Chapter 5 — His Wife, Their Enemy

The applause died before Maevra reached the end of the aisle.

Good.

She preferred hatred she could hear.

Rhydan walked beside her through the great hall, his arm steady beneath her hand while hundreds of Ravaryn wolves watched their new Luna as though the title itself had become an insult.

Whispers followed them.

Some quiet.

Some deliberately loud.

“Thornmere butcher.”

“Caelen’s murderer.”

“Shameless.”

Maevra kept her face composed.

Sariel did not.

Her wolf prowled beneath her skin, irritated by every hostile scent in the room.

Rhydan lowered his voice.

“If you bare your teeth at my court five minutes after becoming Luna, people may misunderstand.”

“I’m smiling internally.”

“That explains the murderous expression.”

Maevra glanced at him.

“You’re remarkably talkative for a grieving husband.”

His humor disappeared.

She regretted the words immediately.

Caelen had not been buried.

His body was still somewhere inside this fortress while strangers congratulated Rhydan on a marriage neither of them wanted.

Maevra opened her mouth.

Rhydan spoke first.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Apologize because you feel obligated.”

She studied him.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”

Liar.

The realization annoyed her.

They reached the front of the hall, where several council members waited.

Taven stood among them, looking as thrilled as a man attending his own sentencing.

Lord Malrec offered Maevra a courteous nod.

“Luna.”

The word sounded strange from him.

Maevra returned the gesture.

“Lord Vossan.”

A silver-haired councillor stepped forward.

Maevra recognized him from the previous night.

Councillor Orven.

He had wanted her executed before sunrise.

His opinion appeared unchanged.

“Alpha, a matter requires clarification.”

Rhydan stopped.

“Then clarify it.”

Orven’s gaze settled on Maevra.

“The Concord recognizes Lady Sorn as your wife. Ravaryn law regarding the Luna seat is another matter.”

Maevra almost laughed.

They had been married less than an hour, and someone was already searching for technicalities.

Rhydan’s expression cooled.

“What matter?”

“Council access. Military information. Pack disputes. Surely we are not expected to grant an enemy commander authority over Ravaryn simply because an ancient treaty requires marriage.”

Murmurs of agreement rose nearby.

Maevra removed her hand from Rhydan’s arm.

“I’m standing here.”

Orven looked at her.

“I’m aware.”

“Then you can object to my face.”

His mouth tightened.

“I object to your authority.”

“Much better.”

Taven exhaled through his nose.

Rhydan glanced at Maevra.

A warning.

She ignored it.

Orven addressed him again.

“Ravaryn has buried wolves because of her commands.”

“Thornmere has buried wolves because of mine,” Rhydan replied.

“That does not make her one of us.”

“No,” Rhydan said. “The Concord does.”

Silence spread around them.

Orven looked stunned.

Rhydan continued.

“She will have access to council matters concerning the treaty, Thornmere, shared borders, trade, prisoners, and any investigation connected to my brother’s murder.”

“Military strategy?”

“No.”

Maevra frowned.

Rhydan noticed.

“We’ll discuss it privately.”

Orven seized on the answer.

“So there are limits.”

“Of course there are. There are limits on your authority too.”

Someone nearby choked back a laugh.

Orven flushed.

Rhydan stepped closer to him.

“Understand this clearly. You are permitted to distrust Maevra. You are permitted to disagree with her. You are even permitted to hate the decision I made.”

His voice dropped.

“You are not permitted to undermine the Concord while it protects this pack from war.”

The councillor’s jaw clenched.

“Yes, Alpha.”

Rhydan turned to leave.

A woman near the council benches spoke.

“What about justice for Caelen?”

The question stopped him.

Maevra saw the change in his shoulders.

Small.

Painful.

The woman looked older, perhaps sixty, with tear-swollen eyes.

“My prince is dead,” she said. “And the woman found beside him walks through his home wearing our Luna’s ring.”

Nobody interrupted her.

Rhydan faced her fully.

“So we should execute Maevra before discovering who killed him?”

“She was there.”

“Yes.”

“Her blade was there.”

“A blade bearing her initials and no blood.”

The woman’s eyes filled.

“What if you’re wrong?”

Rhydan’s answer took longer this time.

“Then I will answer for it.”

Something about the room shifted.

Not acceptance.

Nothing close.

But Maevra felt the anger redirect, if only slightly.

Rhydan had not demanded trust.

He had taken responsibility.

Maevra hated that she respected him for it.

Her new chamber occupied the eastern wing.

Maevra stood in the doorway and stared.

“This is excessive.”

Rhydan entered behind her.

The sitting room alone was larger than her quarters at Thornhall. A fire burned beneath a carved stone mantel. Tall windows overlooked the dark forest beyond the fortress walls. Two doors led deeper into the suite.

Maevra pointed.

“Bedroom?”

“Left.”

“The other?”

“Dressing room.”

She looked at him.

“You people need smaller houses.”

“You say that like Thornhall is a cottage.”

“Thornhall has character.”

“Varek Keep has plumbing.”

She almost smiled.

Again.

This was becoming irritating.

Rhydan closed the door.

The lightness disappeared.

“Now the rules.”

Maevra leaned against the back of a chair.

“I was wondering when my imprisonment would acquire paperwork.”

“You aren’t imprisoned.”

“Your guards disagree.”

“They’re outside because someone planted a death threat inside the oath box tonight.”

“Then tell them to guard whoever has access to ceremonial boxes.”

“I’m doing both.”

Maevra folded her arms.

“Continue.”

“You do not leave Varek Keep alone.”

“No.”

“Maevra.”

“I crossed your border alone before meeting you. I’m capable of walking through a courtyard.”

“You were also framed for murder during that successful journey.”

She glared.

He waited.

“One guard,” she said.

“Four.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Done.”

His eyebrows rose.

“You negotiate quickly.”

“I want this conversation over.”

“So do I.”

Rhydan moved to the window.

“No access to Ravaryn battle plans unless they concern the Concord directly.”

“You expect me to hand Thornmere’s military plans to you?”

“No.”

“Then we understand each other.”

“Your messages to Thornmere will be recorded.”

Maevra straightened.

“No.”

“Every communication crossing the border is monitored during wartime.”

“The Concord suspended open war.”

“It didn’t erase sixteen years of intelligence operations.”

“You may know when I send a message. You do not read private correspondence.”

Rhydan turned.

“Someone inside your territory may be involved in Caelen’s murder.”

“Someone inside yours tried to sabotage our wedding.”

“All the more reason.”

“All the more reason neither of us should surrender every secret we possess.”

Silence.

Rhydan considered her argument.

“Official political correspondence is shared.”

“Agreed.”

“Personal messages remain sealed.”

“Yes.”

“Anything involving military movement gets disclosed.”

“Both ways.”

“Both ways.”

Maevra nodded.

“What else?”

“Our rooms remain separate.”

“That was already agreed.”

“No expectation of marital duties.”

Her gaze sharpened.

“Good.”

“Publicly, we appear united.”

“How united?”

“Enough that neither pack believes the Concord is already collapsing.”

“You want hand-holding?”

“I think Ravaryn can survive without it.”

“Excellent.”

“Formal meals when required. Council appearances. Border negotiations.”

“Fine.”

“No deliberately provoking my council.”

Maevra stared at him.

“That sounds suspiciously personal.”

“It is.”

“Denied.”

His mouth tightened.

“Try.”

“I’ll consider trying.”

“That is probably the most cooperation I’ll get.”

Rhydan moved toward the door.

Maevra stopped him.

“Rhydan.”

He looked back.

“What happened in the gallery tonight?”

“Taven is investigating.”

“And the note?”

“Three people handled the oath box after it left storage.”

“Names?”

“Tomorrow.”

“You don’t trust me with them.”

“I don’t trust anyone with them until I know who knew what.”

Maevra’s irritation faded.

That answer she understood.

“Caelen’s rooms?”

“Sealed.”

“I want access.”

“You’ll have it.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

She nodded.

Rhydan reached for the door.

“Get some sleep.”

Maevra gave him a flat look.

“I married my enemy tonight, half your pack wants me dead, and someone left a message expecting a widow.”

“Then sleep badly.”

“That sounds more realistic.”

He left.

Three guards waited outside.

Rhydan had won that argument.

For now.

Maevra closed the door.

Silence settled around her.

Too much silence.

Her hand moved instinctively toward the knife that was no longer at her thigh.

Wonderful.

She had become Luna and lost her preferred weapon on the same day.

Maevra checked the windows first.

Locked.

Then the adjoining rooms.

Empty.

The dressing room contained clothes she had never seen. Ravaryn staff must have worked quickly.

She pushed open the bedroom door.

Moonlight stretched across the floor.

The bed stood against the far wall, dark blankets neatly turned down.

Maevra took two steps inside.

Stopped.

Sariel surged.

Blood.

Fresh.

The metallic scent hit her a heartbeat later.

Maevra crossed the room slowly.

Something dark stained the pillow.

Not a splash.

A handprint.

Five bloody fingers dragged downward across white linen.

Beneath it lay a small piece of parchment.

Maevra did not touch either.

She leaned closer.

Four words had been written across the page.

You will never be Luna.

A floorboard creaked behind her.

Maevra spun.

The bedroom door was empty.

Then the outer handle of her chamber moved.

Slowly.

Someone was coming in.