As Evadne ran, a memory struck her, her parents, taken in the night, their blood pooling across the floor like ink spilled on parchment. That same black, slick stain, rising from the snow now, gnawed at the edges of her mind. Death had a way of marking the innocent and guilty alike, but this… this felt personal.
The wolves came to a sudden halt, bodies low, ears pricked, eyes scanning. They waited as though something unseen held them in place.
From behind the trees, the sound of hooves cut through the storm. Three, no more, no less. The smell hit her nose instantly—humans. The air shifted, unfamiliar, scented with sweat, leather, and smoke. This is human territory, she thought, muscles tightening.
"Shade, Ember, Talon!" she called, names sharp as the wind slicing through the pines.
The wolves responded instantly, padding to her side, fur bristling, eyes bright.
Why had she been led here? The question churned in her chest, sharp as the dagger at her hip.
"Let's go," she said, voice low and commanding, though her pulse still thudded in her ears.
The forest swallowed their tracks as they moved, three shadows and one predator slipping into the unknown.
The snow fell heavier, each flake a white veil masking the trail of danger and the promise of answers waiting just ahead.
Hours passed. The forest thinned, giving way to open fields scarred by the first signs of human settlement. The snow was streaked with ash, and the wind carried the acrid tang of smoke and iron.
Commander Renard Marchand pulled his horse to a stop at the edge of a ruined town. The moon sagged over broken rooftops, pale and sickly. Houses gaped open like torn ribcages. Bodies filled the streets, while blood streaked across walls and doorframes in violent arcs.
Renard swung down from his horse, black hair damp against his brow. His blue eyes, sharp and cold, moved over the wreckage. Behind him, his soldiers shifted, fingers tightening around their weapons.
"Commander!" A voice broke the silence.
It was Adam, a young scout with burgundy hair and restless brown eyes. He gestured frantically to the carnage around them. "It's the werewolves! How dare they slaughter an entire town like this?"
The accusation hung in the still air.
Renard crouched, running gloved fingers across claw marks gouged deep into a wall. His gaze narrowed. "No. This wasn't wolves."
Adam blinked. "But the tracks..."
Renard's voice cut him off.
"One rampaging werewolf might kill three in a month. Perhaps four, if he's mad. But this…" His hand swept to encompass the silent streets, the dozens of lifeless forms. "…this is something else. No wolf emptied a town in a single night."
The silence grew heavier. Only the creak of leather and the hiss of the wind through broken shutters answered him.
Elise, his second-in-command, glanced at the ruins. Moonlight caught in her brown hair, and her green eyes were tight with unease. "Some say... this is the Alpha's doing," she murmured.
Renard didn't even look at her. "If the Blackfang Alpha wanted this town gone, there wouldn't even be bones left to bury."
Elise stepped forward. "Shall we report back to His Majesty?"
Renard rose, brushing ash from his gloves. His eyes lingered on a child's toy abandoned in the dirt, stained with blood. The smallest flicker of emotion crossed his face, gone as quickly as it came.
"Yes," he said at last, his voice low and decisive. "We'll return to the capital. His Majesty is eagerly waiting."
The riders turned their mounts, leaving the dead town behind them.
But as Renard cast one last look over his shoulder, unease pressed against his spine.
Whatever had done this… was not finished.
Kingdom of Elandor – Cindral
Sunlight spilled through stained glass, painting the throne room in red and gold. At the far end sat King Magnus Valmont, his hair streaked with silver, a face worn by years of ruling and battles, a faint scar tracing his temple to jaw.
Magnus wore his crown low, not to hide authority but to keep its weight from pressing on a brow. His eyes studied Renard with the same steady focus he had trained soldiers to hold.
"Commander Marchand," the king said without preamble. His voice carried to the pillars. "Reports from the border are grim. A town laid bare, homes burned to skeletons. If the Blackfangs are responsible, it's a breach of the treaty. That cannot stand."
Renard bowed once, his words brief and formal. "I inspected the site, Your Majesty. The carnage is… extensive. My men found tracks, but the scale..."
"...doesn't fit a simple wolf rampage," Aldric finished. "I know your judgment. I want you to ride to the Blackfang territory. Do not go as a supplicant. Go as the crown's envoy. Demand answers. If Blackfang aided this atrocity or refused to assist survivors, I will not hesitate. The treaty is a living thing; if it is broken, we will respond."
Renard's jaw tightened. "And if they deny involvement?"
"Then you bring me proof," the king said. "Bring me their truth or their lies. And Commander..." the king paused, gaze sharpening, "...do not trust stories. Believe only what you can see."
"Yes, Your Majesty." Renard's voice was a blade folded into leather. He bowed and turned toward the doors.
As the heavy doors swung shut behind him, a maid in blue silk stepped forward, breath quick. "Commander Marchand?" Her voice was timid but urgent. "The princess requests your presence in the garden."
Renard hesitated only a moment. "Very well." He walked the corridor with the ease of a man accustomed to being summoned; the soldier's gait never left him.
The palace garden was a pocket of deliberate quiet: rows of clipped hedges, a lattice of climbing roses, and a small fountain tinkling like coin. It smelled faintly of orange blossom and sun-warmed stone. There, beneath an arbor of wisteria, sat Princess Liora Valmont.
She was everything a court portrait promised and more: high cheekbones, skin like fragile porcelain warmed by a hint of sun, and hair the exact color of raven wings, braided loosely over one shoulder.
Her eyes were a startling green and her lips held the kind of soft, ironic smile that suggested amusement more than malice. She wore a simple gown of pale blue; the princess favored colors that made people underestimate her.
When Renard stepped into the dappled shade, she lifted her chin and studied him with casual attention.
"What do you want?" he asked flatly, the question more habit than curiosity.
Liora's brows rose. "How rude," she muttered, mock-offended. She set aside the porcelain cup before her and stood. "I thought the commander of Valmont could spare a half-hour for a lonely princess."
Renard's mouth twitched the barest hint of a smile gone as quickly as it arrived. "I don't have anything important here. I should leave; I have much to do."
Before he could step away she moved like someone who had learned to get what she wanted. She reached out and grabbed his hands, her fingers light but firm.
"I would much appreciate it if you would stay for tea." Her voice had that soft edge that softened no one.
"No. I don't have time." He tried to pull his hands free.
"You're leaving the capital again?" she asked, as if surprised.
"Yes." He said it like a fact.
Her expression stilled for a second as if she'd expected resignation; instead she smiled with the earnestness of a child making a bargain. "But you promise to marry me once you come back."
Renard blinked once, the motion almost imperceptible. "To marry you?" His tone held all the confusion of a man not used to such speeches.
She drew a breath, gathering her skirts as if the weight of her next words pressed them down. "Father told me… we would marry once you came back."
For the first time, Renard's blue eyes flickered. It was not shock, but something colder... It was of snare.
The king. That conniving bastard.
His jaw set like stone. "I never agreed to that." His voice was flat. "And he never told me anything."
Liora's fingers tightened on his hands, but Renard stepped back, breaking the contact.
"I am not interested in getting married," he said, each word deliberate, carved clean of softness. "Now, if you will excuse me..."
He turned on his heel, cloak brushing the gravel path, leaving the princess with her tea untouched and her lips pressed thin as glass.
For a moment she stood very still, the mask of a dutiful daughter fixed upon her face. Then her lips curled, not into a smile but into something smaller and sharper.
"How cold you are, Commander…" she murmured, voice as soft as the garden breeze. Her green eyes followed his retreating figure with a strange hunger. "But that's all right. Cold things… crack if pressed hard enough."
She lifted the teacup and sipped, though the porcelain trembled faintly in her grasp. A bloom of roses shifted in the wind, their thorns catching the light.
"I'll make you mine, Renard Marchand," she whispered into her tea, a promise dressed as prayer. "Whether you want it or not."