Chapter 6 - The Blood Oath of the Northern Marches
The wind sweeping off the Frostfang peaks usually carried the sound of cracking ice and the distant, lonely howls of starving winter wolves. But tonight, as Serafine sat wrapped in Casius’s heavy leather mantle beside a crackling hearth of dry birch, the air sounded different. It hummed with a low, deep-seated vibration that seemed to rise directly from the roots of the mountain.
Inside the royal hunting lodge—a sprawling fortress of grey stone and dark timber nestled three thousand feet above the Moonstone Citadel—the servants moved with a quiet, terrified reverence. They didn't look at Serafine with the old pity or disdain. They dropped their eyes and bared their throats slightly whenever she walked past, recognizing the faint, coppery scent of residual fire magic that still clung to her skin.
"They won't stay quiet for long," Casius said, leaning against the massive stone mantelpiece. He had traded his royal doublet for a simple wool tunic, the dark fabric clinging to the broad expanse of his chest. His pewter eyes were fixed on a map spread across the oak table, marked with the seals of the three northern provinces. "Dorian has already sent ravens to the Ironclaw and Blackwood packs. He’s calling an emergency conclave under the pretext that the royal bloodline has been compromised by an unregistered anomaly."
Serafine traced the edge of a silver cup with her thumb, watching the firelight dance across her nails. "An anomaly. That’s a polite word for a servant who accidentally shattered five centuries of pack law."
"They are terrified of what they cannot control," Casius replied, his voice dropping an octave as he pushed off the mantelpiece and walked toward her. He stopped just a foot away, the heat of his presence wrapping around her like an invisible shield. "For three hundred years, the high priests maintained power by convincing the packs that the moon god only spoke through pure, unbroken pedigrees. You proved in ten seconds that the gods don't give a damn about pedigrees."
"And Isold?" Serafine looked up, meeting his gaze squarely. "She won't accept being discarded. Her family controls half the trade routes between the capital and the southern lowlands. If they turn against the crown, the pack will fracture."
Casius’s jaw tightened, the white scar along his cheek standing out like pale bone against his tanned skin. "Let them try to fracture it. Every warrior in the northern marches knows who won the border skirmishes last winter, and it wasn't Dorian’s priests. If Isold wants a war of succession, she will find out very quickly how little loyalty a gold-plated cage actually buys."
May you like
He reached down, his large, calloused fingers gently sliding beneath her chin, tilting her face upward. The familiar, electric current sparked between them—the invisible thread that had pulled her out of her human fear and summoned the fire wolf back in the Council Hall.
"You are not a servant anymore, Serafine," he murmured, his voice thick with a dark, possessive intensity. "You are my mate. And before this moon wanes, the entire north will know what it means to kneel before the true fire."
