All Chapters of FATED MATES IN THE SHADOWS: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

By midday, the Keep's scullery was alive with the clatter of iron pots and the hiss of roasting meat. Selene had spent most of the morning scrubbing grease from the roasting spits. Her shoulders ached, and the smell of mutton had settled into her clothes. When Mrs. Hallowell finally inspected her work, she ran a finger along the edge of one spit before giving a brief nod. "That will do." She handed Selene a wooden token. "Your meal. Eat it in the lower courtyard, not the dining hall. The southern patrol has just returned, and the warriors will be coming down for food shortly. Stay out of their way." "Yes, ma'am." Selene collected her portion from the kitchen. Half a loaf of dark rye bread and a tin cup of cabbage soup. It wasn't much, but it was enough to quiet her stomach until evening. She slipped through the postern door into the stable yard, grateful for the cold air after hours in the smoky kitchen. "Selene!" She turned. Gwen emerged from beside the woodstore, her cheeks

The dawn wind had shifted from the east, carrying the heavy, sulphurous bite of river fog. Selene reached the outer gate of the High Keep just as the bells struck five. Her knuckles were raw inside her thin woollen mittens, and the bitter scent of the oil on her throat seemed heavier in the damp air. The guards at the gatehouse were not the usual half-asleep sentries from the village border. Four towering warriors stood beneath the arched passage, their cloaks lined with dark fox fur and their chestplates stamped with a running stag, the mark of the Western pack. They paid no attention to the wooden tokens the kitchen staff held up. One stood in the middle of the walkway, testing the air with slow, deliberate breaths as the human workers filed past. Selene lowered her chin and pulled her scarf tighter over her jaw. As she stepped beneath the arch, the guard's gaze settled on her. His eyes were the cold grey of frozen river water. His nostrils twitched. For two agonising heartbeat

By three in the afternoon, the temperature inside the Keep had dropped so low that thin needles of ice were forming along the rims of the cellar wash buckets. Mrs Hallowell called Selene to her desk shortly after the noon meal had been cleared. "The lower galleries are done," the housekeeper said, dipping her quill into a dark inkwell. She didn't look up. Her voice was lower than usual, clipped and cautious. "Take the sheepskin duster and the oil rag up to the high library on the fifth floor. It hasn't been aired since the autumn equinox." Selene hesitated. "The fifth floor, ma'am? Human staff aren't usually permitted above the third gallery." Mrs Hallowell paused, her quill hovering above the parchment. She looked up, her tired eyes settling on Selene with an unreadable expression. "The Alpha gave the order directly to Torin an hour ago," she said. "He wants the southern shelves dusted and the draft screens oiled. He specifically asked for someone who doesn't track mud or drop i

The Great Hall of the High Keep was an oven of roasted venison, pine pitch and spilled ale. Three stone hearths, large enough for two grown men to stand inside, roared along the outer wall, throwing orange heat and thick grey smoke towards the blackened timber rafters. Sixty warriors crowded around the rough trestle tables, shouting over the drone of two travelling fiddlers. Wooden flagons struck the boards, sending ale and grease spilling across the stone floor. Selene stood in the narrow service corridor behind the dais, hidden in the shadows of the heavy woollen tapestries separating the dining hall from the pantry stairs. Her hands were sore from carrying iron tureens of hot root stew from the kitchen vats. Beside her, Gwen leaned against a stack of dry cider kegs, her apron already stained with gravy. She was peering through a narrow split in the tapestry. "Look at her sleeves," Gwen whispered, nudging Selene's shoulder. "That's silver-threaded silk from the southern ports. It

The snow had buried the wagon ruts on Mill Street by the time Selene reached the cottage door. The village was quiet beneath the midnight sky. No light showed through the timber shutters of the blacksmith's shop, though somewhere down by the river, the distant, rhythmic thud of an iron sledge against timber carried through the darkness. Bram was still working. Selene lifted the iron latch with cold, stiff fingers, easing the door open just wide enough to slip through. She lowered the heavy crossbar into its sockets and stood for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The front room was nearly dark. The hearth fire had burned down to a mound of grey ash veined with dull crimson. Martha was not asleep in her chair. She sat upright at the corner of the rough pine table, wrapped in two woollen shawls, her chin resting on one bony fist. Between them stood a clay cup of cold coltsfoot tea and an unlit tallow candle. Martha's watery eyes shifted towards the door as Sele