Chapter 4: The Salt on the Blade

The hall smelled of scorched fat, spilled ale, and the sharp bite of stale sweat coming off fifty drunk guardsmen at the lower tables. The iron braziers along the stone walls spat grease into the air, casting jittery orange light over the long wooden trestles where men shouted over wooden tankards and gnawed on mutton ribs.

On the raised dais, nobody was shouting.

I sat between Alexander and Gabriel, my posture stiff enough to make my lower back ache. The silver fabric of my gown clung to my skin, damp with a cold, unnatural sweat that wouldn't dry. On the pewter plate before me lay a wedge of roasted venison; its fat had already cooled into a dull, gray skin. I couldn't bring myself to touch it.

Underneath my ribs, the sickness was twisting again.

The temporary relief I had scraped together during the morning council had worn off hours ago. Without a steady, close pulse of elemental magic, the dark mark deep in my belly felt like a pocket of embers, radiating hot needles down the insides of my thighs. Every time I reached for my wooden cup, the tremor in my right hand threatened to spill the liquid across the oak. I kept my fingers buried deep in the folds of my skirt, my nails digging into my palms until the skin nearly broke.

"You're picking at the wood," Alexander said softly, his head barely turning toward me. He was slicing through a thick piece of rind with his belt knife, the movements practiced and quiet. The natural heat coming off his heavy wool tunic was infuriatingly close, a dry, sun-baked warmth that made my lungs ache to lean just three inches to the right.

"The kitchen uses too much suet," I managed to say, my voice raspy. My throat felt as though it were lined with dry salt. "My stomach doesn't settle well with heavy grease."

Two seats down, Lucius pared a green apple with a silver-tipped blade, curling the skin into a single, flawless red spiral. He popped a white wedge into his mouth, his dark crimson eyes lingering on the side of my neck. "Or perhaps she simply dislikes watching us feed, Alexander. Look at her skin. She has the complexion of milk left out in the frost."

"Let the girl be, Lucius," Kaelen growled around a mouthful of dark bread. The earth-bound Alpha wiped a greasy hand across his leather apron, his dark face completely indifferent. "She stood her ground in the council hall. She doesn't need to gorge herself on pig fat to prove she belongs at the table."

Across from me, Silas hadn't touched his plate either. He sat slumped over a horn tankard, his pale, messy hair falling over his forehead as his feral blue eyes tracked the twitch of my jaw. "Standing her ground with words is cheap," he muttered, his voice coarse from smoke. "A sheep can make noise when you pin it against the fence. It still bleeds the same when the skinning knife comes out."

"Silas," Alexander’s voice dropped an octave, a low, rasping rumble that made the wooden goblet beside his plate vibrate subtly against the timber. "Shut your mouth and drink your mead, or go sit in the yard with the hounds."

Silas spat into the rushes covering the stone floor, but he didn't press further. He slammed his tankard down hard enough to crack the timber handle.

I swallowed hard, keeping my eyes fixed on the grain of the oak table. Hold together. Do not sway. Do not give them a reason to call for a healer. If I fainted here, in full view of the border captains drinking below, the rumor would reach the outer gates before sunrise: the new Luna was fragile, broken, a wasted bargaining chip.

On my left, Gabriel reached across the board toward the wooden salt cellar near my elbow. His long, pale fingers hovered an inch above the grain, his heavy wool sleeve brushing against my bare forearm.

The contact was brief, barely a scrape of rough fabric, but the frost magic running through his veins hit my feverish skin like a douse of well-water.

A sharp, involuntary gasp caught in my teeth. My body reacted before my mind could stop it—my hand shot out, my fingers curling tightly around Gabriel’s wrist, pinning his arm to the scarred wood.

Gabriel went dead still.

The background noise of the hall—the banging of tankards, the coarse laughter from the hearths—seemed to drop away entirely. Gabriel slowly turned his head. His gray eyes were narrow, cold, and entirely focused on the white-knuckle grip I had on his sleeve.

"Your skin is ice, Alpha Gabriel," I whispered. My teeth clicked together as I spoke, but I couldn't let go. My core was drinking in the cold seeping through his linen cuffs, pulling it down into my lower belly to smother the burning knot inside me.

Gabriel didn't pull back. His arm remained rigid, but his hand turned slightly under my grip, his thumb sliding up until it pressed flat against the pulse point on the inside of my wrist.

"And your blood is racing, Evelyn," Gabriel murmured, his voice so quiet it barely carried past the edge of his fur collar. "Your skin is hot enough to scald. That isn't nerves. That isn't fever."

"Evelyn. Gabriel." Alexander’s voice cut between us like an iron wedge. He was staring down at our joined hands, his dark brow furrowed into a heavy, dangerous line. "What are you doing?"

I jerked my hand back into my lap, my fingers cramping from the sudden loss of contact. The moment the frost magic severed, the heat in my abdomen flared back up with double the force. The room tilted slightly; dark spots danced across the edges of my vision.

"Nothing," I rasped, leaning my shoulder against the high back of my chair to keep upright. "A sudden spell of dizziness."

Lucius let out a soft, clicking laugh, cutting another slice of apple. "Dizziness. Of course. Though it seems our northern bride prefers the frost to the fire, Alexander. You might want to keep a tighter leash on your hearth."

Before Alexander could answer, the heavy, iron-bound doors at the far end of the hall burst open with a dull, booming thud.

A rider staggered through the threshold, dripping wet from the mountain rain, his leather coat caked in thick, gray mud. The loud chatter among the lower tables died instantly. The man stumbled twice before collapsing onto his knees at the foot of the dais, his chest heaving as he fought for air.

"My lords!" the scout gasped, his voice cracked and raw from screaming in the cold. "The river post... the three-mile watch at Blackwood... it's gone!"

Alexander stood up so fast his heavy chair scraped a harsh, shrieking line across the floorboards. "Speak clearly. Did the eastern clans cross?"

"Not clans, Lord!" The boy reached into his coat with trembling, blood-stained fingers, pulling out a small leather wrap. "No banners. No horns. They came out of the treeline before the fog lifted. Captain Vane... he went down before we could clear the horses. He told me to bring this to the council."

The scout tossed the wrap onto the steps of the dais. Lucius leaned forward, using the tip of his silver knife to flick the leather open.

Inside lay a chunk of shattered black stone, no bigger than a man's palm. It wasn't glowing. It didn't spout smoke. But the moment the air hit it, the smell of burnt hair, wet ash, and rotten copper filled the upper table.

The moment that stone settled on the wood, the mark inside my belly didn't just burn—it struck back.

It felt as though a rusted iron hook had been driven through my navel and yanked upward. A sharp, dry sob tore out of my throat before I could bite it back. My knees slammed against the underside of the table, knocking my plate to the floor with a loud metallic clatter as I doubled over, my forehead pressing hard against the cold oak.

"Evelyn!" Alexander’s hand clamped onto my shoulder, trying to pull me up.

"Look at her neck!" Silas yelled, his hand dropping to his belt.

I couldn't breathe. The dark magic etched into that black stone was vibrating at the exact same frequency as the curse in my blood—the same dark signature used by the cultists who had bound me three years ago. The dark lines under my skin, usually buried deep near my core, surged upward. Through the thin fabric of my collar, faint, dark purple veins throbbed against my neck, climbing toward my jawline like ink spreading through wet parchment.

"She's reacting to the stone," Lucius said, his playful tone vanishing instantly. He stood up, his hand resting on the hilt of his shortsword, his red eyes fixed on my neck with absolute, lethal stillness. "That isn't northern blood. That's a corruption mark."

"I told you!" Silas drew his dagger, stepping onto the bench behind him to clear the table. "She brought the rot with her! She's tethered to whatever took the river post!"

"Sit down, boy!" Kaelen roared. He didn't draw a weapon; he simply reached across the table, grabbed Silas by his leather tunic, and slammed him back down into his seat hard enough to rattle his teeth. "Look at her face—she isn't controlling it, it's killing her!"

Gabriel was already on his knees beside my chair. He didn't ask questions. He gripped my jaw in one broad, freezing hand, forcing my head up, while his other hand pressed flat against the base of my throat, pouring every drop of his frost element directly into my skin.

"Alexander, grab her!" Gabriel barked, his usual calm composure cracking into a harsh command. "Her pulse is tearing her heart apart!"

Alexander didn't hesitate. He hauled me back against his chest, wrapping his heavy arms around my ribs. His fire element surged—not as an attack, but as a thick, smothering wave of pure heat designed to burn out the dark frequency invading the room.

For five agonizing seconds, my body was the battleground. Gabriel’s ice hit my neck, Alexander’s fire locked around my chest, and Kaelen’s heavy, grounding aura radiated from his hands as he slammed both palms onto the table beside us.

The three elements collided inside my womb, crushing the dark vibration coming from the stone. The purple lines on my neck receded, fading back under my pale skin like retreating shadows.

I collapsed limp into Alexander’s arms, gasping for air, my gown drenched in cold sweat, my vision slowly clearing from red back to gray.

The hall was dead silent. Down below, fifty men were standing, their half-drawn swords gleaming in the torchlight, staring up at the high table where three Alphas were physically pinning their new Luna to her chair.

Silas wiped a smear of blood from his lip where Kaelen had shoved him, his blue eyes wide as he stared at the black stone on the table, then at me. "What is she?" he breathed.

Alexander’s chest heaved against my back. He looked down at my face, then slowly raised his head to meet the eyes of the other four men. His grip on my waist didn't loosen an inch.

"She isn't the one who attacked the river post," Alexander said, his voice flat, heavy, and carrying to the very back of the room. "She's the reason they attacked it.”

***