Chapter 7
*A shadow decoy.*
My father had owned six of them over the years. Nameless, disposable orphan boys bought from border gutters, beaten into absolute muteness, kept in iron collars until they were needed to ride in carriages through hostile territories or drink wine laced with nightshade. By imperial law, they were lower than stray hounds. They possessed no birthrights, no names, and no marked graves when the venom took them.
Could one of them truly have survived?
Could a broken boy dragged through the freezing straw have crawled out of that cellar ditch, crossed the northern wastes, and somehow become the terrifying warlord who had brought twelve high bloodlines to their knees? Or had the real Malakor taken a trophy from the dead, carving the skin of an imperial runaway to mock the house he intended to crush?
The contradiction clawed viciously at my sanity. An escaped kennel-slave, starved and voiceless, could not possibly command twenty thousand battle-hardened wolves. It defied every rule of blood, dominance, and shifter lineage. Yet that brand was real. It was etched into the meat of his back with the exact silver seal my ancestors had forged to claim their chattel.
When the pale grey light of dawn finally seeped through the arrow slits, Malakor stirred.
He rolled onto his uninjured side with a low, pained grunt. The instant his amber eyes caught the morning light, his massive hand shot up to his face. Finding the bone mask still securely buckled over his brow and jaw, the brutal tension in his broad shoulders eased.
He looked toward the stool where I sat.
His gaze swept over my blood-stiffened sleeves, the basin of tainted water on the flagstones, and the cold iron pliers resting on the timber table.
He didn't speak. He offered no words of gratitude.
He pulled himself upright, swinging his long legs over the edge of the iron cot. His back was turned to me, the ruined tapestry of scars exposed once more to the cold air. He reached for a fresh linen shirt draped over the carved chair and pulled it over his head, concealing the serpent brand beneath dark wool and boiled leather.
"The assembly gathers at tomorrow's dusk," his ruined, gravelly voice scraped out, addressing the bare masonry rather than looking at my face. "The twelve pack lords are already crossing the lower gatehouse. Sleep, Lady Aurelia. You will need your strength."
He stood, fastened his broad sword belt with practiced, deliberate calm, and strode out into the vaulted corridor, leaving only the scent of winter pine and old ash lingering in the draft.
***
The day passed in a relentless blur of clattering armor, barking hounds, and arriving war-banners.
From the high northern parapets, I watched the lower muster yards fill with contingents from every corner of the realm. They rode through the outer archways under heavy snow cloaks, their standards bearing the crests of ancient dynasties: the white bear pelts of the Frostclaws, the iron boughs of the western chieftains, the river barons who had abandoned my father's cause the moment our southern garrison faltered.
These were the proud, ruthless Alphas who had spent centuries hoarding mountain salt, trading Omegas like pack animals, and crushing any clan that lacked royal lineage. Yet as they dismounted in the slush-filled yard, their ancestral pride was visibly hollowed out by calculating dread.
They did not gaze up at the ramparts with triumphant smiles. They glanced sideways toward the eastern walls, where the dismantled iron cages were being broken down into scrap metal, their bars fed continuously into the roaring smelters in full view of the realm.
"They're terrified of him," a voice murmured beside me.
I turned. Vane stood leaning against the icy battlements, his massive arms crossed over his chest. A dark bruise colored his jawline from the dominance command Malakor had struck him with yesterday, yet his posture remained rigid with discipline.
"They should be," I answered, keeping my eyes locked on the arriving warlords below. "He dismantled their trade routes, emptied their private granaries, and broke their vanguards. Isn't that why they have ridden north through the blizzard? To watch the usurper crown himself High Alpha and force them to swear fealty under threat of the sword?"
Vane let out a short, humorless bark of laughter that misted into the freezing air.
"Is that truly what you believe this is, Princess?"
I turned on him, narrowing my eyes. "What else could it be? He called the Twelve High Packs together for a political mating rite and a coronation. A butcher does not summon the lords of the continent to a wedding unless he intends to mount their pride on his wall."
Vane looked at me then, his scarred face tightening with a dark mixture of pity and contempt.
"You highborn wolves see everything through the prism of your own rot," he said, pushing away from the stone balustrade. "You think every Alpha hungers to rule like your father did. You think power exists only to forge longer leashes."
"My father was the legitimate sovereign of the Silverglade!" I snapped, my claws extending an inch beneath my gloves as my wolf bristled with defensive pride. "He held his seat by the ancient laws of the Moon Goddess!"
"Your father," Vane countered, his voice dropping into a harsh, venomous whisper, "kept boys in a kennel cellar and flayed them raw so his trueborn sons wouldn't have to face an assassin's crossbow in the street. Your father signed the border treaties that let high dukes boil runaway Omegas in tallow to protect their silver mines."
The breath locked hard in my throat.
"Malakor didn't conquer this realm to sit on a throne of stolen gold, Lady Aurelia," Vane said, turning toward the stone stairwell. "He tore it apart because it was rotten to the marrow. And tomorrow night, when the moon reaches its zenith, you will see exactly what his conquest was bought for."
He vanished down the winding steps, leaving me alone with the whistling wind.
My heart hammered against my ribs, heavy and erratic.
*He tore it apart because it was rotten to the marrow.*
The pieces refused to fit together. If the creature beneath that wolf skull bore the brand of a kennel-slave, how did he hold the allegiance of hardened commanders like Vane? Why had he waged a brutal war against the continent's ruling caste only to spare the common laborers, shatter the slave pens, and intercept a wolfsbane spear with his own flesh to keep me alive?
And why bring me here under the guise of an imperial treaty instead of chaining me in a dungeon?
I touched the hidden sheath beneath my lace cuff. The silver blade was cold against my pulse.
Tomorrow night was the rite.
Under pack law, a political mating ceremony before the gathered lords was binding in blood and soul. The presiding Alpha would claim the title, the union would be sealed under the eyes of the realm, and the fate of every territory would be settled permanently. If I walked onto that dais without understanding the game being played, I would be surrendering my people to an enigma draped in bone and iron.
