Chapter Thirty-seven: The Dead

SIGRUN

The heavy iron-reinforced oak doors of the castle were already thrown wide by the time I made it past Marta. I didn’t stop to think about Northern court rules, or whether the Alpha’s wife was supposed to stay indoors during a crisis.

I stepped out onto the wide stone landing at the castle entrance, the freezing northern air instantly biting through the fabric of my dress.

Down in the courtyard, a convoy of horses and armored men had ground to a halt.

There were easily forty to fifty of them, and every single one looked utterly spent. Their cloaks were caked in dried mud and stained dark with frozen slush. Their faces were hollow, their eyes staring blankly at nothing, jawlines rigid with an exhaustion that went straight to the bone.

Two men at the front of the line—both massive, broad-shouldered, and wearing the heavy silver-clasped mantles of high-ranking commanders—were currently unmounting. Later, I’d learn their names were Zophyr and Omri, but right then, they were just two more faces in a sea of broken, travel-worn soldiers.

And right in the center of the chaos stood Varul.

I blinked, silently wondering how on earth he’d gotten outside without me seeing him pass. Perhaps there were hidden passages in this ancient fortress that I was yet to explore. Or being a werewolf also meant inhuman speed.

I stayed back, pressing myself slightly against the cold masonry of the doorway, just watching as Varul addressed the men. The deep, gravelly rumble of his voice carried across the yard, though I couldn't make out the exact words over the restless stamping of horse hooves and the clatter of armor.

Then, my gaze drifted past the horses. Laid out on the cobblestones near the center of the yard were several heavy canvas tarps.

At first, they just looked like discarded gear.

But as the wind caught the edge of the nearest one, my stomach violently rolled. Resting on the gray cloth were bodies. Five. Six. Maybe more. Their skin had already turned a terrible, ash-gray color, completely drained of life. They were still clad in their torn leather armor, but the jagged, gaping ruins of their chest pieces didn't look like they'd been made by swords or spears. It looked like something massive had torn right through them.

A sharp wave of nausea hit me. I quickly raised a trembling hand to my lips, pressing hard to keep myself from heaving right there on the steps and causing a different scene.

I’d seen death in movies, sure, and my mom’s funeral had also been an open casket one, but the raw, freezing reality of this—the smell of old blood—was entirely different.

Varul stopped speaking. The two commanders fell silent, stepping back as the Alpha King turned his focus entirely to the tarps. He walked over slowly, and stood over the graying remains of his people.

And then, he hung his head.

It was a small gesture. Just a slight dip of his chin, his gaze fixed on the bodies. But in that single moment, the terrifying, larger-than-life Alpha King of the North looked incredibly, painfully human. The crushing weight of a whole kingdom seemed to settle squarely on his back, bowing him under a grief he couldn't afford to show in his face. There was something so raw and vulnerable about his posture that it caught me completely off guard.

My heart broke for him.

I didn't know these men. I didn't know their names, or who they’d left behind. To me, they were strangers from a world I was still trying to understand. But there was something seriously devastating about this.

Perhaps because they’d been carried all the way home.

Perhaps because everyone around them knew their names.

Perhaps because someone, somewhere, was about to lose a son. Or a father. Or a brother.

A single, hot tear welled in my eye, blurring the stark gray image of the courtyard. Before it could fall and freeze against my cheek, I discreetly swiped it away with a trembling finger, swallowing down the lump of sorrow in my throat.

A profound, somber aura blanketed the entire courtyard. Nobody moved. The stable hands stopped unhitching the horses. The guards stood like statues against the walls.

It was a mutual, unspoken minute of silence, and I quietly followed suit, closing my eyes and letting the freezing wind whip around my face as I paid my respects to the dead of a realm that wasn't mine.

Finally, the minute passed. Varul raised his head and said something to the men, a quiet dismissal. The spell broke. The men began to disband, leading the horses toward the stables and gently lifting the edges of the tarps to carry the dead somewhere else.

As the crowd shifted, Varul turned around.

Our eyes met across the expanse of the courtyard.

The sudden connection felt like a physical jolt. His eyes were dark, swirling with a dangerous, quiet fury and an exhaustion that mirrored his men’s. He also seemed briefly surprised to see me standing there.

Under his heavy, unblinking stare, I was suddenly, acutely conscious of myself. I looked down and realized my hands were still stained with smudges of Prussian blue and muted green paint. A thick, ugly streak of green was smeared right across the apron of my dress where I’d carelessly wiped my fingers earlier.

For a second, I thought he might stride across the cobblestones and order me to go inside.

But before he could move, one of the men stepped into his line of sight saying something.

The moment was broken and his attention was drawn back into the gears of his kingdom.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, my fingers curling tightly into the fabric of my stained skirt.

Turning on my heel, I slipped back through the heavy oak doors and returned inside, more mellow that I’d ever felt in a long, long time.