The Coward's Letter

POV BRIAR

There are men who would sooner burn an entire kingdom to the ground than admit a woman walked out on them and left them looking foolish. Garrick was exactly that kind of man.

The tense murmur of guards in the outer courtyard drifted softly through the north tower windows. I did not need to look outside to know who waited below. I could smell him. The stench of false courtesy and cheap Silvercrest cologne hung on the night breeze, sharp and unmistakable. For the first time in years, my senses were clear — no fog, no dullness, no poison clouding what I knew deep down. What I smelled was pathetic desperation.

Malakar stood by the fireplace, fastening the leather straps of his combat bracers with a calm that sent shivers down my spine. He wore only a loose dark linen shirt, yet the heat rolling off him filled the room, steady and grounding.

"Stay here," he said without turning around, pulling the last buckle tight. "He is nothing but a cheap messenger. I will cut off his hands, shove his decree down his throat, and send him tumbling back down the hill before sunrise."

I slipped from the bed and stood firm on the fur rug.

The heaviness was gone. That constant exhaustion, that faint dizziness I had carried since adolescence — the one Garrick always called my "fragile nature" — had vanished completely. My blood ran warm and quick and clean. Every muscle felt awake, alive, humming with strength I did not know I possessed. Deep inside, my golden wolf watched everything with eyes wide open, calm and ready.

"No," I said, walking toward the full-length mirror with steady steps. "If he dared travel all the way here, it was not his idea. Garrick sent him just to see if I am still alive… and if I am still afraid. I want him to see me. I want him to look clearly at exactly what they lost."

Malakar paused. His golden gaze met mine in the reflection, and a dark, proud smile touched the corner of his mouth.

"There is a crimson velvet gown in the wardrobe on the right," he said quietly. "It belonged to Drakor’s last warrior queen. So if you walk down into my hall, Briar, you do not walk as someone begging shelter. You walk as mistress of this house."

Twenty minutes later, the great double doors of the Obsidian Grand Hall swung wide open.

The hall was breathtaking — tall volcanic stone pillars rising to a vaulted ceiling draped with ancient battle-torn banners. Down the center aisle stood two lines of fully armored lycan warriors, hands resting heavy on the hilts of their greatswords.

In the center of the room, soaked through by snow and visibly shivering beneath his ceremonial cloak, stood Lord Kenneth — Garrick’s father’s most obsequious advisor. He clutched a parchment sealed with green wax in bony fingers, flanked by four guards who did not dare lift their eyes from the stone floor.

He took a few nervous steps forward as Malakar settled onto his throne of black iron, carved straight from the rock. I stood at his right hand, head high, hands resting calmly on the rich crimson fabric of my skirt.

Kenneth looked up toward the throne, swallowing hard and clearing his throat. But when his gaze settled on me, he froze. His eyes widened, genuine terror plain on his face.

He did not see the quiet, pale girl who once poured wine at Silvercrest assemblies, keeping her head down and her mouth shut. He saw someone who stood tall, shoulders steady, and most of all — that unmistakable golden glow burning bright in my eyes. The mark of a bloodline they thought had been erased forever.

"I-I speak on behalf of Future Alpha Garrick and the High Council of Silvercrest," he stammered, unfurling the parchment with trembling hands. "I bring a formal claim… for restitution under the Sacred Pack Code."

Malakar did not even lean back. He rested his elbow on the armrest, jaw propped on one fist, watching the man the way you watch a rat scurrying through a ditch.

"Read," the King commanded, and the entire hall fell dead silent.

Kenneth drew a shaky breath, trying to summon some shred of diplomatic dignity:

"Whereas, the Silvercrest Pack denounces the Northern Empire’s violation of our borders and the unlawful abduction of the Lady Briar Lancaster, betrothed by blood pact to our heir. The fugitive stands formally accused of high treason, conspiracy with foreign powers to sabotage frontier wards, and theft of sacred relics belonging to the Alpha household."

A low, cold laugh escaped me before I could stop it. Kenneth faltered, glancing between offense and alarm.

"Sacred relics, Kenneth?" I asked. My voice carried clearly through the hall, steady and commanding, and several Northern soldiers straightened instinctively. "I left that mansion with one small suitcase, my papers, and the clothes on my back. The only thing I left behind was your master’s broken pride. If that counts as sacred relic, he can come retrieve it himself."

"It is the Alpha’s word against yours, girl!" the envoy snapped, losing control for a heartbeat before remembering exactly where he stood. "And there is more. The Council has ruled that if you are not returned peacefully within forty-eight hours, your bloodline will be formally excommunicated. Furthermore… all holdings from your mother’s side are forfeit. Your lands, your family’s records, and your late grandmother’s personal journals."

The air turned to ice in my lungs.

My grandmother’s journals. The only woman in that whole household who had ever looked at me with kindness. She had warned me in whispers to be careful what I drank, told me my light was too bright for a pack of scavengers. Garrick knew those notebooks were the one thing on earth that truly mattered to me. This was not law. It was a coward’s blackmail.

"Give it here," Malakar said, holding out an open palm.

Kenneth stumbled forward and handed over the scroll.

Malakar did not read a single word. He held it between gloved fingers, blinked his golden eyes, and dark flame erupted from his hand. The parchment turned to black ash in less than three seconds, drifting in smoldering flakes onto the stone at the envoy’s feet.

Kenneth stepped back, face ashen:

"That was an official Council decree! You are declaring war!"

Malakar rose slowly. His shadow fell over the man like a wall about to collapse. He drew his combat dagger, held it by the blade, and offered me the hilt carved from ancient dragon bone.

"You decide how this message ends, my Queen," he said, absolute devotion in every word. "Shall I send his head back in a box, or do we ride south with ten thousand warriors and leave their lands in ashes?"

I stepped forward. The velvet brushing against my boots sounded like the whisper of a judgment long overdue. My fingers closed around the warm hilt, and beneath my skin, my wolf rumbled in agreement.

I looked Kenneth straight in the eye. I let the golden fire in my gaze burn bright enough that the old man dropped to his knees upon the ashes, shaking like a leaf in a gale.

"Do not harm a hair on his head, Malakar," I said, and the calm in my own voice surprised even me. "I want him to return to Silvercrest whole. I want him to see clearly exactly what awaits his master — and tell him every word."

I leaned toward the kneeling man, the tip of my dagger brushing gently against his cloak at the throat:

"Tell Garrick to keep my grandmother’s journals safe. And tell him not to trouble himself coming for me… because in three days, I will come to his wedding. And I will collect every drop of poison I was ever fed. With interest."