The Messenger( Iva) novel Chapter 379

Lasing Control

Losing Control

The conference room was stifling, the air thick with tension and the scent of fear.

Caleb sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his eyes cold and unyielding, his presence pressing down on the assembled ministers like a physical weight. His fingers drummed against the polished wood, a slow, deliberate rhythm that seemed to echo the beat of a

funeral march.

The ministers shifted in their seats, their faces pale, their hands trembling as they clutched their reports. They had been summoned for this meeting with barely an hour’s notice, and the dread that had been building in their chests was now a palpable force.

Caleb’s gaze swept across the room, cataloging each of them, his expression utterly devoid of warmth.

“These quarterly reports are garbage,” he said, his voice low and sharp, each word a blade. “Inaccurate. Incomplete. Useless.”

He picked up the stack of papers in front of him and tossed them onto the table with a contemptuous flick of his wrist.

“You have until tomorrow to fix this mess,” he continued, his voice hardening. “Or you will be replaced. Do I make myself clear?”

The ministers nodded frantically, their voices a chorus of trembling affirmations.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

“We’ll have it done by-”

Caleb rose abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor with a harsh screech. He didn’t wait for them to finish.

He walked out of the room without another word, the door slamming shut behind him.

The ministers collapsed into their chairs, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. Some of them clutched their chests, their faces pale with relief.

“By the Goddess,” one of them whispered, his voice shaking. “I thought he was going to-”

“Don’t say it,” another interrupted, his voice sharp with fear. “Just don’t.”

Lesing Control

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Outside the conference room, Caleb strode through the corridors, his footsteps echoing against the cold stone walls.

The servants and guards who crossed his path flattened themselves against the walls, their eyes downcast, their bodies trembling. They had learned to avoid his gaze, to make themselves as small and invisible as possible.

Since the Crown Princess’s kidnapping, Caleb had gone through many stages.

In the first days, he had been frantic, desperate, his eyes wild with a grief that bordered on madness. He had torn the castle apart, interrogated everyone, followed every lead. He had screamed, pleaded, raged at the heavens.

Then came the shell.

He had retreated into himself, his eyes hollow, his body moving through the motions of life without any spark of vitality. He had barely eaten, barely slept, barely spoken. It had been as if a part of him had died, leaving behind only a husk.

But after three months, a new Caleb had emerged.

This Caleb was hard. Demanding. Controlling. Unforgiving.

He had taken over the kingdom from his father with an iron fist, his authority absolute. Mistakes were not tolerated. Failure was not an option. He had zero compassion for those who fell short, zero mercy for those who crossed him.

He was like a machine. A war machine.

He smashed his enemies one by one, dismantling the networks of corruption and treachery that had allowed Iva to be taken.

The traitors among the staff–the ones who had colluded with her kidnappers–were executed in brutal, public displays. Even the seasoned warriors had difficulty keeping their stomachs down at the sight.

And through it all, Caleb never stopped searching for Iva.

He had trackers scouring the kingdom, spies infiltrating every pack, informants reporting from every corner of the land. He had offered rewards so vast that entire packs had been tempted to betray their own.

But the search had yielded nothing.

And with each passing day, he grew colder.

Losing Control

The crazy glint in his eyes sent chills through everyone who saw it. His parents, who had once been so close to him, could no longer reach him. The staff tiptoed around him, terrified of crossing his path.

He was a man possessed, consumed by grief and rage and the burning need for justice.

The grand hall was filled with the murmur of diplomatic pleasantries, the clink of glasses, and the rustle of fine fabrics. Candles flickered in crystal chandeliers, casting warm light across the assembled dignitaries. It was a scene of opulence and power, the kind of gathering that would have once filled Caleb with a sense of purpose and pride.

Now, it was unbearable.

Caleb sat at the head of the table, his posture rigid, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the middle distance. He had been enduring this diplomatic farce for hours, his patience worn thin by the endless parade of sycophantic smiles and veiled demands.

The delegation from the neighboring kingdom was particularly relentless. They had arrived with a singular purpose: to convince the Messenger to visit their territory. They spoke of their unmated wolves, their declining birth rates, their desperate need for the Goddess’s guidance. They praised the Messenger’s work, lauded her wisdom, and expressed their fervent hope that she would extend her blessings to their lands.

Each word was a knife twisting in Caleb’s chest.

His hands clenched into fists beneath the table. His breathing grew shallow. The mask of cold composure he had worn for months was cracking, the raw grief and rage beneath threatening to spill over.

Caleb rose abruptly, his chair scraping against the marble floor with a harsh screech. The room fell silent, every eye turning toward him.

He turned and walked out of the hall, his strides long and purposeful, his expression dark.

*She is

1. ap.

*Chaos snarled. *Somewhere. Alone. And we can’t reach her.*

ed, ready to return to the castle and continue the endless charade of leadership.

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