91 Blood And Fire
Sera
The Great Hall was deafeningly loud.
It was the next morning Hundreds of warriors sat at the long wooden tables, tearing into roasted meat and slamming iron cups down against the wood. The thick grey smoke from the fire pits stung my eyes
I sat at the High Table, directly to Fenris’s right. My spine was perfectly straight. My hands rested flat on my thighs under the table.
I was terrified
Fenris sat perfectly still beside me. He held his iron cup, his grey eyes sweeping over the crowded hall He looked relaxed, but I could feel the dense, coiled heat radiating off his body. He was just as tense as I
was.
We were waiting for him.
The heavy black iron doors at the far end of the hall pulled open.
Bram walked in.
Except it wasn’t Bram. My mother’s dark magic had been absolutely flawless. It was Kael. The broad, thick-chested elder walked down the center aisle. He had the exact same heavy brow, the same deep wrinkles around his mouth, and the same dark, splotchy skin.
Bram didn’t just wear the face; he wore the man. He dragged his left foot slightly across the stone floor, perfectly mimicking the old hunting injury I heard Kael always complained about. He didn’t look around the room with a guard’s vigilance. He walked with the arrogant, entitled swagger of an elder.
He climbed the three stone steps to the dais.
My heart hammered violently against my ribs. The visual disguise was perfect. But wolves did not just rely on their eyes. They relied on their noses. If Chief Vane caught even a faint whiff of Bram’s natural scent under that stolen face, the illusion would instantly shatter. Vane would know it was blood magic. He would know Kael was dead. The entire pack would erupt into open rebellion right here in the hall.
But my mother had anticipated that.
Before we burned Kael’s body, Irina had taken a dagger and scraped the heavy, dried sweat and blood from the collar of Kael’s ruined tunic. She threw it into a boiling iron pot with crushed pine ash, a bitter local root, and a heavy scoop of the rendered animal fat I brought from the kitchens. She boiled it down into a thick, dark paste.
She had handed the small clay jar to Bram and told him to rub the paste aggressively into the pulse points on his neck, his wrists, and behind his ears.
It was a scent blocker. It completely masked Bram’s natural odor and projected the sharp, bitter scent of
1/2
+25 Bonus
just been interrupted.
We followed Yvara out of the den and walked down the cold stone corridors toward the Great Hall
The doors were already wide open. The noise spilling out wasn’t the usual rowdy roar of the pack eating. It was the sharp, shrill sound of an argument.
We walked into the room.
A massive section of the center tables had been cleared away. In their place sat four large, iron-bound wooden chests. Two large wooden cages sat next to them, holding several terrified, scrawny pheasants and a pair of southern deer. It looked entirely pathetic compared to the massive elk the Ironmaw hunting parties dragged in every afternoon.
Lord Torin stood near the chests, looking smug and extremely pleased with himself.
But my mother was the source of the noise.
Irina was standing in the middle of the floor, pointing a manicured finger at a very old, deeply scarred Ironmaw woman. The old woman had one milky white eye and wore a thick apron covered in dye stains. She held a large, flat wooden box in her arms. Mina stood right beside the old woman, glaring daggers at my mother.
“I will not have the Princess of Valdris married looking like a common brothel worker!” Irina yelled. Her voice echoed off the vaulted ceilings. She reached into one of the open chests and pulled out a massive, heavy dress.
It was pure white silk, heavily embroidered with gold thread and thick pearls. It had a high, suffocating collar, long sleeves, and a skirt so wide it would take three servants just to help the bride walk up the steps. It was a fortress of fabric. It was designed to make a woman look expensive, pure, and completely untouchable.
“She is not marrying Valdris,” the old Ironmaw woman spat back. Her voice was like crushed gravel. She didn’t flinch at the Queen’s yelling. “She is marrying the Butcher. She wears the Luna’s cloth.”
“That is not cloth!” Irina shrieked, gesturing wildly at the wooden box. “It is a sheer rag! It is dirty, savage clothing. It has absolutely no class. I forbid it.”
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