Chapter 4
"Alpha," the warrior grunted, giving Henrik a sharp thump over his heart before cutting his suspicious gaze toward me. "Word beat you here by carrier hawk. The valley council is screaming for your head. Bron is calling this an abduction. And Malachi... Malachi sent an official rider."
"What did the boy want, Bram?" Henrik asked, not breaking his stride as we entered the vaulted stone corridor of the keep.
"He demands the girl be returned before the Solstice Tribunal," Bram spat, his lip curling in disgust. "Says she was gripped by a sudden womb-hysteria. Claims she was terrified of the bonding vows and fell under your 'coercive Alpha thrall.' He promised the council full clemency for you if you hand her over at the border crossing by week's end."
I let out a soft, sharp laugh that echoed off the damp stone walls.
Bram stopped, glaring down at me with genuine irritation. "You find that amusing, little lady? If the High Council declares us in open rebellion, our supply trains get cut off before the first heavy snows. That means five hundred men eating shoe leather by midwinter."
"Malachi was already cutting off your supply trains," I said calmly, looking Bram dead in the eye. "He’s been doing it for seven months. He just blamed it on southern rogue raids so you’d bleed your scouts dry in the ravines instead of looking at his grain manifests."
Bram’s jaw snapped shut. He looked at Henrik, then back at me, bewildered. "How the hell would a healer from the Western Ridge know that?"
"Show her the ledger room," Henrik commanded, his deep voice carrying no room for debate.
"Henrik," Bram protested, "she's an outsider! Her blood-scent is barely set in the garrison—"
"I said show her," Henrik growled. The air in the corridor spiked with raw Alpha authority.
Bram swallowed hard, bowed his scarred head, and turned down the gallery.
***
The garrison’s archive was a frigid, drafty vault buried beneath the commander's quarters. It smelled of tallow candles, damp parchment, and wood rot.
Piles of disorganized manifests, requisition orders, and tax scrolls lay heaped across a heavy trestle table like cordwood.
Henrik dismissed Bram with a wave of his hand, shutting the heavy oak door behind us. The sudden quiet was thick, broken only by the whistling wind outside and the crackle of a lone peat brazier in the corner.
"Here," Henrik said, tossing a thick, leather-bound volume onto the wood. It landed with a dull thud. "These are the quartermaster's logs for the last three quarters. Five grain shipments vanished between the Blackthorn Pass and our lower silos. Two convoys of iron ore were intercepted. Malachi’s reports claimed rogue wolves from the Gray Wastes overran the guards."
I pulled off my wet traveling cloak, letting it drop over a wooden stool.
My fingers were stiff from the cold, and the cut on my palm ached with a dull, throbbing heat, but my mind was sharp as a honed scalpel. In my past life, I had spent two years locked in Malachi’s solar, forced to balance his secret trade accounts while he entertained the High Elders in the banquet hall below. I knew every crooked cipher, every false seal, every hidden ledger code he had ever used to siphon pack wealth into his private coffers.
I pulled the ledger toward me and opened the yellowed parchment.
"He didn't lose the grain to rogues," I said, my finger tracing down the column of supply dates. "Look at the transport signatures here. The lead wagon master is listed as Captain Varek."
"Varek is dead," Henrik said, stepping behind my shoulder. The warmth radiating from his armored chest was a physical presence against my back. "Found with his throat torn out three leagues north of the pass."
"He was poisoned before his throat was cut," I murmured, turning the page. "Look at the weight discrepancy. The wagons were logged at four tons of grain leaving the central valley granaries, but when they paid the road toll at Oakhaven Bridge—two days *before* the alleged ambush—the wagon weight was logged at barely one ton."
Henrik went absolutely still.
He leaned in closer, his broad hand coming down flat against the edge of the desk, just inches from mine. His breath stirred the loose strands of hair at my temple. The scent of him—pine resin, cold iron, and that dark, intoxicating Alpha essence—flared hot against my senses.
"Three tons of grain were dumped before the convoy ever entered the mountains," Henrik said, his voice dropping into a deadly, vibrating rasp.
"Not dumped. Sold," I corrected him, looking up into his storm-gray eyes. We were so close I could see the pale flecks of gold swirling in his pupils. "Sold to black-market distillers in the lower valley for silver coin. The silver was routed directly to Malachi’s personal estate in the Eastern Glen. Then, he had his men lace the remaining grain with low-grade nightshade to sicken your frontline guards, staging a rogue attack to cover the missing stores."
Henrik stared at the parchment, then slowly raised his head to look at me.
There was no mockery in his expression now. No dismissive skepticism. The raw, ruthless intelligence in his eyes met mine with terrifying clarity.
"Why would he starve my men?" Henrik asked quietly. "Wyldemarch needs the Northern Garrison to hold the border."
"He doesn't want to hold the border," I whispered, the memory of my past life burning behind my ribs like swallowed fire. "He wants you desperate. He wants your warriors weakened, hungry, and unruly. When a garrison starves, the soldiers raid civilian farms. And when your soldiers raid civilian farms, Malachi gets to stand before the Grand Conclave, brand you an uncontrollable savage, and invoke the ancient Law of Blood Purge to execute you and absorb your lands."
Henrik’s hand on the table slowly curled into a fist, the wood beneath his knuckles groaning under the immense pressure.
"The Law of Blood Purge," he said, testing the words on his tongue. "An archaic execution trial. It requires an absolute decree of high treason."
"And he already has the executioner's blade forged," I said, meeting his gaze. "He used to tell me that the greatest trees must have their deepest roots severed if the garden is to thrive. He meant your bloodline, Henrik. He always meant you."
Henrik looked down at me for a long, quiet interval.
The suspicion that had guarded his features since the cathedral was fracturing, replaced by something heavier, darker, and infinitely more dangerous: absolute, predatory alignment.
"You knew all of this before you walked up to my chair today," he said softly.
"I knew all of it," I admitted.
He didn't ask how. Wolves of the wild border did not care for prophecies or sorcery; they cared for results. And the proof was laid bare in ink and blood across his own table.
Without warning, Henrik reached out.
I tensed instinctively, my past trauma rearing its ugly head—waiting for the strike, the grab, the extraction rod.
Instead, Henrik’s large, calloused fingers gently took hold of my left wrist.
His touch was surprisingly light, reverent even, contrasting sharply with the scarred brutality of his hands. He turned my palm upward, inspecting the blood-soaked linen bandage.
