Chapter 3 — Rumors of Iron and Blood

Storm lanterns bobbed along the fortress parapets as night surrendered to a slate-gray dawn. Inside the council chamber Dylan pounded the oak table. “Double the scouts on the eastern ridge,” he ordered. “If Ironclaw moves before sundown, I want an hour’s warning.”

Lieutenant Griff saluted. “Yes, Alpha.”

Ophelia, sleeves rolled, slid a pot of strong coffee toward Dylan. Steam curled between them.

He spared her a curt nod. “Thank you.”

For one fragile second their eyes met; regret churned behind his fatigue. Then a swirl of parchment claimed his focus.

Caroline swept in, cloak trailing like frost. “Love, you need sleep.”

Dylan shook his head. “Sleep after victory.”

Ophelia gathered empty cups, careful to keep her voice small. “I can bring broth, Alpha.”

Caroline’s smile sliced. “The infirmary needs extra hands, *maid.* Go.”

Ophelia bobbed a curtsey and hurried out. Behind her, Griff muttered, “She’s quick on her feet—useful when messengers drop from exhaustion.”

Dylan grunted ambiguous agreement.

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The castle yard buzzed with preparation: smiths hammering arrowheads, messengers racing between towers, pups stuffing sandbags under the tutelage of grizzled veterans. Snow from the night before melted into mud, swallowing boot prints as fast as they formed.

In the healer’s pavilion Ophelia stitched linen bandages beside Maeve.

“Faster,” Healer Rowan urged, inspecting her work. “Poison arrows mean we’ll bleed time, not just wounds.”

Ophelia nodded, fingers flying. A shadow fell across her cot; she looked up to find Beta Hawthorne.

He cleared his throat. “Rowan, the Alpha requests a full antidote kit on the west rampart.”

“Yes, my lord.” Rowan packed vials.

Hawthorne’s gaze lingered on Ophelia’s bandaged back. “You can still use your hands?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He softened marginally. “The pack needs every thread this morning.”

When he disappeared, Maeve exhaled. “First kind word I’ve heard from him in a year.”

Ophelia managed a wan smile. “War makes allies of convenience.”

A trumpet blared three short notes—scout return. Rowan jerked upright. “News.”

Moments later the scout burst in, cloak torn. “Ironclaw columns four miles out, marching under black banners!”

Panic rippled through patients on cots. Rowan clapped for silence. “To positions!”

---

Ophelia followed the supply cart toward the rear lines, clutching a basket of bandages and salves. Snowflakes had given way to sleet. She kept one hand on her belly, murmuring to the unborn life within, “Stay calm, little wolf. Mother won’t let the sky fall.”

At the field hospital tent, wounded began to arrive—arrow nicks, claw slashes. Ophelia cleaned a soldier’s shoulder while he hissed curses.

Outside, Ironclaw war-horns bellowed. A volley of arrows whistled overhead, thudding into tower shields. Roars of clashing warriors followed like crashing surf.

Minutes stretched. Ophelia pressed cloth to a bleeding thigh. “Hold steady, breathe.”

The ground shuddered as if giants waged a fistfight beneath it. Metal rang, men screamed. She forced herself to focus on stitches, not the thunder.

Suddenly two soldiers half-dragged, half-carried Dylan into the tent. An obsidian-tipped arrow jutted from his shoulder, purple veins snaking beneath his skin.

“Alpha down!” Griff shouted.

Rowan cursed. “Poisoned.”

Caroline materialized, hair plastered with sleet. “Save him!”

Rowan snapped, “Clear the table. Give me light.”

Ophelia’s stomach lurched, but her feet moved. She tossed aside bloody sheets, steadied the lantern.

Dylan’s eyes fluttered. “Hold… the line,” he rasped.

Rowan examined the wound. “Obsidian splintered. We extract, but antidote’s scarce.”

Caroline gripped Dylan’s free hand. “You’ll live. You promised our future.”

He managed a faint smile, then winced as Rowan probed the wound.

Ophelia stood opposite, clutching the lantern so hard her knuckles whitened. When Dylan’s gaze flicked to her, surprise flashed—followed by something softer, quickly hidden.

Rowan barked, “I need a poultice of iron-fern and frostmoss. Now.”

Ophelia turned, but Caroline hissed, “I’ll get it. You stay out of the way.”

“Whoever is faster,” Rowan growled.

Ophelia sprinted first, skirts soaking in mud. She knew frostmoss grew along the nearby stone wall. Within minutes she returned, breathless, handing Rowan the herbs while Caroline arrived seconds later, empty-handed and seething.

Rowan packed the poultice, snapped the arrow shaft, and began to draw the obsidian point. Dylan clenched his teeth; sweat beaded on his brow.

“Poison’s already spreading,” Rowan muttered. “He’ll need Ironclaw antidote within days.”

Caroline’s voice cracked. “Then we’ll bargain for it.”

Dylan hissed, “No deals.”

Rowan tightened a bandage. “Talk after battle. Right now—rest.”

He motioned to Ophelia. “Clean instruments.”

She obeyed, rinsing bloody clamps. Behind her Caroline whispered fiercely to Dylan, “We’ll do whatever it takes.”

Ophelia’s heart twisted. *Whatever it takes—except the truth.*

---

Dusk approached. The first clash ended in stalemate, both sides licking wounds. Inside the tent Dylan drifted into fevered sleep. Rowan ordered everyone else out except an attendant.

Caroline seized the chance. “Ophelia stays. She’s proven nimble.”

Rowan shrugged. “Fine.”

When the healer left, Caroline rounded on Ophelia. “Don’t imagine you’ve earned favor by plucking moss. I am his Luna now.”

Ophelia kept her voice level. “I wish only for his health.”

“Then stay silent about the past,” Caroline hissed. “He doesn’t need old distractions clouding his mind.”

Ophelia swallowed anger. “If he lives, I will gladly fade into shadow.”

A cruel grin. “You’re already there.”

Caroline swept aside the tent flap and disappeared into the twilight.

Ophelia sat beside the cot. Dylan’s breaths were shallow, skin hot. She dabbed his brow.

He murmured, eyes still closed, “Caro?”

“No,” she whispered. “Just Ophelia.”

His brow furrowed. “Why…so dark?”

“The lantern’s low,” she answered, adjusting the wick. “Rest, Alpha.”

A pause. “Ophelia… you still—” Words tangled in fever.

She took his hand—calloused, strong—and pressed it to her cheek, allowing herself one stolen heartbeat. “I still serve the pack,” she said, voice barely audible.

Footsteps approached; she released his hand and busied herself with bandages as Rowan returned.

“How is he?” the healer asked.

“Fever rising,” Ophelia replied.

Rowan handed her a flask. “Drip water on his lips. He must stay hydrated.”

All night she tended Dylan, whispering lullabies under her breath—songs her mother sang about silver wolves guarding lost pups. One refrain caught in her throat as the child within her kicked, as if answering.

“Hold on, little one,” she murmured. “Your father fights poison; your mother fights silence. We will survive.”

Beyond the canvas walls, Ironclaw torches flickered along the ridge like a ring of hungry eyes. Battle would resume with dawn’s first howl, but inside the tent a different war waged—between venom and blood, lies and buried memories.

Ophelia tightened Dylan’s blankets, straightened her spine, and faced the darkness with quiet defiance. Whatever dawn brought, she would meet it—needle in hand, heart still beating.

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