Chapter 10
His handsome face was set in an expression of deep, mournful resolve. He looked every inch the noble protector preparing to perform a tragic, necessary duty for his pack.
"The Northern Garrison enters!" the herald's call echoed down the nave.
The iron-banded doors groaned open.
A low murmur stirred through the crowd as the onlookers parted.
Henrik marched into the sanctuary.
He wore his battle plate—blackened iron bearing the scars of border warfare, his heavy wolfskin mantle trailing behind his broad shoulders. He looked like an iron warlord carved from northern frost, his face impassive, his storm-gray eyes sweeping over the assembly with cold contempt.
Behind him walked two garrison sentries, escorting me.
I played my role to perfection.
I wore a plain, unadorned gown of ash-gray wool. My head was bowed, my shoulders hunched slightly against the drafts, my hands clasped tightly before my waist. To every noble watching from the gallery, I was a broken, disgraced creature—a foolish girl brought low by her own ambition, trembling in the wake of the brutal Alpha who had mastered her.
Across the circle, Malachi’s eyes locked onto me.
A flash of raw, self-satisfied triumph flared across his handsome face. He saw my lowered head, my pale cheeks, and my silence, and in his arrogant heart, he saw absolute surrender.
He believed I was already dead.
Henrik halted at the perimeter of the Conclave Stone.
Bram stepped forward, carrying the heavy iron casket sealed in black northern wax. With a dull, ringing clang that reverberated through the vaulted rafters, Bram placed the box squarely in the center of the tribunal circle.
The dark wolf-head seal gleamed intact beneath the torchlight.
Elder Bron rose from the high dais, striking his silver-headed staff against the flags.
"Let the Conclave bear witness!" Bron's thin voice carried across the cathedral. "On this Eve of the Winter Solstice, the High Council convenes under the immutable statutes of the First Claws! A petition of high treason has been laid against Opal of the Western Ridge!"
Bron turned his rheumy gaze toward Malachi.
"Alpha Malachi of the Eastern Line," Bron intoned, "you have demanded the invocation of the most absolute decree in the Wyldemarch covenant. Do you stand by your charge?"
"I do, High Elder," Malachi’s voice rang out, rich, clear, and laced with theatrical sorrow.
He stepped forward, his polished boots clicking against the white granite, entering the sacred perimeter of the Conclave Stone. He turned slowly, addressing the hundreds of nobles watching in breathless silence.
"It is with profound sorrow that I stand before the Ancestors tonight," Malachi said, his hand resting solemnly over his heart. "Opal of the Western Ridge was betrothed to my house. I sheltered her. I forgave her erratic grief when her father passed from this life."
He paused, letting the murmurs of sympathy ripple through the gallery.
"But grief cannot pardon treason," Malachi’s tone sharpened, rising with righteous indignation. "When she fled to the border, she did not flee out of fear. She fled to deliver the instruments of our destruction into the hands of rogue warlords! Hidden within the ancestral vaults of Rimecrag, she concealed the forbidden ledgers of the Gray Wastes—and the very poison that stole the life of our former High Alpha!"
Gasps rippled through the gallery. Lords leaned over the carved railings, their faces pale with shock.
Malachi reached down to his hip.
With a clean, whistling rasp of steel, he drew the heavy star-silver execution blade from its scabbard. The blade caught the torchlight, glinting like an icicle in the gloom.
He raised the sword toward the open dome above.
"By the blood of the First Claws!" Malachi roared, his eyes wild with triumphant pride. "By the sovereign right of the Eastern Line, I invoke the immutable Law of Blood Purge! No words! No appeals! Let the physical contraband be unveiled, and let the traitor's blood wash the stone clean before this night ends!"
Every eye in the cathedral snapped toward Henrik.
The Elders leaned forward. The gallery held its breath. They expected Henrik to roar, to draw his war sword, to defy the Conclave and bathe the sanctuary in blood to shield his claimed mate.
Henrik did not move a muscle.
He stood upon the perimeter of the stone, chillingly still. His scarred face betrayed no terror, no fury, no dread. His storm-gray eyes were cold and flat as pig iron, watching Malachi with the dispassionate patience of a butcher waiting for an ox to step onto the killing floor.
Slowly, Henrik stepped forward.
With the toe of his armored boot, he shoved the heavy, sealed iron casket deeper into the circle, sliding it directly to the feet of the High Priest.
Malachi’s lips curled into a wide, malicious smirk. He looked down at the box, his hand resting casually upon the hilt of his raised blade, utterly blind to the fact that his fingers rested upon his own execution order.
He caught my eye across the stone and gave me a faint, mocking nod.
Then, turning his blade toward the High Priest, Malachi gave the final command:
"Snap the seal."
