in his chair, his face calm as always. "I suppose you’d want to know who’s coming for your throne." A muscle in my father’s jaw twitched. "If you know something, Mist, please speak to me plainly." Jacob exhaled through his nose, setting his glass aside. "I need the royal scepter." I watched my father’s reaction. My fingers clenched around my glass. We all knew that the royal scepter wasn’t just a symbol of the kingdom—it was power itself. It was said to be a conduit of the ancient magic that ran through our bloodline. My father’s expression darkened. "Why? Who’s after my life to warrant you asking for something like this?" Jacob tilted his head. "Nathan." The silence that followed was deafening. Then, very slowly, he set his drink down. "Why am I not surprised." His voice was quiet, but I could hear the storm raging beneath it. Jacob nodded. "He’s involved. And not just him. There are others, but Nathan is one of the main players. The meeting will be held at Silverfang Pack." I looked at Jacob wondering why he didn’t mention Dexter. A bitter laugh escaped my father. "Of course. The Silverfangs have never been loyal. Not truly." I watched his fingers tighten around the edge of the desk. My father wasn’t the type to show emotion, but I knew him well enough to see the betrayal settling in his bones. Jacob studied him for a moment, then spoke again. "You don’t have to believe me." My father’s gaze snapped up, sharp. Jacob shrugged. "If you doubt me, I’ll leave. It’s not my throne on the line." The threat wasn’t loud. It wasn’t aggressive. But it hit its mark. My father inhaled deeply, then, in a tone that almost surprised me, he said, "Don’t go." Jacob didn’t respond right away. He simply watched, as if gauging the sincerity of those words. Then, after a beat, he smiled. "I’ll take that as a yes, then." My father’s jaw flexed. "You need the scepter." "Yes," Jacob confirmed. My father exhaled, long and slow. "That scepter is the foundation of this kingdom." Jacob didn’t blink. "And it will be the reason your kingdom doesn’t fall." The weight of those words settled heavily in the air. Then, at last, my father gave a small nod. "Fine. You have my permission." Jacob’s lips curved. "Good." And then, before either of us could blink, he snapped his fingers. In an instant, the royal scepter—an artifact of gold and obsidian, ancient runes glowing faintly along its length—materialized in Jacob’s hand. My father shot to his feet. "What—?" Jacob smirked. "You look surprised, Your Majesty." "How—" My father’s gaze darted between Jacob and the scepter. "If you could do this... then why bother asking for my permission?" Jacob twirled the scepter between his fingers effortlessly, his expression lazy. "Because without your consent, it would be stealing." He flicked his gaze to my father. "And a god doesn’t steal." A silence fell over the room. Then, my father let out a low breath, shaking his head as he slumped back into his chair. "A god," he murmured, half to himself. Jacob grinned. "You’re catching on." There was something infuriating about how amused he was by all of this. Jacob turned to me then, his expression shifting into something more serious. "Help your father as much as you can," he said. "Because this kingdom will be yours soon." I tensed. Jacob’s words weren’t just a prediction. They were a certainty. My father didn’t say anything. But I could feel his gaze on me. Jacob smiled, stepping back. "I’ll see you soon, King Anderson." And then, with a small bow, he vanished. The air crackled for a moment where he’d stood, and then—nothing. Silence. I turned to my father. His face held an emotion I couldn’t read, but his mind was already spinning, I could tell. His gaze, still locked on the empty space where Jacob had been, held something I rarely saw in him. Wonder. And then, he turned to me. "Zane." I met his gaze. He leaned forward, his voice low, urgent. "How the hell did you come in contact with the Wolf Spirit?" I didn’t respond immediately. I could see it in his eyes—the way his thoughts were already racing ahead, calculating, planning. I knew my father too well—the glint in his eyes said it all. This kind of knowledge and power in his hands wouldn’t just shape the kingdom. It would remake it. And that terrified me.

Chapter 112: Gods Don’t Steal

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