Chapter 6 - The Summit at Frostfang Pass
Frostfang Pass was a desolate valley situated precisely between the northern domain, the western mountains, and the central plains—a neutral meeting ground where ancient blood feuds were routinely settled with either diplomacy or bloodshed.
When Garrick’s royal caravan arrived, the western delegation was already waiting inside the massive, timber-framed pavilion erected in the center of the valley. Banners bearing the snarling black wolf of the Obsidian Claw fluttered aggressively in the freezing wind.
As Garrick and Maeve entered the pavilion, all conversation ceased.
Alpha Caelen, a tall, broad-shouldered man with piercing amber eyes and a permanent smirk carved into his scarred face, lounged at the head of the long table. Flanking him were his top warriors and advisors, their gazes immediately locking onto Maeve with undisguised mockery and disdain.
“Ah, the great King of the Ashen Peaks!” Caelen drawled, rising slowly to his feet with exaggerated politeness. “And you’ve brought your little southern pet along. How brave of you, Garrick. I didn't realize you enjoyed traveling with baggage.”
A ripple of mocking laughter echoed among the western lords.
Garrick didn’t flinch. His expression remained carved from granite as he pulled out the chair for Maeve at the center of the table, seating her with the utmost grace before taking his own seat beside her.
“Caelen,” Garrick replied smoothly, his voice dangerously calm. “I see your manners haven't improved since the last time we met on a battlefield. Still barking behind a wall of guards, I assume?”
Caelen’s smile tightened slightly, a flash of genuine irritation crossing his amber eyes. He sat back down, leaning forward across the table to focus entirely on Maeve.
“And you must be Maeve,” Caelen said, his voice dripping with condescension. “Word from the southern packs is quite colorful. They say you were a common Omega, kicked out of Riverbend like stray trash, before our dear King found you whimpering in the dirt and decided to play savior. Tell me... does it embarrass you to sit among true royalty, knowing you possess neither the bloodline nor the strength to earn your seat?”
The silence in the pavilion became suffocating. Every northern guard stationed by the entrance gripped the hilts of their swords, waiting for a single word from their King to start a massacre.
Maeve didn't blink. She slowly poured herself a cup of steaming spiced tea from the silver pot on the table, took a calm, deliberate sip, and set it down.
“Bloodline, Alpha Caelen?” Maeve asked, her voice carrying a chillingly polite sweetness. “Is that what you pride yourself on? A pure lineage that produces arrogant lords who rely on insults because they lack the wit to win an intellectual argument?”
Caelen’s eyes flared with sudden fury. “You dare—”
“I dare,” Maeve interrupted, her tone instantly hardening into steel as she stood up, leaning over the table toward him. “You mock my past in Riverbend because you think suffering is a weakness. But let me educate you on something the Obsidian Claw clearly forgot: a wolf raised in luxury knows how to posture. A wolf who clawed her way up from the mud knows how to survive. And more importantly... she knows how to tear down men who think they are untouchable.”
General Torvald let out a booming laugh from behind them, while several western lords visibly recoiled at the sheer, suffocating pressure of the royal aura radiating not just from Garrick, but now, undeniably, from Maeve as well.
Caelen slammed his hands onto the table, standing up so fast his chair crashed backward onto the wooden floor. “You insolent little b—!”
Before Caelen could finish his threat, Garrick moved.
In a fraction of a second, the Alpha King vaulted across the table, his heavy hand catching Caelen by the collar and slamming the western Alpha down onto the wooden surface with enough force to splinter the thick oak beneath them.
The entire pavilion erupted into chaos as western guards drew their weapons, but a hundred northern elite warriors instantly leveled their crossbows and swords right back at them, freezing everyone in place.
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Garrick leaned down until his face was inches from Caelen’s terrified, wide-eyed gaze, his voice a low, terrifying growl that echoed in every corner of the room.
“If you ever speak to my Queen again,” Garrick whispered, his silver-flecked eyes burning with murderous rage, “I won’t just break this table. I will burn the Obsidian Claw to ash and salt your lands so nothing ever grows there again.”
