Chapter 13 The Banquet of Fangs

The Great Hall of the Blackwood Stronghold was transformed. Massive iron chandeliers, dripping with fresh beeswax, cast a flickering, amber glow over the long stone tables. The air was a thick, intoxicating blend of roasted venison, aged mead, and the heavy, musky scent of a thousand shifting Lycans. This wasn't a civilized gala; it was a feast of predators, a celebration of a King who had returned from the dead.

Scarlett stood before the heavy oak mirror in her chambers, her fingers trembling as she adjusted the silk of her dress. It was a deep, midnight blue—the color of the sky just before a storm—and it hugged her curves in a way that felt like a challenge. She had used her Eastern arts to weave a subtle protection-seal into the hem, but she knew that tonight, her greatest shield wouldn't be magic. It would be the man waiting outside her door.

A heavy knock echoed, and Caleb stepped inside.

He was dressed in traditional Northern furs over a black tunic, the silver fastening at his throat gleaming like a wolf’s tooth. The "Mark" she had carved into his neck was dark and prominent tonight, a stark contrast to his pale, lethal skin. When his eyes landed on her, the air in the room seemed to vanish.

"You look like a dream I never want to wake from, Scarlett," Caleb murmured, his voice a low, possessive growl. He walked toward her, his hand sliding around her waist to pull her flush against him. "But tonight, every male in that hall will be looking at you. Some with hunger, others with hate."

"I can handle the hate, Caleb," Scarlett said, meeting his golden gaze. "It's the hunger I'm worried about."

"Good," he whispered, his lips brushing her temple. "Because I am the hungriest of them all."

As they entered the Great Hall, the deafening roar of the feast died down into a sharp, expectant silence. Caleb led her to the High Table, his hand never leaving her side. As they sat, a woman with hair as white as a blizzard and eyes like frozen flint stood up from the council seats.

"My King," the woman said, her voice like the cracking of ice. She was Lady Elara, the daughter of the Southern Pack leader and the woman the elders had intended for Caleb’s bed long before his disappearance. "We celebrate your return. But the pack is restless. We have seen the human’s tricks with the pup, but a Queen of the North must be more than a healer. She must be a partner in the hunt."

Caleb’s jaw tightened. "Scarlett has already proven her worth, Elara. She does not need to entertain your doubts."

"Then let us follow the old ways," Elara challenged, a cold smile touching her lips. "The Dance of the Moon and Shadow. If she can hold the floor with you, My King, then the Southern Pack will acknowledge her. If not... then she is merely a guest, and guests eventually leave."

The hall erupted in low barks of agreement. It was a trap. The Dance was a high-speed, predatory ritual where the Lycan’s strength and the mate’s agility were tested to the limit. For a human, it was often a death sentence of broken bones.

"I’ll do it," Scarlett said, her voice ringing clear through the hall.

Caleb turned to her, his eyes filled with a flash of genuine fear. "Scarlett, you don't know what they’re asking."

"I know exactly what they're asking," she whispered to him. "They want to see if I’ll break. Let's show them I’m made of something they can’t crush."

They moved to the center of the hall. The drums began—a deep, tribal thrumming that felt like a heartbeat. Caleb moved first, his body a blur of Alpha power as he circled her, his wolf spirit manifesting in a towering, silver-white shadow. He lunged, not to hurt, but to test her.

Scarlett didn't move like a Lycan. She moved like a shadow.

As Caleb swung toward her, she utilized a Taoist footwork technique, spinning on her heel with a grace that made her silk dress flare like a dark flower. She didn't just dance; she began to chant under her breath, her fingers tracing invisible symbols in the air.

With every step, a faint, golden trail followed her feet. She wasn't just following his rhythm; she was weaving a spiritual web. When Caleb lunged again, she didn't dodge—she met him, her hand pressing against his chest as she funneled a spark of "Spirit-Fire" into the air between them.

The hall gasped. Instead of a collision, the two of them seemed to merge into a whirlwind of gold and silver light. Scarlett used Caleb’s momentum to lift herself, spinning through the air in a display of acrobatics and mysticism that the North had never seen.

The climax of the dance came when Caleb let out a thunderous roar, his silver wolf shadow lunging at her. Scarlett didn't flinch. She threw a handful of crushed spirit-salt into the air, creating a shimmering veil of light that caught the wolf’s shadow, turning it into a brilliant, ethereal halo around them both.

As the drums stopped, they stood in the center of the hall, breathless and pressed together. The silence was absolute until Caleb let out a roar of triumph.

"My Queen!" he shouted, his voice echoing to the rafters.

The warriors, even the ones who had been sneering moments ago, slammed their fists against the tables in a rhythmic salute. Elara sat down, her face pale and her eyes burning with a new, dangerous envy. Scarlett had won the night, but as she looked into Caleb’s eyes—now dark with an almost frightening pride—she knew she had also deepened the obsession she was trying to escape.

"You were magnificent," Caleb whispered, his lips inches from hers. "But now they know you are more than a witch. They know you are the heart of this pack. And I will never, ever let you go."