Chapter 10 - The Crown of the Silverpine
Three months later, the spring thaw finally reached the high peaks of the northern marches.
The Silverpine River ran clear and fast over its gravelly bed, no longer a barrier of death, but the rushing heart of a newly united land. The scars of Harrington’s brief, bloody coup had been repaired; the citadel stone had been polished, the trade routes reopened, and the famine that had once choked the villages was replaced by a season of unprecedented harvest and peace.
In the royal gardens behind the citadel—where the old glasshouse had been rebuilt larger and brighter than before—the air smelled of rosemary, damp earth, and blooming mountain jasmine.
"Hold your stance, Finn!"
Alistair stood on the manicured lawn in his shirtsleeves, his broad chest straining against the linen as he squared off against a very determined seven-year-old boy.
Finn darted forward with the blurring speed of a young lykan, dipping his shoulder and driving his fist into a heavy leather punching dummy padded with sheepskin. The impact sent the dummy flying off its iron chain, crashing into the stone wall ten feet away with a satisfying thud.
"Not bad," Alistair laughed, wiping a streak of sweat from his forehead and pulling his son into a rough, affectionate headlock that made Finn squirm and giggle. "Your footwork is still sloppy on the turn, but your punch is getting heavier than your mother’s mortar."
"I could throw you over the wall if I wanted to, Dad!" Finn declared proudly, struggling out of the headlock and puffing out his chest.
"Is that so?" Alistair grinned, raising an eyebrow before catching sight of someone stepping out onto the stone terrace above them.
Isolda stood by the balustrade, draped in a rich gown of deep emerald silk interwoven with silver thread—the true colors of the Montgomery queen. Her hair was gathered in a loose braid down her back, and her stormy gray eyes were warm with a quiet, profound peace as she watched her husband and son sparring in the morning sun.
She wasn't the hiding apothecary of Oldenford anymore, nor was she the terrified prisoner of the dungeons. She was the heart of the northern marches—the woman who had crossed the frozen river with a secret in her belly and brought a kingdom back to life through the sheer force of her love.
Alistair walked over to the terrace steps, wiping his hands on a cloth, and looked up at her. He didn't say a word; he simply reached out a hand, inviting her down into the garden.
Isolda smiled, gathered her green silk skirts, and walked down the stone steps into the bright morning air, her son running up to take her hand on one side while her mate pulled her close against his side on the other.
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As the morning sun broke over the jagged peaks of the Silverpine mountains, illuminating the valley below in a brilliant wash of gold and emerald, the royal family stood together—complete, unbroken, and unconquerable.
The pack had its king. The kingdom had its queen. And the boy with the wolf’s eyes had finally come home.
