Chapter 6: The Summon

The summons came at first light.

It wasn't delivered by Heda, the stern housekeeper, or through Kael's silent surveillance.

A heavy, folded slip of vellum was slid under my door just as the gray dawn began to bleed through the curtains. There was no greeting and no signature. There were only three words, written in a handwriting so forceful the nib of the pen had nearly torn through the paper: My study. Now.

I dressed with agonizing care. I didn't do it to impress him; I had been reminded my entire life that I possessed nothing worth noticing but because how you presented yourself when you were terrified was the only thing you could truly control. I pulled my hair back tight, smoothed the wrinkles from my simple wool dress, and wore my composure like a shield.

The North Wing study sat at the far end of the same corridor where I had sat on the floor only hours ago. By daylight, the passage lost some of its spectral horror, but none of its weight. The low-burning torches and the unnatural chill weren't accidents of architecture; they were the choices of a man who controlled his environment with the same predatory ferocity he applied to his pack.

I reached the heavy oak door and knocked once.

"Come in."

I entered.

The study was not the dark cavern I had expected. It was vast, ordered, and startlingly full of light. One entire wall was comprised of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a desolate, frost-bitten winter garden. Books lined the other walls not for decoration, but clearly for use, their spines cracked and their margins overflowing with dense, hurried annotations.

Maps and territorial charts were spread across every flat surface, pinned down by heavy stones and marked with ink. It was the workspace of a man who had not stopped fighting, even as the world tried to dismantle him.

He was standing at the window with his back to me. In the unforgiving morning light, the curse was even more grotesque. I could see the markings clearly now; they had entirely consumed his hands, jagged and black, climbing past his elbows and disappearing beneath the dark fabric of his shirt. Where the lines reached his jaw, the skin looked scorched and faintly luminous, like cooling volcanic rock.

He didn't turn around. "You were outside my door last night," he said.

"Yes," I replied, my voice echoing in the quiet room.

"Why?" It wasn't a question. It was a demand for a confession.

"You were in pain," I said simply.

He turned then. And for the first time, without a carriage curtain or a thick wooden door between us, I saw Alpha Caius Dravhen completely.

He was younger than the legends suggested. The stories made him sound like an ancient, weathered monster, worn down to a husk by centuries of violence. But he looked to be in his late twenties. Beneath the black veins of the curse and the hollow exhaustion in his eyes was a face that had been severe and strikingly handsome before the darkness started eating him alive.

His gold eyes were just as cold in the sunlight, but up close, I saw a weariness that went deeper than a lack of sleep. He looked at me with that same unsettling intensity from the road as if I were a mathematical variable he couldn't quite solve.

"The last woman they sent couldn't stand to be in the same room as me," he said, his voice grating like stone on stone. "The curse; the very presence of it inflicts physical agony on most people. Pressure. Disorientation. She lasted forty minutes in this study before her nose began to bleed."

I remained silent, absorbing the weight of his words.

"You're not in pain," he stated, his eyes narrowing as he scanned my face for a flinch that wasn't there.

"No," I replied.

"Why not?"

"I don't know," I said honestly. "Maybe I'm already broken in a way the curse doesn't recognize."

He moved toward me then. He moved with a slow, deliberate caution, like a man who had learned to give fair warning before he reached for something fragile. He stopped two feet away and raised his marked hand.

He held it near my face, not touching, the way he had done when we first met.

The black markings pulsed with a dull, rhythmic light. And then, I watched the impossible happen.

The jagged lines on his skin stilled. The faint, angry glow at the edges of the cracks dimmed. It was like watching a turbulent river suddenly hit a calm pool. The tension in his hand eased, the fingers uncurling from their rigid claw.

"What are you?" he asked. His voice was low, almost a whisper to himself.

"Nobody," I said. "According to everyone who has ever met me, I am the spare. The nothing daughter."

He lowered his hand and stepped back, the distance between us immediately feeling colder. He turned back to the window, dismissing me with the tilt of his head.

"You will have your meals in the hall with the others starting tonight," he said. "Heda will remove you from the household duties list. You are no longer a servant here."

I absorbed the change in status with a sharp intake of breath. "I see."

"That's all," he added. "You're dismissed."

I walked to the door, my hand trembling as I reached for the handle. I stopped. I knew I should just leave, but the honesty of the night before was still vibrating in my bones.

"It eases when I'm near you, too," I said to the back of his head. "The burning on my neck. It calms down to a hum when you're close."

The silence that followed was absolute.

I left without looking back, closing the door softly. But just before the latch clicked, I heard it; it was the sharp, ragged exhale of a man who had been holding his breath for a lifetime, finally releasing it into the empty air.

He was just as undone by this connection as I was.

He was just better at hiding the cracks.