Wedding of Leftovers

POV BRIAR

There is no sadder sight than watching two traitors pretend their betrayal was somehow blessed by the gods.

Cold wind swept into the room the moment Malakar threw open the stone window. With one quick motion, he untied the small leather cylinder from the hawk’s leg and let the bird fall into the snowy abyss, leaving no trace of blood upon the carpet.

I walked over to him, wrapping the wool cloak around my shoulders. My skin still tingled from the memory of his closeness, but that warmth faded fast, replaced by sharp, immediate alertness.

Malakar unfurled the parchment with one hand. The ink had run slightly in the melting snow, but the scarlet wax seal was unmistakable, two wolves entwined beneath a waning moon, the official crest of the Lancaster house, my mother’s family.

"What does it say?" I asked, stepping to his side.

He did not answer at once. His golden eyes scanned the lines quickly, and then a dry laugh escaped him, rough as gravel shifting down a cliff.

"Your southern relatives have a truly impressive talent for making fools of themselves," he said, holding the message out to me.

I took it with steady fingers. My mother’s neat, pretentious handwriting stared back at me:

"To the leaders of all allied packs and the Sacred Council:

Having abandoned her duty and rejected her sacred bond, Briar Lancaster no longer belongs to this house. Therefore, by blood decree and with the Council's blessing, future Alpha Garrick shall take his eternal vows with Daphne Lancaster, rightful heir to our family's pure lineage.

The ceremony and ascension shall take place this Saturday at noon within the Temple of the White Stone. Any disturbance by northern raiders will be considered an act of continental war."

I stared at those words for a long moment. Then a disbelieving laugh bubbled up from my chest, clear and free of bitterness.

"Saturday," I murmured, tracing the date with my eyes. "It was supposed to be my wedding day. My gown. My vows."

"They probably did not want to waste the food and flowers they already paid for," Malakar said dryly, crossing his broad arms and lifting one eyebrow. "Or they are terrified their defenses are crumbling and need a show to convince everyone the pack is not falling apart."

"It is worse than that," I said, crumpling the parchment tight in my fist. "Silvercrest survives on trade agreements with the river packs. If word spreads their borders failed because Garrick spent the defense funds and his own bride ran away, no one will trade them grain through the winter. Daphne is not some grand romance. She is just the patch they are shoving over the hole in their sinking ship."

Malakar stepped closer, his scent of cedarwood and storm filling the space between us, chasing away the faint smell of cheap ink that lingered on the paper.

"Does it still hurt?" he asked gently. There was no mockery in his voice, only quiet honesty, checking how much of that old ache still lived inside me.

I turned toward the crackling fire. I searched for that familiar tightness in my chest, the hot tears that used to blur my vision whenever my sister wore my things, or my mother reminded me I was somehow less than perfect.

I found nothing. Not a single trace of grief. Only cold, sharp clarity, calm and steady.

"It hurt when I believed Garrick was a man worth trusting and my mother was someone who protected me," I said, tossing the crumpled parchment straight into the glowing embers. It flared bright scarlet before crumbling into grey ash. "Now it just seems like such a waste of white silk. Daphne always wanted what I left behind. How fitting she ends up settling for the biggest thing I walked away from."

Malakar’s mouth curved into a fierce, knowing smile, the kind a predator wears before leading the season's great hunt.

"They have invited every southern Alpha," he mused, walking slowly toward the map table. "They want witnesses. They want everyone to see they are still in control, that the law is on their side, and that even Drakor cannot touch them beneath the Temple's sacred protection."

"The Temple of the White Stone stands on neutral ground," I reminded him, resting my hands on the table beside his. "The Ancient Laws forbid heavy weapons inside the sacred precincts. They believe they are safe from your wolves because you cannot march an armed army through those gates without starting a full-scale continental war."

"We do not need an army to crush a rat, Briar."

Malakar laid his large hand over mine, warmth seeping into my knuckles.

"They have every right to celebrate their union," the King said, a dangerous glint bright in his golden eyes. "Let them parade their borrowed crowns, recite their fine speeches, and wait for applause. And we have every right not to keep them waiting."

I looked deep into his eyes, and understood exactly what he meant. This was not about bloodshed. It was about truth, delivered publicly, perfectly, in front of everyone who had ever looked away.

"We are going to the wedding?" I asked, and deep inside, my golden wolf hummed with quiet satisfaction.

"We are going to the wedding," the Lycan King promised, his smile deadly and certain. "But not as invaders crashing through the gates. We will walk right through the front doors, carrying the truth they hoped no one would ever learn... and they will watch you take back everything they stole, right there on their sacred altar, in front of every single person who came to cheer them on."