Chapter 3 - The Blood Oath of the Ridge
The wind howled across the high training yards of Ashfallen, but I couldn't feel the chill. My muscles burned, slick with sweat and grime, as my wooden training sword collided with a heavy iron shield with a deafening CRACK.
“Slow!” Alpha Gideon’s voice boomed across the yard from where he leaned against a stone pillar, watching me with those piercing gold eyes. “Your right foot is dragging, Adelaide! If you pivot like that against a Winterborn elite guard, your head will be rolling in the dirt before you can draw breath!”
I gritted my teeth, spat a mouthful of dust onto the frozen ground, and lunged forward again.
For three weeks, I hadn't slept more than three hours a night. While Tristan was desperately searching the southern trade routes and forests for his runaway bride, I was enduring the most brutal combat training known to lupine kind. Gideon didn't treat me like a delicate princess or a fragile human. He treated me like a raw recruit destined for the front lines.
He taught me how to strike at the blind spots of larger wolves. How to use momentum against brute strength. How to bypass heavy plate armor with a well-placed dagger thrust to the joints.
And slowly, the gentle, smiling daughter of Ethelgard was scrubbed away, replaced by something lean, hard, and merciless.
“Enough,” Gideon commanded, striding out onto the frost-covered yard. He tossed me a skin of water, which I caught with a sharp snap of my wrist. “You’ve improved. In three weeks, you’ve gone from a liability to a lethal hazard. But technique isn't enough to beat Tristan.”
I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my forearm, glaring at him. “Then what is?”
“Power,” Gideon said simply. He stepped closer, his massive frame casting a long shadow over me. “Tristan is arrogant, but he wields the royal bloodline magic of Winterborn—ice manipulation and enhanced pack-sync. To break him, we need a blood oath. A binding pact between Ashfallen and the true heir of Ethelgard.”
I stiffened. “A blood oath? You want to bind our packs?”
“Not packs,” Gideon corrected, his voice dropping lower, his gold eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. “Us. A pact of blood and shadow. When we strike Winterborn, I want the world to know that the Ashfallen Pack didn't just conquer a rival—we claimed the rightful queen of Ethelgard as our own.”
I swallowed hard. The mention of any bond sent a phantom pain through my chest where Tristan’s mark had been ripped away. Gideon seemed to sense my hesitation, and a rare flicker of gentleness softened his rugged features.
“Not a mate bond,” Gideon said quietly, as if reading my terrified thoughts. “I know what you went through. I would never force a broken bond on you. This is an alliance of vengeance. Two storms colliding.”
I looked deep into his eyes. There was no deceit there. Only raw, unadulterated power and a shared, burning hatred for the man who had betrayed us both. (Years ago, Tristan’s father had murdered Gideon’s mother to secure the northern trade routes—a secret buried deep in the archives of both kingdoms).
“Show me,” I whispered.
Gideon pulled a silver dagger from his belt—the ceremonial blade of the Ashfallen Alpha. Without a word of hesitation, he dragged the sharp edge across his palm, slicing deep enough to draw dark, steaming blood.
He held his bleeding hand out to me.
I didn't blink. I took his hand, my palm sliding against his, and with my other hand, sliced my own skin open. Our blood mingled—hot, bright red meeting dark, smoking crimson.
“I, Alpha Gideon of Ashfallen,” he rumbled, his voice echoing across the mountain ridges like thunder, “swear my life, my sword, and my pack to the reclamation of Ethelgard and the destruction of Tristan of Winterborn.”
“And I, Adelaide of Ethelgard,” I spoke, my voice ringing clear and steady above the wind, “swear my loyalty, my blade, and my vengeance to the Ashfallen. May whoever breaks this oath be torn apart by the moon goddess herself.”
A blinding flash of silver-gold light erupted from our joined hands. The ancient magic of the mountains surged through my veins, a shockwave of raw power that caused Ghost to howl in triumph from the ridge above.
The pact was sealed.
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And across the mountains, miles away in his gilded fortress, King Tristan woke up with a violent gasp, clutching his chest as a sudden, freezing chill swept through his royal chambers.
The hunt was about to begin.
