The silver pitcher is heavy, slick with condensation and the heat of a thousand bodies. Wren Ashford keeps her chin tucked, eyes fixed on the hem of the High Table’s velvet cloth. To be a half-blood in Hjarnvald is to be a shadow. She moves between the seated Alphas, her breathing shallow, pouring the dark, spiced vintage with a steady hand. The pine beams above groan under the weight of a century’s snow, and the smell of roasted meat and wet wolf fur is thick enough to swallow her whole.
She reaches the King’s place. Rurik Vossen sits like a monument of slate and black fur, his ice-blue eyes fixed on the distant doors. Wren tilts the pitcher. A single drop of wine misses the goblet, splashing against the scarred oak. She freezes. The air in the hall shifts, turning sharp and electric. Every conversation dies at the throat. Rurik does not look at the spill. He tilts his head, his nostrils flaring as he draws in a long, predatory breath that seems to pull the very spirit out of her lungs. He knows.
The Alpha King rises from his throne in dead silence. His gaze locks onto the silver pitcher in Wren’s trembling hands, his pupils blown wide and dark. He ignores the lords of the continent, stepping away from his high seat. The King begins to descend the dais, his boots heavy on the stone.
