Chapter 5
One of them held a long hunting spear of blackened iron, its heavy tip coated in a dark, glistening venom that gave off faint, foul vapors in the cold.
A wolfsbane lance—forged to overwhelm an Alpha’s healing factor and shut down his heart in moments.
The assassin’s gaze was not trained on Malakor.
It was locked on me.
"The imperial daughter signed the treaty," a harsh whisper carried across the rooftop on the cross-breeze. "Kill her before the packs assemble. Without the royal bloodline to legitimize the pact, the northern lords will turn on him for claiming the south. Strike now."
A bowstring twanged.
A dark iron bolt hissed through the freezing air, hurtling straight toward my chest.
I moved on pure instinct, throwing myself sideways against the granite pillar. The bolt shattered against the stone behind my shoulder with a sharp crack, showering the corridor with rock dust and caustic venom that hissed against the mortar.
"Ambush!" the warning tore from my throat before I could deliberate. "Ramparts! North tower!"
Down below, the courtyard sprang into motion.
"Treason!" Vane’s shout rang out as guards drew steel and rushed for the stairwells.
On the roof, the assassin with the venomous spear cursed. Seeing his marksman miss, he leaped down from the tower roof, landing hard on the gallery stones twenty paces from where I stood, leveling the blackened spear directly at my chest.
"Die for your fallen house, princess!" he snarled, driving forward with lethal momentum.
I raised my silver dagger, but a four-inch blade was ill-matched against a six-foot hunting spear in a narrow stone passage. I braced my feet, preparing to throw myself over the edge rather than take the poisoned tip, ready to risk the fall to the courtyard.
A towering shadow vaulted over the balustrade.
Malakor cleared thirty feet of stone in a single, thunderous surge, using the timber frame of the supply wagon below to launch himself upward, his armored hands catching the lip of the gallery railing.
He crested the parapet in an explosive blur of strength.
He did not draw a weapon. He did not dodge.
He stepped directly between my body and the striking spear.
A dull, heavy impact echoed off the corridor walls as the blackened iron drove deep into the leather over Malakor’s right shoulder.
The warlord did not cry out. A low, strangled sound escaped his throat, vibrating deep in his chest as the dark venom fought his constitution. Before the attacker could twist the weapon, Malakor’s left hand closed around the thick oak shaft, shattering the wood with a sharp crack.
With his right arm hanging heavy, Malakor stepped forward.
A primal roar of sheer Alpha dominance tore through the gallery, vibrating the stone beneath our boots.
He gripped the assassin by the breastplate, lifted him clean off the flagstones, and cast him over the balustrade into the courtyard below.
Silence descended upon the high walk, broken only by the ragged, strained cadence of the warlord’s breath.
Malakor swayed, his boots sliding against the stone.
The dark poison was spreading quickly, tracing dark lines along the corded muscles of his neck and jaw. His breath turned shallow and ragged as the toxin worked against his body's natural resilience.
"Malakor!" Vane and four warriors scrambled onto the gallery from the stairwell, weapons ready. "Lord Alpha! Secure the stairs! Summon the apothecaries!"
Malakor staggered back against the granite pillar, his knees buckling under the virulent strain. His masked head fell forward against the cold stone.
"Keep back," Vane warned the guards, noting the dark venom coating the broken spearhead lodged in the shoulder. "The blade was drenched in black aconite. Do not handle the metal without insulated gloves, or the residue will take you down as well."
Two guards attempted to support him, but the moment they reached out, Malakor’s head snapped up.
A low, warning growl rumbled behind the bone mask.
His good arm lashed out, knocking the men back with enough force to send them stumbling. His amber eyes burned with fevered delirium, his inner wolf surging to the surface, blinded by the toxin and refusing to be handled.
"Stand down!" Vane ordered, retreating a step from the dangerous field of dominance. "He’s lost in the fever—his instincts won't distinguish ally from enemy!"
I stood three paces away, my silver dagger gripped tightly in my hand.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
He had thrown himself into the strike. For me. For the woman who had held a blade to his throat only hours before.
*Why?*
My inner wolf did not offer hesitation. She pushed forward with sharp, urgent insistence, demanding intervention.
*Save him,* the pull thrummed through my chest.
"Step aside," I said, moving past Vane.
"Lady Aurelia, get back," Vane insisted, putting out a hand to block me. "He is barely conscious—he will strike at anything that approaches."
"He will not harm me," I said, my voice steady with an authority I had not claimed since my father’s court dissolved. "And your apothecaries do not know the properties of this venom. It is a refined imperial tincture, developed in my ancestral territory. Step aside, or your Alpha will succumb before the bells toll."
I walked directly toward him.
Malakor remained slumped against the pillar, his breathing labored and shallow. His clawed hand twitched on the stone, his frame braced as if for another attack. As my shadow fell over him, a harsh, guttural sound rose in his throat.
"Malakor," I murmured, sinking to my knees on the cold flagstones before him.
I did not lift a blade. I gently placed my bare palm against the side of his neck, feeling the hot, rapid thrum of his pulse beneath the skin.
The contact was immediate.
The growl vanished from his throat.
A shudder ran through the warlord’s massive frame, a soft, ragged breath catching beneath the bone mask. The defensive aggression that had kept his men at bay receded completely. His hand lifted weakly from the floor, his fingers lightly brushing the fabric of my sleeve before resting limp against the stones.
His head bowed forward, coming to rest against my shoulder.
"Take him to his quarters," I directed Vane, not looking back. "Bring boiled water, clean shears, moon-flower root, and silver tongs. If anyone attempts to remove his mask, I will see them punished myself."
***
The private bedchamber was austere and devoid of grandeur.
There were no gilded tapestries, no silk cushions, no flagons of spiced southern wine. The room held only the bare essentials: an iron-framed bed, a plain timber chest, a broad desk stacked with distribution ledgers, and a blazing hearth that struggled against the chill seeping through the high masonry.
The warriors had carried him in and quickly retreated, wary of the feverish aura radiating from the Alpha’s frame.
Only I remained.
I secured the heavy iron bolt on the door.
Setting a basin of steaming water upon the bedside table, I prepared the crushed moon-flower root and cooling mint to counter the poison's heat. Beside the basin lay iron pincers, sterilized linen bandages, and a small utility blade.
Malakor lay motionless on his stomach, his face turned toward the bare wall.
