Chapter 3
The sentry laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "Go on, then. Don't bleed on the carpets. The Alpha is waiting."
The great hall of Frostpeak was freezing. Huge blocks of mountain ice had been integrated into the masonry, reflecting the dim light of tallow candles. A massive fire burned in the center pit, but it offered little warmth against the pervasive chill of Soren’s pack magic. Frostpeak wolves were leaner, taller, and colder than their southern cousins; they moved with a silent, calculating lethality that made them terrifying in the deep snow.
Alpha Soren sat upon a throne of carved whalebone, a heavy mantle of white wolf fur draped across his broad shoulders.
Where Cassian was fire and reckless muscle, Soren was cut glass. His hair was the color of fresh ash, swept back from high, aristocratic cheekbones, and his eyes were a pale, piercing silver that seemed to look right through flesh and bone.
Standing beside his throne was his sister, Freya, a lethal Beta with two ivory-hilted daggers sheathed at her hips, her gaze tracking me like an archer sighting a target.
"The courier survives," Soren said smoothly. His voice was melodic, lacking Cassian’s gravelly roar, but carrying an icy cadence that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. "Bring her forward."
Freya stepped down from the dais, her boots clicking sharply on the stone. She didn't touch me; she used the flat of her scabbard to hook the strap of my satchel, wrenching it roughly from my shoulder.
I stumbled forward, dropping to both knees on the freezing floor. My hands splayed out against the flagstones, trembling violently. I kept my face turned toward the stone, staring at the intricate patterns of frost creeping across the grout.
Freya drew out the vellum scroll and inspected the seal. "Cassian’s blood is fresh. Three hours old at most."
She handed the scroll to Soren, who broke the seal with a casual flick of his thumbnail—an intentional insult to the Emberfell bloodline, showing no reverence for the Alpha’s mark.
He unfurled the parchment, his silver eyes flicking back and forth across Cassian’s bold, aggressive handwriting. As he read, the corners of his mouth tightened into a cold, superior sneer.
"Predictable," Soren murmured, tossing the scroll onto the side table. "Cassian writes like he fights: with a club. He demands the southern forest in perpetuity and claims the Moonstone Altar as Emberfell soil. He truly believes the Blood Moon will crown him high sovereign."
"Does he suspect anything regarding the altered rites?" Freya asked, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.
"Cassian doesn't have the brains to suspect a trap until the teeth are through his throat," Soren replied, leaning forward on his throne. His silver gaze drifted down from his sister and landed squarely on me, kneeling on the cold floor. "Though I wonder about his messenger."
My pulse hitched—just enough to be perceptible to an Alpha’s heightened hearing, exactly as a terrified Omega’s would.
Soren rose from his throne. He moved with terrifying grace, his tall frame descending the dais until the polished black toes of his boots were inches from my trembling hands.
"Look at me," he commanded.
It was the same order Cassian had given, but spoken with the precision of an ice pick.
I forced myself to look up, letting my breath hitch in my throat. I widened my amber eyes, letting them fill with the reflection of his towering figure, making myself look as small, as fragile, and as broken as possible.
Soren knelt on one knee before me, bringing his face level with mine. He smelled of ozone, pine needles, and stale peppermint—a cold, sterile scent that lacked the raw heat of Cassian’s woodsmoke.
He reached out a pale, gloved hand and tapped the iron collar around my throat with his knuckles.
*Clink.*
The sound echoed through the silent hall.
"A mute thing," Soren mused softly, his eyes raking over my features. "My grandfather told me stories about you. He said that before the silence was locked into your jaw, your lineage used to sing the laws to the packs. He said that when a Guardian spoke, even the Alphas had to bow their heads."
He smiled, but the expression was dead. A shark eyeing a fish.
"Look at you now," he whispered. "An iron ring around your throat, carrying threats between men who view you as less than their hunting dogs. Does it hurt, little bird? Knowing that the blood of the Moon Goddess flows through your veins, yet you cannot even whimper when you are kicked?"
I lowered my eyes, a single tear escaping my lashes to track down my cold cheek.
It was an exquisite touch. I had practiced the timing of that tear for thirty years.
Soren chuckled softly, standing up and brushing the dust from his knee. "She is broken beyond repair, Freya. Cassian’s father beat whatever pride remained out of her decades ago."
"Good," Freya said, her arms crossed. "Then she won't notice the changes to the counter-proposal."
Soren walked back to his table, pulling a sheet of dark parchment from an ivory box. "Cassian wants to play with fire. I intend to bring the winter. We will agree to his terms regarding the summit at the Moonstone Altar, but we will alter the invocation clause. When he cuts his palm to sign the treaty under the Blood Moon, the magic won't bind the borders—it will funnel Emberfell’s pack strength directly into my bloodline."
He turned back toward me, the dark parchment held loosely in his fingers.
"And you, silent relic," Soren said, his eyes glittering with cold malice, "will carry the pen that writes his death warrant."
He stepped toward me, holding out the counter-treaty.
I reached out with both hands, my fingers shaking as I accepted the heavy cylinder. My head remained bowed, my forehead almost touching the icy flagstones in an attitude of complete, groveling submission.
Beneath the iron collar, where no Alpha’s silver or golden eyes could see, the ancient wolf in my chest smiled.
*Two treaties,* she whispered into the darkness of my soul. *Two Alphas. Two forgeries.*
*And one altar,* I replied silently, tucking the poisoned parchment into my satchel. *To burn them both.*
The journey back through the Whispering Pass was colder, but my blood ran hot enough to thaw the frost clinging to my lashes.
In the secluded belly of a glacial fissure, where the wind died down to a low, mournful whistle, I stopped.
No scent of wolf lingered here. The stone walls were lined with ancient calcite veins that masked spiritual signatures—a natural blind spot that the old Guardian sentinels had used as waypoints before the packs drove them into extinction.
I sat on a slab of black basalt, set the oiled leather satchel across my knees, and retrieved Soren’s dispatch.
The parchment was stiff, dyed the pale grey of winter birch, and sealed with Frostpeak’s wax: tallow mixed with ground silver and a drop of Soren’s aristocratic Alpha blood.
I didn't break the wax. With a deft flick of my thumbnail against the hidden notch beneath my collar, I released the valve holding my vocal cords captive. The ancient magic sighed through my lungs, warm and sweet, grounding my wolf's presence against the marrow of my spine.
