Chapter 8 - WHISPERS IN THE SNOW
While peace settled over the inner sanctums of the Northern Palace, storm clouds were gathering across the southern borders.
In a plush, wood-paneled war room three days' ride south, Lord Casian Mordrek slammed his fist onto a map table, rattling the brass compasses and inkwells.
"The northern brute has lost his mind!" Casian snarled, his face twisted with furious indignation. "He threw me out of his hall like a common thief! He protected a runaway servant over a high-ranking southern noble!"
Around the table sat three members of the southern trade syndicate—wealthy, influential Alphas who commanded vast estates and private militias.
"If King Draven is openly defying southern property law, it sets a dangerous precedent," murmured Lord Vane, an older nobleman with silver-streaked hair and cold, calculating eyes. "If servants can flee north and find royal protection, half our indentured labor force will try to cross the mountains by spring."
"Then we don't send merchants next time," Casian said, his eyes narrowing into a venomous glint. "We send an armed delegation. We challenge his authority under the ancient Blood-Right Accord. If Draven refuses to hand over the girl and submit to council arbitration, we declare his northern bloodline forfeit due to mental instability."
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Lord Vane stroked his chin thoughtfully. "A bold move, Casian. The White Wolf’s beast-state is notoriously volatile. If we push him into another rage in front of the assembled council, he will either slaughter us—giving us the legal pretext to rally all three kingdoms against him—or he will break completely."
"Either way," Casian smiled darkly, "we get what we want."
