Chapter 2
"Father!" Nyra's
voice rang through the empty halls, sharp as a blade against stone. It was not
a plea—it was a demand.
Aeris halted mid-step outside their father's chambers, fresh
from a scolding by Selene, the sting of reprimand still clinging to her skin.
The hem of her gown dragged along the cold floor, whispering like restless wind
against stone. She had been bathed, dressed—reshaped into something polished,
something proper . But none of it felt
like her.
Her red curls had been tamed, twisted into place with iron
pins, suffocating against her scalp. It itched. She longed to tear them out.
Then came Nyra's voice again, splitting through the quiet. "Why are you bending to this heathen? Why do
we let them into our halls to speak such nonsense?"
Nyra never spoke softly, but now—now she screamed, casting
aside every lesson Selene had instilled in them about decorum.
"Though he is our
father, we must speak with respect, lest we invite others to disgrace him," Selene had always warned. Aeris scarcely
listened, but Nyra and Veyla had always been cautious.
Not today.
"It is done." Their
father's voice was steady, resolute. "Gather
your sisters and come to the court. Immediately."
"I will not!"
"Nyra," came
Veyla's soft chiding. "You know why
Father has chosen this path. You must understand."
"I do not ," Nyra spat, fury burning at the edges of her
words. "Why should we bow when we could
go to war? Are we so weak? Have our warriors become little more than
ornaments?"
Aeris nodded, her stance firm as the crisp northern wind.
She'd always found the uncharacteristic fear of other wolves to be foolish—like
skittish prey rather than proud hunters. If another wolf tribe sought to
oppress them, they should dig in their heels, bare their fangs, and remind them
why Duskari remained one of the five strongest tribes in Lykaeria.
"Many will die. Even the humans that share our land,
the children, the women. Is that what you want?"
Father's voice carried the weight of fjords carved by time—deep,
unwavering, filled with the wisdom of hard winters. Aeris didn't want to
believe it was just excuses, that fear held him back from battle, but she
wished he would fight anyway. The Skaldur killed our brother, yet they strutted
around as if they owned the land, as if the cold did not bite at their heels.
"Have you seen their warriors fight?" Lazeran
spoke, his voice like ice cracking beneath heavy boots. He didn't talk much,
but when he did, his words curled uneasily under my skin, frostbitten and raw.
Like the rest of my brothers, he was a coward, always searching for the easier
path rather than standing toe-to-toe with the enemy. "They use their
teeth, they are brutal. They find joy in suffering. They are monsters."
"And so you want to send one of your daughters into the
land of such monsters? As their bride?"
Aeris's breath hitched, cold as the mountain air. Her ears
burned, hoping against hope that Nyra hadn't spoken those words.
"It is the only way to forge an everlasting truce.
Binding our families will end war between the tribes—forever."
"Jeg nekter!" Nyra's voice rang out, sharp as the icy fjord
winds. "I will not become a bride to some barbarian prince!"
"You are not the one we are talking about," Lazren muttered,
and Aeris knew Nyra had just shot him a glare so fierce it could make the trees
shrink away.
"Who are you talking about then?" Aeris strolled in, her
bothersome gown catching at her feet, nearly sending her sprawling. She took in
the scene—the weight of her father's presence on his high chair, Nyra pacing
like a restless mare before him, Lazeran by the window, his back stiff as the
cliffs, and Veyla, her hands clasped tight beside Nyra.
They all turned to her, first in surprise, then in a warmth
that unnerved her. Father was the first to rise, a hearty laugh spilling from
his lips as he stretched his arms wide. "Aeris, my little fireball. Come to Daddy!"
He still treated her as though she were five, always eager
to scoop her up, twirl her in the air, drown her in gifts and feasts. But Aeris
walked to him with a steady gait, her expression untouched by his fondness.
"Who do you plan to send into Skaldur land, Father? Who are you going to
barter off to the enemy?"
"Sweet child," he sighed, shaking his head as though she
were hopeless. "You shouldn't listen when adults are talking."
"I am not a child," she snapped. "Nyra"—her finger jabbed in
her sister's direction—"is only a year older than me, yet she gets to talk. I
have the right to speak too!"
Nyra looked at her with exasperated fondness, as did the
others. "You don't have to worry about any of this, dear," Veyla murmured, her
smile soft, like the hush of snowfall. "It's not a problem."
Aeris' jaw tightened. "When are you all going to stop
treating me like I don't matter? I am still a member of this household, and I
have my rights."
Silence settled over the room like the weight of an
impending storm. Then, a slow, knowing grin spread across her father's
face—like he was truly seeing her for the first time, as if he had finally
accepted what stood before him. Aeris was just as tall as Nyra, her chest
fuller, her figure more delicate than she would have liked. But she was grown,
and they should all acknowledge it.
"Very well, min søte," Father rumbled, the mirth in his
voice tempered by curiosity. "What is your opinion?"
Aeris took a steady breath before speaking. "Which of my
sisters are you sending? Don't tell me it's Selene."
She was the only one missing, and Karlene was already mated.
But the moment the name left her lips, Aeris felt it in her bones—she was
right.
"No! Not Selene!" The words tore from her throat before she
could stop them.
Father did not scold, nor did he silence her. He merely
exhaled, slow and deliberate. "No one knows which of you Prince Zerek will
pick."
"Zerek?" Aeris spat, a sharp noise of disgust. Nyra shot her
a glare that could have frozen rivers—she hated filth. "That's the one who's
going to marry one of us? Not happening. He doesn't deserve it."
Lazeren's eyes narrowed. "Don't tell me you've seen him."
Aeris parted her lips to speak—then realization struck like
ice cracking beneath too much weight. She had put her foot in her mouth.
She clamped it shut.
Her father's gaze pinned her, narrowed and searching.
Veyla's expression was taut with shock. Nyra's? Inquisitive, hungry for
answers.
"Aeris," her father said, his voice deepening into a low
growl, "don't tell me you went to the mountainside again."
Aeris flinched. Her throat tightened, her wolf whimpering
low inside her—an instinctive, maddening submission curling through her chest.
His alpha aura rolled out like thunder through stone, thick and suffocating,
pressing her knees to lock.
Then, just as quickly, it vanished.
She looked up, startled, to find his gaze softened. The
sharpness in his posture eased, and he pulled his presence back like a tide
retreating from shore.
"Sweetheart," he said gently. "Come."
She hesitated, then shuffled forward, the stone floor cold
under her feet. When she reached him, he rose from his carved wooden seat and
folded her into a hug. His arms were strong, solid as tree trunks, and even
though Aeris knew she should resent being babied, some part of her still melted
into it.
"You know I can never stay mad at you," he murmured,
brushing his chin against her hair. "But I warned you, didn't I? Not to go out
during this season."
He pulled back and cupped her face, studying her. His eyes
searched hers like they could draw the truth out without words. "Tell me
honestly—did you meet Prince Zerek?"
Aeris nodded. Her shoulders tensed, still bowed by the
lingering echo of his earlier aura. Her own mind might be brave, defiant
even—but her wolf… her wolf was small before the Alpha. Always had been. It
felt like being split in two, like her instincts belonged to someone else. The
human part of her hated that.
From the other side of the room, Lazeran sucked in a sharp
breath.
Oh no. What now?
"Didn't I tell you," he muttered, voice low and bitter,
"she's going to land us all in trouble."
"Why?" Nyra asked before Aeris could snap back. Her arms
were crossed now, but her voice held no anger. Only wariness.
Lazren turned, brows low, eyes glinting. "Because Prince
Zerek doesn't know about your fifth sister."