Chapter 7 - The Drums of War
The summit at Frostfang Pass ended not with diplomacy, but with a blood-soaked ultimatum.
Alpha Caelen, thoroughly humiliated and nursing bruised ribs from Garrick’s grip, had been forced to agree to the northern trade terms under threat of immediate execution. But as the western delegation retreated toward their borders in bitter silence, everyone in the Ashen Peaks knew the truth: Caelen would not let this go. Pride was a fatal disease among western wolves, and the Obsidian Claw was gathering its pack for war.
Back in the war room of the citadel, the heavy oak table was once again covered in tactical maps, but this time, miniature wooden figurines representing enemy battalions were scattered across the borders.
“He’s moving his forces through the Blackwood Pass,” General Torvald pointed a thick, calloused finger at a dense forest choke point near the western frontier. “Caelen thinks he can launch a surprise strike against our outer supply lines before the deep winter freeze sets in.”
Garrick stood beside the map, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression dark and calculating. “He’s desperate to regain his lost face. A public humiliation at Frostfang makes him dangerous.”
“Then we don’t wait for him to cross the border,” Maeve said, stepping up to the table. She reached out and moved a northern figurine directly into the Blackwood Pass. “We meet him on his own turf before he even reaches our outer posts.”
Torvald looked up at her in surprise, a grin spreading across his weathered face. “A preemptive strike? I like how you think, Your Majesty. But Blackwood is thick forest; cavalry won't maneuver well there. It will be close-quarters combat.”
“Which is why I am leading the vanguard,” Garrick stated flatly.
Maeve immediately turned to him, her eyes flashing with defiance. “No. You are the King. You need to command the main forces from the high ridge. I will lead the vanguard.”
Garrick’s jaw clenched instantly. “Absolute nonsense. I am not letting you walk into the front lines of a war zone.”
“I didn't ask for your permission, Garrick,” Maeve snapped back, her voice ringing with an authority that stunned even Torvald into silence. “You marked me as your Queen, which means I share your crown—and your battles. Do you think I spent months serving as an outcast in Riverbend just to hide behind your shadow now that I finally have a sword in my hand?”
Garrick stared at her, his chest rising and falling heavily as a fierce internal battle raged within him. He saw the fire in her eyes—the same unyielding spirit that had drawn him to her in the mud of Riverbend. He realized then that trying to cage her would destroy the very thing that made her his equal.
Slowly, a deep, proud growl rumbled in the back of Garrick’s throat.
“Fine,” Garrick conceded, his hand gripping her shoulder with fierce pride. “We ride together.”
Two days later, the northern army marched out from the Ashen Peaks under a slate-grey sky. Thousands of elite warriors clad in dark steel armor and heavy furs moved through the mountain passes with terrifying discipline.
Maeve rode at the front beside Garrick, mounted on a powerful black northern stallion. She wore tailored leather armor over her silk tunic, a silver broadsword strapped securely across her back, and the royal fur cloak billowing behind her in the bitter wind.
As they approached the dense, snow-draped pines of Blackwood Pass, the scouts returned with urgent news.
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“They’re dug in just past the ridge, My King,” the scout reported breathlessly, bowing low. “Caelen brought three hundred elite warriors. They’re waiting to ambush our supply column.”
“They think they’re the hunters,” Garrick smiled coldly, drawing his massive royal broadsword from its scabbard. The blade gleamed with deadly runes in the pale light. “Let’s show them what happens when they hunt wolves.”
