“I just washed those curtains, Grozdan.” The layered voice, a tectonic rumble beneath silk, didn’t boom. It simply filled the room, vibrating through Grozdan’s very bones. His vision blurred at the edges from the focused weight bearing down on him. The subterranean air turned dense, as if the mountain vault had inhaled and refused to exhale. Then, a peculiar thing happened. The ground beneath the winter-wargs, the snarling, vicious creatures Grozdan had led with such triumph, began to shimmer. Not crack, not break, but shimmer, like heat rising from a summer road. One moment, a hulking grey beast stood poised to rip Boshko’s arm off; the next, it was gone. Vanished. Then another. And another. Each disappearance was so swift, so clean, it was as if a meticulous, invisible hand simply plucked them from existence. Zhivka remained hovering, her gaze still fixed on the torn floral fabric. The blackness in her eyes seemed to consume any stray light, leaving only an inky void. Her lips, usually so quick to offer an apology, were pressed into a thin, unyielding line. A low, guttural purr, too deep for any human, reverberated from her chest, a sound that made the remaining wargs whine and cower, their fur bristling with primal dread. With an almost dainty flick of her wrist, the last two wargs, frozen in their terror, flickered out of sight. A faint, distant howl echoed from somewhere far beyond the Keep’s defenses. They hadn’t been destroyed, merely… relocated. Outside. Far, far outside. The pressure eased, a fraction, allowing Grozdan to finally gulp a ragged gasp of air. He staggered, dropping to one knee as the invisible weight lessened, but didn't vanish. “My apologies, Grozdan,” Zhivka’s voice, now her own melodic tones, though still underscored by that strange, resonant hum, was perfectly calm. “I didn’t mean to be so dramatic. It’s just, those were imported Volgarthian lace, very hard to come by. And the dire-pups were sleeping.” She landed lightly, her boots making no sound on the stone, then straightened a crooked picture frame on the wall beside her. From the doorway, where he had been frozen in place by the sudden, terrifying display, Vukasin finally sagged against the rock face, his face streaked with tears. “She… she *teleported* them,” he whispered, a sound of profound awe and utter despair. “No blood. No gore. Just… poof. My god, she’s a monster of domesticity!” He let out a choked sob, tears of pure, unadulterated joy streaming down his weathered cheeks. “It’s *beautiful*! The *flex*! Oh, my World-Ender, you’re an angel!” Grozdan, however, felt no such awe. Only a cold, gnawing humiliation. He looked around. His mighty winter-wargs, his loyal pack, were gone. Vanished. The assassins, who had been cowering moments ago, now peeked from behind pillars, their expressions shifting from terror to outright mockery. They whispered, pointing at the pathetic figure of the once-proud Alpha, brought low by… curtains. His pack, the few who had followed him into the Keep, now looked at him with disdain, their tails tucked, their eyes wide with the realization that their Alpha had led them into a polite, bloodless slaughter. “You!” Grozdan roared, pushing himself to his feet, his fangs bared in a snarl of rage and despair. He ignored Zhivka, ignored the tearful Vukasin. His eyes locked onto Krasimir, who had emerged from the shadows, his face an unreadable mask, one hand resting casually on the hilt of a gleaming blade. “Rogue King! You have corrupted my mate, twisted her pure spirit! I challenge you! A death duel! For her soul, for the true Alpha’s right!” The hall fell entirely silent. A death duel, for the mate of a King, was unheard of. It meant absolute submission for the loser, and a brutal display of dominance for the victor. Krasimir’s lips twitched, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. This was his territory. This was his game. He took a step forward, metal rings shifting on his leather vest, ready to accept the formal call and end Grozdan’s life. But then, a small hand, still smelling faintly of lavender and brimstone, pushed against Krasimir’s chest. Zhivka. She stepped between the two towering Alphas, facing Grozdan directly. Her black eyes had faded back to their natural warm brown, but a subtle, unwavering resolve was etched into every line of her posture. “Grozdan,” she said, her voice gentle, but firm. “You don’t need to fight Krasimir. This is between us. I accept your challenge.” The words hung in the air, heavier than the collapsed pressure of moments before. An Alpha challenging his ex-mate to a death duel? Unprecedented. Zhivka, a nobody, a pacifist, accepting? Impossible. Even Krasimir, whose fingers rested on his hilt, checked his stride, brows drawing together at her declaration. Grozdan, however, saw only an opportunity. “You fool!” he snarled, a twisted grin on his face. “You think you can fight me? Your own Alpha? I was your Alpha! I still hold the mate bond, you just don’t know it yet!” His voice lowered, a dark, primal growl. “*Submit!*” he commanded, invoking an ancient, forbidden mate-bond compulsion, a power meant to snap a wayward mate back into line, to crush their will beneath their Alpha’s. It was a vicious, irreversible command, meant to break and bind. He expected her to collapse, to whimper, to fall at his feet, her spirit shattered, finally recognizing her true master. Instead, Zhivka didn’t even flinch. A strange, almost amused expression flickered across her face. Then, the blackness in her eyes returned, a sudden, blinding flash. A raw, untamed power, far older and more potent than any mate-bond, surged through her. It wasn’t a defiance; it was a cosmic rejection, an absolute nullification. The command, Grozdan’s desperate, furious attempt to reclaim her, didn’t just fail; it detonated back at him with catastrophic force. A sickening crack echoed through the stone chamber. Grozdan screamed, a sound of pure agony. He clutched his face, staggering backward, his body convulsing. When he dropped his hands, his mouth was a ruin. His fangs were gone. Not broken, not chipped, but *shattered*, splintered fragments embedded in his gums, blood gushing from the raw wounds. He stared at Zhivka through streaming tears, clutching his jaw. The mate bond, the very essence of his claim, had been violently, utterly rejected, twisting his own power back upon him. Spitting a mouthful of blood and enamel splinters, Grozdan dragged his gaze across the arches, then fixed on Zhivka with a frantic gleam. “You think you’ve won?” he rasped, his voice raw, triumphant despite his pain. “You think you’re so clever, little Zhivka? I hid a magical explosive in the dire-pup nursery! Finish me, and they all die!”

The Etiquette of Eradication