Chapter 3

I didn’t sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the shattered urn, the scorched bandages around my wrists, and the unyielding cold in Wystan’s face.

By morning, my choice was clear. If Fenwick wanted me gone, I would leave—but not on their terms, and certainly not alone.

I sat at the small timber table by the infirmary window, staring down at my hands. They still throbbed with a deep, persistent ache. The healers had managed to reduce the worst of the swelling, but the wolfsbane iron had done its work; even flexing my fingers sent a jolt of pain up my forearms that made my wolf shrink back beneath my ribs.

It didn't matter. I had forty-eight hours until the Succession Feast. Forty-eight hours to ensure that when the moment came, no one in that hall could force me to my knees.

I pulled the copper call bell. The healer stepped into the room a moment later, bringing the sharp scent of antiseptic and dried herbs.

"You should be resting," she said, eyeing my posture.

"I need a messenger sent to the Frost Territory."

She frowned, pausing. "The Frost Territory? For what?"

"I need an audience with Emrys Kellan."

Her expression shifted to disbelief. "Emrys Kellan is a mercenary enforcer. He doesn't answer to Fenwick."

"That is precisely why I am calling for him."

"He’s a dangerous wolf, Edrys."

"So am I."

She glanced down at my bandaged hands, clearly doubting my words, but I held her gaze until she finally gave a single, hesitant nod. "Very well."

Emrys was a wolf I had encountered only a few times near the northern perimeter. Frost Territory was distant enough that Alpha Cedric’s commands carried no weight there. Their wolves smelled of resin, mountain cold, and raw iron, and they bowed to no one without reason.

Emrys, in particular, had earned a reputation for being unyielding. He didn't flatter Alpha lines, he didn't bow to titles, and most importantly, he owed Wystan nothing.

I needed someone who stood outside Fenwick’s web. Someone who wouldn't flinch when the pack turned its back on me.

By mid-afternoon, the door to the infirmary opened, and Emrys stepped inside.

He was broad-shouldered and imposing, his dark hair tied back loosely at the nape of his neck. He wore simple, functional travel gear—no pack insignia, no silver trim—just a thick leather belt holding a heavy short-blade. The crisp, biting air of the Frost Territory seemed to walk in right beside him.

His eyes swept the room, landing first on my bound wrists, then on my face. "What happened?"

"You already know the rumors," I said.

"I heard the outline." He closed the distance between us, his wolf quiet but alert, evaluating me with an unblinking focus. "Wystan?"

"His command."

"And you still plan to walk into the feast?"

"I do."

"With ruined hands?"

"Yes."

A shadow of a smile flickered across his face before fading just as fast. "You're either reckless or foolish."

"I’ve been called both. What I need right now is a guardian."

"You had one."

"He abandoned his post," I said flatly. "I want you to take the space at my back."

"For how long?"

"Until I step across the Fenwick border."

"And why would I take a contract against an Alpha pack?"

"I will pay you."

He let out a low, dry laugh. "I have no use for Fenwick coin."

"Then I offer absolute freedom of contract," I said, holding his eyes. "You will not answer to my father, you will not bow to Wystan, and you will ignore the council. You answer only to me."

He grew still, studying my face. "You’re an Alpha heir."

"Not for much longer."

"Because you're stepping down?"

"Because the seat was decided before I ever stepped into the forge."

Emrys pulled a heavy wooden chair out and sat down, the frame creaking under his weight. "What turned Wystan against you?"

"He was bound to guard my trial," I said quietly. "Then the Moon Goddess marked my stepsister as his fated mate."

"And he shifted his alliance."

"He didn't just shift it. He handed down the order to break my hands."

Emrys looked down at my bandages again. The temperature in the small room seemed to dip slightly—a subtle sign of a Frost wolf's rising temper.

"I'll take the contract," Emrys said.

"Just like that? You haven't asked for my terms."

"I know enough," he replied smoothly, standing back up. "I don't care about Fenwick politics, and I have no love for guards who break their oaths."

"You will make enemies here."

He shrugged. "I already have plenty. Tell me when we move."

"At the feast."

He nodded once, turning for the door. As his hand touched the iron latch, I spoke up. "Emrys."

He paused, looking back over his shoulder.

"Thank you."

"Save your thanks until we're across the border," he said, and slipped out into the corridor.

Two days later, the doors of the Great Hall were thrown open for the Succession Feast.

The room was packed with wolves from across the region—warriors, elders, line leaders, and representatives from neighboring territories. The air smelled of roasted meat, spilt wine, heavy pine, and the latent tension of too many powerful wolves occupying a single room.

I stood at the threshold, wearing a long-sleeved tunic that completely covered my bandaged wrists. The pain was still sharp, but I kept my posture rigid, refusing to let a single trace of weakness show on my face.

Behind me stood Emrys. He wore dark, unpolished armor, free of any Fenwick crest, carrying the cold, distinct scent of the Frost Territory like a shield.

As we walked down the center aisle, muted whispers rippled through the crowd.

"Is that Edrys?" "Who is the wolf behind her?" "That's Kellan—from the northern enforcement lines." "Why is a Frost wolf guarding an Alpha heir?"

I ignored them, keeping my eyes fixed on the raised dais at the front of the hall.

My father sat in the high chair, flanked by Edith. Her broken arm was already bound in clean linen, resting gracefully against her silk dress. She looked refined, composure intact—as if she hadn't swept my mother's ashes into the dirt three days ago.

Wystan stood directly behind her shoulder, his hand resting near his hilt. As I approached, his eyes locked onto mine, dropping briefly to my covered arms before returning to my face. I gave him nothing—no anger, no recognition, just a blank slate.

Alpha Cedric’s heavy presence rolled off the dais, pressing down on the room to silence the crowd. "Edrys."

"Father," I said, stopping twenty paces from the steps.

His eyes flicked past me to Emrys. "Who is this standing in our hall?"

"My guardian for the evening."

"You were assigned guards from the Fenwick line."

"I selected my own."

Wystan’s jaw set tight, the faint scent of his wolf flaring with sudden aggression before he checked it.

Emrys took a half-step forward, his voice calm and resonant. "Emrys Kellan. I am bound to her defense for the duration of the gathering."

Father frowned, his brow darkening. "You answer to Frost Territory."

"Not tonight. Tonight, I answer to her."

A murmur ran through the elders seated nearby. Father’s gaze hardened as he looked back down at me. "You intend to parade a foreign mercenary through this hall during a pack proceeding?"

"I intend to exercise my right as an heir until the trial is formally concluded," I replied steadily.

Edith stepped forward, her expression softening into practiced, pitying concern. "Edrys, please. You don't need to do this. No one wants to see you cast out."

I looked at her, my voice flat. "Do what, Edith?"

"Make this harder than it needs to be," she said softly, taking a step down from the dais. "I know you were overwhelmed. I know you lost your temper in the forge. But if you just offer a formal apology, Father will let you stay."

"I lost my temper because you shattered Mother's urn."

Edith stopped, letting out a small, hurt breath. "It was an accident. I told you that. You shouldn't have attacked me over a mistake."

Before I could answer, a sudden commotion broke out as servants moved past with silver serving trays. Edith took another step down the stone stairs, her balance suddenly faltering.

"Edrys—" she gasped, stumbling forward onto the lower floor.

As she hit the stone, something metallic slipped from her fingers, clattering loudly across the floor tiles until it stopped right at my boots.

It was a curved steel dagger, bare of any sheath.

Gasps echoed through the immediate circle of onlookers. Edith scrambled backward, clutching her bandaged arm, her eyes wide with manufactured terror. "She brought a blade!"

The hall erupted into a flurry of drawn weapons.

Wystan moved in an instant, stepping off the dais with his broadsword half-sheathed, positioning himself directly between Edith and me. "Stand down, Edrys! Drop the weapon!"

I looked at the steel lying near my boots. I hadn't even touched it.

"She was angry," Edith sobbed from behind Wystan's legs. "She said if she couldn't have the throne, she would make sure no one else took it!"

Wystan’s blade cleared its sheath completely, pointing straight at my chest. His gaze was icy, entirely locked onto me. He didn't ask a single question. He didn't look for context. He had instantly accepted her narrative.

Emrys moved instantly, stepping beside me and resting his hand on the pommel of his short-blade. "Lower the steel, guardian. You're pointing a weapon at a frame that hasn't drawn."

"She brought a hidden blade into the hall!" Wystan snapped, his Alpha authority flaring sharply.

"She didn't reach for it," Emrys countered, his voice steady as a wall of ice. "And if you take one more step forward, you'll have to deal with me."

The energy in the hall turned razor-sharp. Warriors shifted, scents of agitation filling the room as the threat of open violence hung in the air.

"ENOUGH!"

Alpha Cedric’s command thundered across the rafters, heavy enough to drop several low-ranking wolves to their knees. The hall fell dead silent.

Father stood up from his throne, his face rigid as he glared down at the floor. "Edrys. Did you bring a blade before this dais?"

"No," I said, holding his glare.

Edith wept quietly behind Wystan. "She's lying, Father! She tried to strike me when the crowd shifted!"

I looked at Edith, then down at the dagger on the floor, and finally at the healer standing near the edge of the room. A cold, absolute clarity settled over me. She wanted to frame me as an unhinged, dangerous wolf so my exile would look like justice. She wanted me to react, to snarl, to prove her right.

I wasn't going to give her that satisfaction.

"Healer," I called out, my voice cutting cleanly through the silent hall.

The healer flinched. "Yes, Lady Edrys?"

"Step forward."

She hesitated, looking at Alpha Cedric, who offered no objection. Slowly, she walked into the open space between the dais and the crowd.

I reached up with both arms and slowly unbuttoned the cuffs of my long sleeves, pulling the dark fabric back to my elbows.

Thick, blood-stained linen bandages wrapped both of my wrists, binding my hands completely rigid from the wolfsbane scorch Wystan’s guard had inflicted two days ago.

I held my ruined, immobilized hands out in front of the entire assembly. My fingers were locked, swollen, and incapable of forming a grip.

"Pick up the dagger," I told the healer softly. "And strap it to my fingers."

Silence fell over the Great Hall so absolute you could hear the torches crackling on the walls.

The healer stared at my damaged hands, then at the blade on the floor.

I turned my gaze slowly toward Edith, whose pale face was completely stripped of her theatrical tears.

"If you want this hall to believe I drew a weapon on you," I said, my voice echoing off every stone wall, "then let's see if your lie can survive my hands."