CHAPTER 3: THE FREE CITIES

The Bentley crossed into the Free Cities as the pale light of evening settled over the horizon on the fifth day of the journey.

The Free Cities according to every geography book about Northern Hollow that my grandmother had kept in the third-floor library of the Voss estate were five independent city-states that had broken away from the Northern packs in 1612.

They were the only werewolf territory in the world that wasn’t ruled by Alpha bloodlines.

Instead, they answered to a Lycan King.

His name was King Lysander.

He was thirty-one years old.

He had governed the Five Free Cities for the last eight years.

And according to every official Free Cities record, he was the only living Lycan in existence.

I had never met him.

And based on the plans laid out by a five-day Bentley ride, a cedar trunk packed by Margarethe Lindholm, and the Sterling Pack ledger resting beside me on the leather seat, I wouldn’t meet him for another two years.

Mikhal Korven drove me to a modest townhouse on the eastern side of the First Free City—the capital, known simply as Liraeth.

The townhouse stood four stories tall, built from pale gray limestone, tucked along a narrow street called Aldris Lane in the old district of the city. The Voss family had quietly maintained properties there since the Voss-Lycan trade agreements of 1683.

According to the Voss family trust documents, the townhouse had been waiting for me since the day my grandmother died in 2018.

The family’s caretaker in the Free Cities was standing at the front door when we arrived.

Helga Vorenheim.

A sixty-eight-year-old widow with Lycan blood in her veins.

She had served the Voss family in the Free Cities for forty-one years.

She wore a black wool dress beneath a small white apron.

She watched the Bentley stop along the curb of Aldris Lane.

She watched Mikhal step out and open the rear door.

She watched me climb out wearing the charcoal traveling suit Margarethe had given me, my small leather bag in one hand and the Sterling Pack ledger tucked beneath the other arm.

She didn’t ask what had happened.

Not a single question.

Instead, she stepped forward and gently took the travel bag from my hand.

Then, in the soft Free Cities accent shaped by four decades of service, she said:

“Lady Voss.”

“Yes, Helga.”

“Welcome home.”

I spent my first week in the townhouse in silence.

I’ll only describe the outline of it.

During that first week, I never left the house.

I didn’t contact anyone from Northern Hollow.

I barely ate.

I barely slept.

What I did do was read the Sterling Pack ledger six more times.

I also compiled a list of every Sterling Pack creditor along with their Free Cities contact information.

There were thirty-seven names on that list.

Investment firms.

Private lenders.

Lycan-blood banking houses.

All connected to the three major creditor families quietly financing the Sterling Pack’s downfall.

On the second morning of my new life in the Free Cities, Helga placed a stack of Voss family trust documents on the long oak table in the kitchen.

By the time I finished reading them, I learned something I had never known.

My grandmother, Eleanor Voss, had left me a trust fund.

A trust fund hidden from me.

It contained forty-three million Free Cities credits.

According to the quarterly statements, it had continued growing at a seven percent annual compound rate during the eight years since her death in 2018.

The most recent statement sat beside the trust papers.

Current balance:

Eighty-seven million Free Cities credits.

I closed my eyes.

For the first time since Caelum Sterling rejected me in that ballroom, I truly understood the scale of what my grandmother had been building.

All of it had been for me.

Since I was three years old and small enough to fit in her arms.

She had never expected me to marry Caelum Sterling.

The documents made that painfully clear.

She had expected him to reject me.

She had seen it coming.

For eight years, she had been preparing for the exact moment that unfolded on the pale spring morning of my wedding day.

She never warned me.

Never explained.

She simply made preparations.

Quietly.

Patiently.

And she waited.

On the eighth morning in the Aldris Lane townhouse, I woke at 4:47 a.m.

I dressed in the charcoal traveling suit Margarethe had given me.

Then I descended the Voss staircase into the warm kitchen below.

The room glowed with soft yellow light.

The scent of fresh bread and coffee lingered in the air.

Helga was already awake.

Breakfast had been laid out on the long oak table.

Warm bread.

Soft cheese.

Strong Free Cities coffee.

Sliced apples.

Northern honey.

Beside the meal sat a small leather card case.

I opened it.

Inside were twelve business cards.

They read:

ARIADNE VOSS — VOSS CAPITAL — LIRAETH, FIRST FREE CITY.

I looked up.

“Helga.”

“Yes, Lady Voss.”

“My grandmother had these printed.”

“She did, Lady Voss.”

“How long ago?”

A brief silence followed.

“According to the Voss family records, your grandmother ordered them in 2017.”

I closed my eyes again.

For the third time in eight days, I felt the quiet touch of Eleanor Voss reaching across the years.

Even now.

Even after death.

Then I opened my eyes.

Picked up the card case.

And slipped it carefully into the inside pocket of my jacket.

I sat down.

Drank the coffee.

Ate the warm bread, the cheese, and the apples.

When I finished, I looked toward Helga.

She stood near the counter, watching me in silence.

“Helga.”

“Yes, Lady Voss.”

“Today, according to the Sterling Pack creditor schedule, I’m going to begin.”

She waited.

“Begin what, Lady Voss?”

I lifted my chin.

Then I answered in the steady voice my mother had taught me to use when I was a child.

“I’m going to begin, Helga.”

I held her gaze.

“The Voss family work of purchasing every Sterling Pack creditor in the Free Cities.”

Silence filled the kitchen.

Helga Vorenheim had spent forty-one years serving the Voss family.

She didn’t react.

Didn’t gasp.

Didn’t offer empty encouragement.

Instead, she placed both hands gently against the wooden counter.

Then she said quietly:

“Yes, Lady Voss.”

Another pause.

“According to your grandmother’s trust instructions, Helga Vorenheim has been waiting since 2018 for Lady Voss to speak those exact words.”

The morning light touched the kitchen windows.

The scent of coffee still hung in the air.

And Helga smiled very faintly.

“Begin.”