Chapter Thirty-five: The Order of Northern Courts

SIGRUN

Breakfast was over, and I had no choice but to take the Alpha up on his offer.

He didn’t offer his arm. He didn’t look back at me. But he was hyper-aware of my presence; I could tell by the rigid, deliberate set of his shoulders and the way he subtly adjusted his usual massive stride so I wouldn't have to jog to keep pace.

Every time a servant or a guard passed us, bowing deeply against the masonry to clear the path, Varul’s head would tilt ever so slightly toward my side of the hallway, a silent, protective shield.

"The texts are kept in the west wing," Varul said, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the quiet of the vaulted corridor. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead. "Isolated from the main barracks and the central courtyard. There is less risk of fire, and fewer idle ears to carry rumors of what is read."

Uh…okay?

I wasn’t sure what to respond to that since I was still trying to get in terms with the fact that he was playing tour guide. A very un-Alpha-King role.

He led me down a narrower, distinctly quieter gallery where the air began to shift. It grew cooler, carrying a scent that instantly hit me with a vicious, unexpected wave of homesickness. It smelled of aged cedar, dried ink, and heavy, compressed parchment.

Varul stopped before a pair of towering, iron-reinforced oak doors that looked old enough to have witnessed the creation of the world. He simply pressed his large, calloused palm against a heavy brass plate embedded in the center of the wood. With a deep, mechanical click of ancient internal gears, the doors slowly swung inward.

I stepped past him into the room, and the breath was instantly knocked right out of my lungs.

If Elara’s shop was a cozy neighborhood corner bookstore, this place was a large-scale museum.

The archives stretched up two full stories, capped by a magnificent vaulted ceiling of dark, heavy northern timber. Wall-to-wall shelves carved directly from the black stone were packed tight with thousands of leather-bound volumes, rolled vellum scrolls, and heavy, iron-clasped ledgers. In the center of the vast space sat long oak tables covered in brass reading lamps and inkwells, entirely cut off from the noise of the rest of the fortress.

“Oh,” I breathed in awe.

The heavy doors shut behind us with a muffled, definitive thud, the lock mechanism clicking into place. We were completely alone.

Varul didn't move toward the shelves. He stepped closer, his heavy boots silent on the stone floor, until he was standing just a foot away. He leaned back against the edge of the central oak table, crossing his massive arms over his chest, his dark, bottomless eyes locking onto mine with that same immovable authority from breakfast.

"A hundred thousand texts," he murmured. "The entire history of the North and the bloodlines of the Great Packs, all are housed in this great room.”

He tilted his head, his gaze tracking the frantic, betraying movement of my throat as I swallowed hard.

“So, Princess,” he said softly. “What specific piece of history is so urgent that you were willing to defy my orders to find it?”

My brain immediately abandoned me.

The problem with lying was that good lies required preparation.

I had none.

“Uh, history?”

He slowly reached out.

My breath completely jammed in my throat. I braced myself to be pinned again, my skin instantly flushing with a traitorous, inappropriate heat at the memory of his hands. But he didn't touch me. Instead, his large, calloused hand bypassed my shoulder entirely, his fingers wrapping around the thick spine of a heavy, gold-leafed volume on the shelf directly behind my head.

He pulled the heavy book from the shelf, the leather scraping against the stone with an agonizingly loud friction, and dropped it onto the oak table beside us with a dull, echoing thud. He tapped one finger on the worn leather cover.

"I recommend starting with this. The Order of Northern Courts," Varul murmured. He didn't step back; he leaned in closer, his mouth a hair's breadth from my ear, his breath hot against my skin.

“It contains the rules and acceptable practices required in court. I thought it prudent, given yesterday’s performance. In future, I would hate for you to accidentally curse another lord’s bloodline.”

His tone held a teasing lilt to it. My cheeks flamed at the memory of yesterday’s disaster.

I stared at the book. The thing must have held over a thousand pages. How many rules were in there?! It would take months to get through all of them.

Well great. Hopefully before then I’d be back home, putting this whole experience strictly behind me and boycotting all fantasy books and novels.

“The room is yours, Princess,” Varul said. “Have a go at every text. Occupy your mind. But leaving the castle at any point in time must be under my jurisdiction. And I would appreciate it if my wife heeds this request without always choosing to spar me with words, hm?”

Then, all too soon, he stepped away and turned towards the door.

“You’re leaving?” I asked, against every good sense I had.

He turned and raised an amused brow. “Yes, Princess. I do have other Alpha duties to attend to. Why, did you need me for something else?”

Yes. Stay. Talk to me more.

I frowned at that stupid intrusive thought and glanced down at the huge book on the desk. Affecting a tone of nonchalance, I said, “No. Thanks. You may leave.”

Varul let out a low, rumbling hum that vibrated right through the soles of my shoes. "As you wish, Princess," he murmured, his amber eyes flashing one final, teasing spark before he turned on his heel.

He pressed his massive palm against the brass plate, the ancient internal gears grinding open with a heavy, mechanical groan, and stepped out into the vaulted hallway. The doors shut behind him with an echoing thud.