Chapter 7: The Cold Welcome

The iron gates of the Midnight Packhouse shrieked as they swung open, a harsh, metallic scream that cut through the roaring mountain wind. The transport wagon finally groaned to a halt in the center of a massive stone courtyard. Shadows stretched long and jagged across the snow-dusted ground, cast by the towering, fortress-like structure of the packhouse. Built from rough-hewn black stone and reinforced with heavy timber, it looked less like a home and more like a citadel designed to withstand a century of siege.

Inside the dark wagon, Evangeline’s joints had gone stiff. The silver-root poison was a heavy, dull ache in her limbs, making her feel as though her bones were carved from ice. She pulled her heavy white lace veil down, ensuring not a single inch of her skin was visible, and waited.

The heavy iron latch of the wagon doors rattled. A blast of sub-zero arctic air rushed in as the doors were thrown wide, making Eva shiver violently beneath her oversized wool dress.

"Out," a guard barked, his breath billowing in a thick white cloud. "The Alpha is waiting."

Eva crawled toward the edge of the wagon, her numb fingers clutching the rough wooden frame. She didn't expect a hand to help her down, and she didn't get one. Clinging to the iron rim, she managed to lower herself, her thin-soled shoes hitting the cobblestones with a dull, painful thud. Her knees buckled from the hours of confinement, but she forced herself to stand upright, keeping her hands tucked submissively into her voluminous sleeves.

Through the blurred pattern of her veil, she saw the hierarchy of the Midnight Pack on full display. Dozens of warriors stood in silent, rigid rows, their chests broad and their eyes glowing with a terrifying, predatory curiosity. At the front of the courtyard stood Alpha Torin.

He had dismounted his stallion, his heavy fur cloak dusted with snow. He looked massive, a king of the frost, his sharp jawline set in a grim, unyielding line. His golden eyes locked onto Eva’s veiled form the moment her feet touched the ground. His nostrils flared, taking in her scent again—and once again, his expression hardened into pure, unadulterated disgust as the synthetic, cloying sweetness of wild honey and floral oils drifted across the courtyard. To him, she was still the ultimate insult: a fragile, high-maintenance spy sent by a tyrant to pollute his home.

Torin walked toward her, his steps slow and deliberate, the heavy thud of his boots echoing off the stone walls. The warriors watched in dead silence.

He stopped just two feet away. The sheer force of his Alpha aura slammed into Eva like a physical wave, heavy and suffocating. It took everything she had not to drop to her knees and cower.

"Take off the veil," Torin commanded. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated straight through the soles of her shoes.

Eva’s hands shook as she reached up. Slowly, she lifted the heavy lace and flipped it back over her head. The biting wind immediately whipped her dark blonde hair across her face, but she kept her eyes cast downward, staring intently at the snow gathered around his leather boots.

Torin narrowed his eyes, studying her features. He expected a proud, defiant princess glaring back at him. Instead, he saw a pale, drawn face, lips tinged slightly blue from the cold, and a gaze that refused to meet his. She’s playing the submissive victim, Torin thought bitterly, his wolf Fenrir letting out another agitated, confused whine deep in his subconscious. She wants me to let my guard down. Her father trained her well.

"Welcome to the Midnight Pack, Princess Victoria," Torin said, mocking her stolen name with terrifying smoothness. "I trust your journey in the baggage wagon was comfortable?"

Eva swallowed hard, her throat raw. "It was... adequate, Alpha. Thank you."

A few warriors in the front row chuckled darkly at her raspy, weak voice. Torin’s jaw tightened. He turned his back to her, gesturing toward the looming stone fortress.

"You are here to seal a treaty, but do not think for a moment that you will be living in luxury," Torin announced loudly, ensuring every wolf in the courtyard could hear him. He wanted his pack to know he hadn't softened, that he hadn't been tamed by an Ironwood bride. "In the North, everyone earns their keep. We have no room for spoiled royalty who expect to be pampered while my people bleed on the borders."

He looked back over his shoulder, his golden eyes flashing with a cruel, calculated light. He wanted to break her. He wanted her to throw the tantrum she was undoubtedly hiding, to demand a solar, a feather bed, and maidservants, so he could strip away her facade completely.

"Guard," Torin barked, gesturing to a grim-faced enforcer. "Take my new wife to the southern tower. The attic room at the very top."

A low murmur passed through the crowd of warriors. The southern attic was notorious. It sat directly beneath the slate roof, far away from the heated hearths of the lower levels. It was a place where they threw broken equipment or insubordinate prisoners to cool their tempers in the dead of winter. It was damp, drafty, and entirely isolated.

"Let's see how long your expensive perfumes last up there," Torin muttered directly to her, his voice low enough only for her to hear. "When you are ready to stop playing this pathetic game and tell me what Silas is planning, let the guard know. Until then, enjoy the draft."

Eva didn't scream. She didn't stomp her foot or demand a better room.

Instead, a strange, profound hush washed over her chest. She looked up slightly, her pale eyes meeting his golden ones for the first time. Torin froze, expecting to see furious arrogance or bitter tears.

But there was none. There was only a quiet, exhausted acceptance.

"Thank you, Alpha," Eva whispered softly, her head bowing again. "A room of my own is... more than I expected."

Torin’s breath caught in his throat. His wolf gave a violent, agonizing tug against his mental chains, snarling at him, screaming that he was hurting something precious. Torin forced the beast down, his brow furrowing in deep frustration. An actress, he told himself savagely, turning away from her entirely. She's just a magnificent actress.

"Take her away," Torin ordered coldly, walking toward the grand doors of the packhouse without looking back.

The guard grabbed Eva’s upper arm, his grip calloused and unyielding, and dragged her toward the side entrance of the fortress. As she was led inside, away from the freezing courtyard and up the endless, winding stone steps of the southern tower, Eva felt the weight of the silver-root poison dragging at her heels. But for the first time in her life, she realized something: there was no Silas here. There was no Victoria.

The room would be freezing, and the Alpha clearly hated her, but as the guard pushed open the heavy wooden door at the top of the tower, Eva looked at the small, bare room and realized it had a lock on the inside of the door.

For a girl who had spent her life sleeping on a cellar floor with monsters walking above her, it felt like the safest place in the world.