The Keep Of The North

River had spent the past days imagining what might meet him at these gates, and he had pictured a guard, a monster, or no one at all.

He had definitely not pictured a young man with hair the color of embers and a coat half-buttoned against the cold, who looked as though he had wandered out of a tavern rather than a freezing fortress.

“I’m River,” he managed, once his heart stopped trying to climb out of his throat. “River Ashvale.”

“River.” He said it as if tasting it. “Lovely. And I truly am sorry about the fright. Though in fairness, I’ve heard worse reactions.” He straightened. “Caius Thorne, Beta of the North, keeper of its keys, and, as of this moment, your very reluctant escort.”

Beta.

The word did not match the rumors. In the servants’ hall, they had said the Wolf’s right hand was a grim, silent man who never smiled.

“You’re not what I expected,” River said, before he could stop himself.

“Nobody’s ever what anyone expects here. It’s the keep’s one charm.” A grin flickered across his impeccable face.

“Come. You’re blue to the lips, and I’d rather not explain to His Majesty that I let his guest freeze at the gate.”

Guest?

The iron gates swung open at his touch, and the sound rolled into the dark like a groan.

Inside, the keep was warmer than he had heard. It was not warm like the south, but it was a dry, steady heat, and someone had lit the torches along the hall. Black stone rose on either side, polished smooth by centuries of hands. There were no tapestries, no portraits, no bustle of servants. Their footsteps echoed alone.

“Where is everyone?” he asked.

“Abed, mostly.” Caius did not look at him. “We keep early hours in the North. The nights are long, and it’s best to be somewhere safe for them.”

“Safe from what?”

“From the cold,” said Caius lightly. “What else?”

He walked a little faster after that.

River noticed things as they went.

Every shutter was closed, though the sky outside still held a last bruised smear of dusk. Every door they passed was shut, and some had fresh iron bars across them.

Off to their east, a long way off, he glimpsed a heavy door banded in black metal and what looked like papers around it. Caius stepped quickly between him and it.

“Mind the step,” he said.

There was no step.

The room he led him to was in the direction of their west, as far from that iron door as the keep allowed.

It was not a cell.

River had expected one.

It was a real chamber, with a wide bed heaped in furs, a fire already crackling in the grate, a washstand, and a window that looked out over the snowy valley. A tray sat on the table, bread, steaming meat, a dish of pickled apples, and a steaming cup that smelled of cloves.

“The cook’s idea,” said Caius. “We have exactly one, and he is terrifying so make sure to always clear your plate.”

River stood in the doorway and did not step in.

“Is this where I’m to…” He could not finish.

“Sleep? Yes. Eat, bathe, thaw. Whatever you like.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“…Um, okay.”

“Yes, make yourself at home.” Caius looked at him properly then, curious, from his braid to his worn shoes. “You’ve been struck recently.”

River’s hand moved on its own to the faded mark on his cheek.

“Yes.”

Caius hummed and turned to look away.

“There’s one thing.” He crossed to the door and tapped the heavy brass lock on its inside face. “The bolt is on this side. Not outside. Yours. The king’s order, and he doesn’t make many.”

“Why?”

“You’ll have to ask him.” Caius’s smile was crooked. “Though I wouldn’t, if I were you. Not tonight.”

At the threshold, he paused, his hand on the frame.

“River.”

“Yes?”

“Whatever you hear tonight, and you will hear things, the keep is old and the wind in the North is strange, stay in this room. Bolt the door. Don’t open it, not for anyone, not even for me.” He said it lightly, but his eyes had changed. They were glowing a full gold. “I won’t be knocking, neither will whatever will come will.”

“What will I hear?”

“Wind,” said Caius. “Mostly.”

The door closed. River stood a long time listening to the sound of his boots fading down the corridor, quicker and quicker, until he realized Caius was running.

He turned the bolt. It slid home with a heavy, comforting clunk.

Then he sat on the edge of the bed and listened.

The keep was silent, just like the strange man had said. It was a thickness of silence, the kind that comes before a storm…or a scream?

He picked at the bread and found he could not eat it. He watched the last thread of moonlight slide off the window.

It’s only the cold, he told himself. Only the wind.

Then the sound came.

It started far away, somewhere deep inside the keep. It echoed through the walls, so low he felt it in the stones before he heard it. A long, rising note, raw and ragged, with something terribly animal lodged in the human throat of it. It climbed until the window rattled in its frame, then broke, and fell, and began again.

Beneath it, so faint he almost missed it, came a second sound. A dragging rattle. Iron, straining against iron.

River froze.

He could still hear the faint clinking of chains somewhere beyond his room, followed by a slow, uneven scrape that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

He had heard the maids whisper about the creature that haunted the North’s keep. They spoke of bloodstained floors, broken chains, and a beast that became more vicious with every passing night.

River had assumed they were merely frightening one another with stories.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

He backed away from the door, his trembling fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. Whatever was outside and haunting the corridors was not an ordinary wolf or probably not a wolf at all. And whatever had just howled in the darkness sounded nothing like a creature that belonged in this world.

He pressed a hand over his mouth, struggling to quiet his breathing.

Then everything stopped.

The chains fell silent. The wind outside ceased to howl, and even the fire seemed to shrink into itself.

Something was standing outside his door.

River couldn’t see it, but he felt its presence as surely as he felt the crazy beating of his heart.

A shadow slipped beneath the narrow gap at the bottom of the door.

Then came a soft, deliberate scrape against the wood.

A pause.

And finally, a voice so quiet that River almost mistook it for a whisper inside his own head.

“You… I can smell your fear. How long do you think this little door will keep me from you?”