Chapter 3 - The Shadow of the Southern Packs
The heavy oak doors of the war room groaned as they swung shut, sealing off the biting winter wind of Aethelgard. Inside, the massive map table carved from ancient weirwood dominated the center of the chamber, illuminated by the harsh, flickering light of iron wall sconces. Surrounding it stood the remaining loyal commanders of the northern packs: General Vane of the Iron Fang legion, Commander Sola of the Frostguard, and Lord Beric of the Eastern Reach.
At the head of the table stood Caden. Beside him, dressed in a heavy velvet coat of deep midnight blue—the traditional riding colors of House Valois-Montfort—stood Chantal. The transformation from the silent maid in a torn linen shift to the sovereign heir was absolute. The quiet dignity she had carried through years of menial labor now manifested as a commanding, razor-sharp intellect that left the seasoned generals glancing sideways in uneasy respect.
"The western border has already mobilized," General Vane said, his scarred hand resting heavily on a wooden figurine representing the hostile packs. "Duke Jackson may be locked in the black tower, but his network of loyalists among the southern lords is vast. They claim Caden’s execution of the marriage contract with Gillian is an act of war, and they are marching north under the banner of the Sunken Sun."
"They are not marching for Gillian," Chantal said, her voice cutting through the tense air like cold steel. She reached across the map, her long fingers tracing the jagged mountain passes of the southern frontier. "They are marching because they know who I am. For three centuries, the southern packs profited off the vacuum left by the fall of House Valois-Montfort. My survival is their execution."
Lord Beric stroked his graying beard, his eyes fixed on Chantal. "Your Highness, forgive my bluntness, but the northern packs are fractured. Many elders still fear the old bloodline, whispering that the Valois-Montforts were tyrants who chained the moon."
Chantal met the older lord's gaze without flinching. "They chained no one, Lord Beric. They kept the peace. And if the southern lords wish to test whether my blood has weakened after three hundred years in hiding, let them come to the gates of Aethelgard. I will show them how a true queen cleans her house."
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Caden looked down at her, a fierce, dark pride burning in his chest. His wolf rumbled approvingly beneath his skin, completely united with the woman who commanded a room of hardened warlords without raising her voice.
"We do not wait for them to reach our gates," Caden announced, slamming his palm flat against the weirwood table. The wooden figurines rattled. "We intercept them at the Silver Pass. General Vane, secure the northern supply lines. Lord Beric, gather the vanguard. We ride at dawn."
