Chapter 8 - The Treaty of the Two Realms
The great banquet hall of Blackwood Citadel was alive with the warmth of a hundred hearths and the low, rumbling laughter of alpha chieftains sharing flagons of spiced barley ale with human provincial delegates from the southern trade cities.
There were no velvet-lined enclosures, no segregated seating, and no whispered plots in dark corners. At the high table, seated directly between Ethan and Clare, sat King Charles—who had arrived two days later by royal barge to sign the formal Treaty of the Two Realms.
Charles dipped a heavy goose-feather quill into a silver inkwell, his hand remarkably steady as he pressed his signet into the warm wax at the bottom of the parchment.
"There," Charles murmured, leaning back in his carved oak chair and looking across the table at his daughter. "The border tariffs are abolished, the mutual defense pact is sealed, and your stepmother is currently knitting very aggressively in the western tower."
Clare laughed, taking a sip of sweet berry wine. "You didn't have to banish her quite so far, Father."
"Nonsense," Charles grunted with a faint, rare smile. "She needed the exercise."
At that moment, the heavy oak doors at the end of the hall swung open, and Martha Ellis marched in, followed by four young wolf-shifters awkwardly carrying trays laden with roasted venison and blackberry tarts. The entire hall broke into good-natured applause as Martha curtseyed stiffly to the king and queen before joining the lower tables.
Ethan reached across the table, his fingers finding Clare’s hand and interlacing their fingers. The silver crescent mark on her wrist pulsed with a warm, steady glow against his dark skin.
"They're settling in nicely," Ethan observed, nodding toward the hall where human merchants and northern wolves were already negotiating trade routes for the coming autumn harvest.
May you like
"They had good teachers," Clare replied, leaning her shoulder against his.
Across the room, the fire blazed high, casting dancing shadows against the timber walls. The past—the cold stone cells of Whitmore, the forged letters, the bitter council meetings—felt like a lifetime away, fading into the dark like a winter storm chased down by the spring sun.
