Chapter 5 - Whispers on the Western Wind
The courier arrived two days later, covered in foam and frost, bearing a sealed scroll stamped with the black-and-crimson crest of the Obsidian Claw Pack—the aggressive western faction that had long contested the Ashen Peaks for control of the mountain trade routes.
Garrick stood by the high arched window of his war room, breaking the wax seal with his thumb while Maeve and General Torvald stood nearby, studying the strategic maps laid out across the heavy oak table.
“Caelen,” Garrick growled, his eyes scanning the parchment as his brow furrowed into a dark scowl.
“The Obsidian Alpha?” Torvald crossed his thick arms, his bushy white eyebrows knitting together. “What does that bloody vulture want now?”
“He knows about the shift in power at Riverbend,” Garrick said, tossing the letter onto the table. “And he knows I’ve taken a new mate from a southern territory. He calls it a sign of weakness—claiming I’ve chosen a fragile southern flower to decorate my throne instead of forging a strategic alliance with a western bloodline.”
Maeve stepped closer, glancing down at the bold, aggressive handwriting scrawled across the parchment.
“He’s testing you,” Maeve noted quietly.
“He’s doing more than that,” Garrick replied, his grey eyes flashing with dangerous intent. “Caelen is hosting the mid-winter solstice summit at the borderlands next week. He has formally invited us... and he specifically requested that I bring my new southern Queen, so that the western lords can ‘properly assess her pedigree.’”
Torvald spat into the stone hearth. “It’s a trap, My King. Caelen wants to humiliate us in neutral territory. He wants to prove his pack is superior.”
“Let him try,” Garrick said, his voice dropping an octave into a lethal register. “Caelen thinks he’s playing a game of politics. He doesn't understand that I didn't bring Maeve here to be a decorative trophy.”
Maeve looked up at the King, meeting his fierce gaze without a shred of hesitation. “Then we accept his invitation.”
Garrick raised an eyebrow, a slow grin touching his lips. “You want to go into the lion's den?”
“If Caelen wants to test my pedigree,” Maeve said coldly, her fingers brushing the silver pendant resting against her collarbone, “I’ll show him what survives when you spend your whole life in the mud. Let him invite us. We’ll give the western wolves a show they’ll never forget.”
Preparations for the summit began immediately. For the next five days, the Ashen Peaks transformed into an armed camp. Armor was polished, weapons were sharpened, and Maeve underwent rigorous tactical briefings with General Torvald, studying the family trees, military strengths, and political weaknesses of every major pack in the kingdom.
She wasn't just surviving anymore. She was learning how to conquer.
On the morning of their departure, as the massive war sleighs were loaded with supplies and armed guards formed a protective perimeter around the courtyard, a familiar messenger bird landed on the windowsill of Maeve's chambers.
It bore no official crest—only a scrap of dirty parchment scribbled with frantic, desperate handwriting.
Maeve unrolled it, her eyes scanning the messy ink.
Maeve, Please... help me. Riverbend has fallen apart since you left. Auric exiled me like you predicted, and the northern frost is starving us. They say you hold the favor of the King now. Please... remember what we once were. Intercede for me. — Roland.
Maeve stared at the parchment for a long, quiet moment.
May you like
The man who had laughed while rejecting her in the mud was now begging in the dirt himself.
She didn't feel anger. She didn't feel pity. She simply folded the note, tossed it straight into the roaring hearth fire, and watched it turn to ash.
