2. Chapter

As I pass the training grounds, I see a few men from the Red Moon. They don’t sit. They don’t talk. They stand and watch, as if they’re counting. Their posture is loose, yet it looks like they could spring at any moment. Kian’s favorite men pretend it doesn’t rattle them, but tension sits in their shoulders.

We stop in the antechamber of the council hall. “Wait here,” Mara says, then slips through the great door. Beyond it: low voices, wood creaking, the clink of glasses. Then someone laughs. Kian. Tiny beads of sweat prickle my back. My feet tense inside my shoes. There’s nowhere to run.

The door opens. Kian stands there, eyes gleaming. “Come on,” he beckons. Something folds up inside my chest, but I move anyway. “We’ve got guests so important you wouldn’t believe it.” His voice is light. His eyes aren’t.

In the great hall a long table stretches across the middle, people on both sides. Blackrock’s council sits to the left, Red Moon’s envoys to the right. At the head, the Alpha—Kian’s father—looks tired, his skin pale. At the far right end stands the man I saw at the gate. He’s closer now. His gaze is cold and focused. His eyes are green. A sharp, cutting green, as if he can see through everything. The air suddenly thickens. Strength drains from my knees.

“Elariana.” Kian says my name and sets a hand on my shoulder, as if presenting an object. “She handles half the household. Fast, obedient, clean. Look at her hair. Such a rare shade. Like fresh snow, isn’t it?”

I don’t look up. I don’t dare. But I feel it. The stranger’s stare slices into me like a knife. He doesn’t touch me, yet it pierces. My chest rises and falls, but barely. Don’t do anything. Don’t speak. Don’t feel.

“Pretty,” someone on the Red Moon side says—not him, someone beside him. The voice is light, as if it doesn’t matter. “Do you bring gifts, too?”

Kian’s grip tightens on my shoulder. His voice stays casual. “I’m only showing how orderly we live. Red Moon surely appreciates discipline.”

“We do.” The man at the end speaks for the first time. His voice is deep, calm, with nothing extra in it. Not raised, yet perfectly clear. “Discipline is worth more than any banner.”

The voice seeps under my skin. It’s not a good feeling. It’s foreign, and my wolf lifts its head inside me. That’s what I hate most—when the thing sleeping in me stirs for a reason I can’t control. No, I tell it silently. Quiet. It gives a low grunt, as if answering.

“We welcome our guests,” the Alpha says with a strained smile. “You came to trade, to negotiate. We offer meat, weapons, protection. People, if needed.” The words hit the table like bone.

People.

My stomach churns. Kian’s fingers slide along the nape of my neck, as if warning me: smile, but don’t smile; breathe, but don’t show it.

“We’re not looking for people.” The green-eyed man’s gaze doesn’t dart. It isn’t flirtatious or threatening. It’s just fact. “We’re looking for an alliance. Ratios of exchange. And… the truth.”

That last word weighs more than the others. Kian laughs. “The truth? Everything here is true. Whatever I say.”

The man doesn’t laugh. “Excellent. Then this will be simple.”

“Serve,” Mara whispers behind me. I move, carrying the wine jug. I start on Red Moon’s side. The man’s glass is empty. My hand shakes; the wine ripples. I step closer. My head down, shoulders tight. In the air: metal and some pine-like scent. The lip of the jug reaches the rim of his glass when my wrist locks. Not because someone grabbed it—just my body. Old reflex. If I spill now, there will be trouble. If it drips, trouble. If I tremble, trouble.

“Easy.” The man says it so softly it’s barely sound. Not a command, more like a statement. I don’t dare look up. The wine flows into the glass; not a single drop spills. I set the jug down, step back. My heart sits in my throat.

“Thank you,” he adds. Not mocking, not as a game. Just said.

The word hits like someone lifting my head above water only to push me back under. I can’t remember the last time anyone thanked me for breathing.

Kian watches from the other side. His eyes narrow. I know what comes next: he makes a game of me. He’ll prove who owns this house. I go to my place by the wall. I don’t move while the negotiations drag on. Words fly across the table: prices, territories, passage rights. Now and then a delicate threat, probably for form’s sake. Kian enjoys it. The other man doesn’t. He’s like stone. Hit him and your hand hurts.

At the end, the Alpha rises. “Let’s rest,” he says, signaling to the guests: the smaller rooms are ready, servants will show them the way. Kian flicks a hand at me.

“You. With me.” His voice is sharp now. I freeze.

In the corridor he catches my arm. Not roughly, just firmly enough that I can’t slip free. His strides are long, the pace quick. We’re heading for the “playroom.” My throat tightens, my vision narrows. My skin sweats.

“You overdid it again,” he murmurs. “Your hand shook. He looked at me… and you shook. You like being looked at?”

“No.” The word barely leaves my mouth. “No, sir.”

“Then learn.” He opens the door. The room is empty, cold. Hooks line the wall, straps hang from them. A bowl of water sits on the table. This is worse than yelling. In the silence, every sound grows too loud: my breath, my foot scraping the stone, the leather’s creak when it’s moved.

“Kneel,” he says.

My knees give. I don’t argue. I stare at the wall. The cracks in the stone draw a map. If we survive this, the day goes on.

The strap snaps shut around my wrist. The leather drinks my sweat. Kian leans close. “You will learn discipline. We don’t shake in front of guests. Understand?”

“Yes.”

The air shifts. He waits. This is the worst part—the waiting. Nerves, muscle, memory knot together in my chest. I close my eyes. My wolf rattles inside me like an animal kept behind a locked door. It doesn’t help—only reminds me there’s something left that might wake up one day. Not today.

The first stroke isn’t hard. Just a mark. Skin shivers across my shoulder. The second is louder. I don’t cry out. Kian sighs. “Smart girl. You can keep quiet.” The words cut again. Girl. From him, it’s not an endearment. It’s a tool.

I don’t know how long it lasts. Time loses meaning here. Eventually my body goes numb, my head empties. Kian unbuckles the strap. “Make yourself presentable,” he says, and leaves. The door shuts.

I don’t move right away. My knees throb, my shoulder burns. I crawl to the water, splash my face, push my hair back as best I can. In a room without a mirror, looking at yourself just means guessing what you might look like without the unnecessary details. You need the kind of face no one can pity.

The day isn’t over. There are tasks. Dinner has to be served. I go back to the kitchen. No one asks anything. Here everyone knows everything and still we don’t speak of it. The afternoon slowly herds my body back into routine: chopping, stirring, carrying. If I move, it hurts less.

At evening the horn sounds again. Dinner. The great hall fills. The Red Moon men are looser now. Some lean on their weapons, speaking quietly. The green-eyed man sits at the end of the table, back to the wall, where he can see everything. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t play. He just watches.

I serve. The wine reaches his glass again. My hand wants to tremble, but something strange happens. My body remembers Kian’s words, the pain—and somehow the motion hardens to stone. The wine doesn’t slosh. I set the jug down. The man says nothing. He only nods. A tiny nod. Barely there. A pointless gesture—and yet… it doesn’t hurt.

Throughout the evening Kian flicks glances at me. There’s calculation in his eyes. Not a good sign. The talks end without agreement. They’ll continue tomorrow. The guests are given rooms in the lower guest wing. Later, in the corridor, as I carry the dishes back, two Red Moon warriors pass me. They don’t look at me. Their scent is colder than ours. Their steps are measured, their breathing disciplined. They give the impression of men you cannot surprise.

That night I lie on my cot in the storeroom, blue-green bruises pulsing along my spine narrating every move. I stare at the ceiling—which here is just the underside of the bunk above. The girl beside me cries softly. On the other side, a boy snores under his breath. The air is heavy. Flashes spark under my eyelids: Kian’s fingers in my hair. The green gaze that didn’t look like the others.

My wolf growls very softly behind my ribs, oddly. I don’t understand the words—only the mood. Watchful. Something is watching.

“Sleep,” I whisper to myself. “Tomorrow will be another day.” And as the silence settles around me, I hear from outside, from the stone courtyard, that deep, even footfall unlike any I’ve heard in my life. As if someone walks without fearing where they step. The rhythm is slow, certain. My heartbeat falls in line with it.

I don’t want it to. But it does. My eyes close. And in the dark, for the first time—very softly, but clearly—I hear my wolf’s voice:

“Something is coming.”

I don’t answer. There’s nothing to say. I only promise myself I’ll pay closer attention tomorrow. Because here, in the depths of Blackrock, where fear and order walk hand in hand, only one thing is certain: if something is coming, it will either be war—or finally something that changes my life. And the two are almost the same.