CHAPTER EIGHT

INARA’S POV

The five days leading up to my departure passed in a strange, suffocating blur.

The estate was suspended in a quiet, unnatural hush. Servants moved through the corridors like shadows, ducking their heads whenever I walked by, their eyes filled with a mixture of pity and terror. None of them wanted to look at me too closely, as if the shadow of the northern wolf court had already settled over my skin, making me contagious.

I spent my remaining afternoons in the estate’s dark, dusty library, pulling down ancient histories and geographic ledgers from the top shelves. If I was going to be surrendered to Vargovia, I refused to go in blind.

The accounts were sparse, written mostly by human scholars who had never traveled beyond the border garrison. But every text echoed the same singular name with a quiet, superstitious dread: Hati.

He was the Sovereign Alpha of the Northern Territories, the warlord who had unified the splintered wolf packs under one iron crown twenty years ago. The books held no portraits of him only crude woodcuts of a towering shadow surrounded by frost and iron. Some chronicles claimed he had ruled for decades; others insisted he was immortal, a creature born of the wild magic that seeped from the northern mountains.

No one wrote about his personality. No one wrote about his court. They only wrote about his victories sharp, decisive, and bloody.

"You won't find anything useful in those dusty old rags, Lady Inara."

I didn't turn around at the sound of the soft, gravelly voice. Old Martha, the senior housekeeper who had served my mother decades ago, stepped into the library holding a tray with a pot of hot rosehip tea and a plate of dark bread. Her knuckles were swollen with arthritis, her grey hair tucked neatly under a dark cotton cap.

She set the tray down on the heavy oak table beside my pile of books, her faded blue eyes resting on me with a deep, sorrowful quiet.

"Martha," I said softly, closing a thick ledger with a dull thump. "I thought you were in the kitchen preparing the farewell feast Father ordered."

"Let the stepmother and her maids fuss over the feast," Martha grumbled, pouring a steaming cup of tea and pushing it toward my hands. "It’s a sham anyway. A party to pretend they aren't shipping our lady off to the icy mountains."

I wrapped my fingers around the warm porcelain, soaking in the heat. "Do you know anything about him, Martha? The Alpha?"

Martha paused, her hands resting against her apron. She glanced toward the open library door, ensuring no other servants were lurking in the corridor, before leaning down toward me.

"My cousin’s son served as a trader on the border garrison ten years back," Martha whispered, her voice barely carrying over the quiet crackle of the hearth. "He saw the Alpha once, when Hati came down to inspect the trade lines. Said the man walked like thunder made flesh. Didn't speak a word he didn't need to, but when he looked at a man, it felt like he was peering right through skin and bone down to the soul."

"Is he as monstrous as the stories say?" I asked, looking into my tea. "They say the women sent to his palace never return."

"Women don't return because Vargovia is a land you don't easily leave, my sweet child," Martha said gently, her hand reaching out to pat my shoulder with a warmth I hadn't felt in days. "As for whether he is a monster... men who hold great power are always called monsters by those who are afraid of them."

"And are you afraid of him?"

"I am afraid for you," Martha corrected softly. "The court up there is wild. It isn't like this place, with its tea parties and polite lies. It’s ruled by instinct, strength, and old blood. If you are wise, Lady Inara, you will never make him angry. You must tread lightly."

I set my cup down with a quiet, deliberate click against the saucer. I looked at Martha, feeling the cold, hard stone that had settled inside my chest since the night I caught Maksim in my sister's bed.

"I have spent my entire life treading lightly, Martha," I said, my voice dead and flat. "I walked on eggshells around my stepmother so she wouldn't resent me. I stayed quiet so my father wouldn't think I was difficult. I smiled while my betrothed gave his eyes to my sister. Look where treading lightly got me. It got me traded like an unwanted coat."

Martha went quiet, her wrinkled face tightening with sympathy.

"I don't care if Hati is an angry man, or a monster, or a king made of ice," I continued, staring out the high arched window at the dark clouds gathering over the northern mountains. "I have already survived the men who claimed to love me. I will survive him, too."

Later that evening, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long, bloody streaks across the winter sky, I walked down the long corridor toward the east wing.

I passed the open doors of the sewing room. Inside, several seamstresses were working under the frantic direction of my stepmother, Sofia. Bolts of expensive crimson silk and delicate white lace were draped over the tables.

Elizaveta stood on a wooden pedestal in the center of the room, surrounded by mirrors. She was wearing her formal bridal gown a dress that had been repurposed from my original measurements, altered in a hurry to fit her smaller, slighter frame.

I stopped in the shadows of the hallway, watching silently.

"Hold still, Elizaveta!" Sofia scolded gently, pinning a layer of silver lace around her daughter's waist. "Maksim’s family expects perfection for the cathedral ceremony next month. We cannot have the hem drag!"

Elizaveta stood rigid, her pale face completely drained of color. She caught my reflection in the tall gilded mirror across the room. Her breath hitched, her blue eyes wide and glossy with tears, but she didn't turn around. She couldn't. Sofia held her tight by the waist, adjusting the pins.

I stood there for three long seconds, letting my sister see me watching her wear my stolen gown.

"Oh, look what you've done, child! You're ruining the bodice!" Sofia cried out, fluttering around her with a handkerchief.

I turned on my heel and walked away, my boots clicking softly against the stone floor.

She had Maksim’s ring on her finger and my father’s protection around her shoulders, but as I walked back to my cold, empty chamber, I knew the truth.

Elizaveta had gotten everything she ever wanted, yet she looked like a prisoner waiting for the ax to fall.

And for the first time in five days, a quiet, bitter satisfaction warmed the freezing void inside my chest.

Night fell, dark and starless.

I sat by the window of my chamber, watching the Lykan soldiers camp near the outer gates of the estate. Their black iron armor caught the orange glow of their small campfires. Commander Kaelen stood near the main gate, his massive, broad-shouldered frame standing tall against the biting wind, speaking in low, rhythmic tones to his men.

They looked like predators resting before a long trek through the snow.

I touched the bare skin of my throat, where Maksim’s sapphire necklace used to rest. It was strange the fear that should have been consuming me was entirely absent. The stories of Hati, the whispers of women disappearing into the northern shadow, the warnings from old Martha... none of it terrified me.

My father had thrown me away because I was the daughter nobody defended. Maksim had betrayed me because I was too strong to play the victim.

If the northern Alpha was a beast, then at least he was an honest one.

I closed my eyes and let the freezing mountain draft blowing through the cracked window pane brush against my face.