Chapter 6 - The Road Through the Pines
The journey east took three days.
Unlike her first trip to the Blackwood border—when Clare had ridden alone in a sealed carriage under the heavy guard of Whitmore lancers—this time she rode at the side of the Wolf King, seated upon a broad-shouldered northern stallion whose coat matched the twilight snows of the Frostpeak range.
Behind them stretched a massive column: hundreds of wolves loping effortlessly through the dense pine forests, flanked by supply wagons carrying the household staff who had chosen to leave Whitmore behind—including Martha Ellis, who sat proudly on the box of the lead wagon, gossiping with a burly northern scout as if she had lived in the wilderness her entire life.
On the evening of the second day, the party made camp in a wide clearing sheltered by ancient hemlocks. A massive fire crackled in the center, casting a golden glow over the canvas tents and the dark, towering silhouettes of the surrounding mountains.
Clare sat on a fallen log wrapped in a thick wolf-skin cloak Ethan had draped over her shoulders. She held a steaming cup of spiced pine-needle tea between her hands, watching the sparks rise toward a sky crowded with stars sharper and brighter than any she had ever seen from the palace spires.
Ethan emerged from the shadows of the trees, carrying a bundle of dry firewood. He dropped it neatly by the blaze, sat down beside her on the log, and stretched his long legs out toward the warmth.
"Martha tells me you nearly gave her a heart attack when you found those letters," Clare said, a small, tired smile playing at the corners of her lips.
Ethan glanced sideways at her, a hint of amusement in his gray eyes. "Martha is a formidable woman. She cornered my lead scout at the outpost with a rolling pin and demanded an audience with the king. Half my captains think she's a northern witch in disguise."
"She’s just stubborn," Clare murmured, looking down at her wrist. The silver crescent mark seemed to pulse in time with the crackling flames, glowing with a soft, pearlescent light that pushed back the mountain chill. "Do you realize what nearly happened, Ethan? If Haley hadn't spoken up... if you had arrived ten minutes later..."
Ethan’s expression hardened, the playful warmth vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He reached out, gently pulling her hand away from the tea cup and turning her wrist upward so the moonlight hit the silver mark.
"They didn't win," he said, his voice dropping into that low, resonant tone that commanded the forests. "And they never will. Whitmore law cannot touch you here, Clare. In Blackwood, my word is the law, and my word is that you and our son are under the protection of every alpha from here to the sea."
Clare leaned her head against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of cedar, cold air, and raw power that always clung to him. "Our son?" she teased softly. "You're certain it's a boy?"
Ethan’s arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer against his side. He pressed his ear gently against the swell of her stomach, staying completely still for a long moment. When he looked back up, his eyes were shining with a fierce, quiet wonder.
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"An alpha," Ethan said with absolute certainty. "He has your stubbornness, and my stubbornness. We're going to spend the next twenty years arguing with him."
Clare laughed—a light, genuine sound that chased away the last lingering ghosts of the courtroom. "God help the kingdom."
