The Morning After

The dawn broke over Blackwood Keep not with the golden promise of a new solstice, but behind a suffocating shroud of iron-gray clouds that wept freezing sleet against the parapets.

Alpha Rowan Blackwood woke with a skull-splitting headache and a taste like copper on the back of his tongue.

He lay sprawled across the massive four-poster bed in the master suite. The air in the chamber was suffocatingly warm, heavy with the cloying scent of white jasmine and stale wine. Beside him, Lady Vivianne slept curled beneath the ermine furs, her bare alabaster shoulders exposed, her blonde hair tangled across the embroidered pillows.

Rowan pushed himself upright, rubbing his calloused hands over his face.

Every muscle in his chest ached where the shockwave of Mira’s golden aura had struck him the night before. He looked down at his bare chest; a faint, purplish bruise in the shape of a seven-pointed star was faintly visible over his sternum.

What in the name of the Goddess was that power?

For five years, he had shared a bed with Mira. He had watched her brush her hair, watched her brew herbal teas for the wounded guards, listened to her read dry financial dispatches by candlelight until she fell asleep with her cheek resting on his shoulder. She had been soft, obedient, quiet. Never once had she raised her voice; never once had she manifested an Alpha-level aura.

He swung his legs out of bed, pulling on a thick linen tunic and heavy leather breeches.

"Rowan... where are you going so early?" Vivianne murmured from the pillows, her hazel eyes fluttering open, a pout on her plump lips. "Stay with me. The fire is warm, and you promised we would ride out to survey the southern estates today."

"I have pack business to attend to," Rowan said curtly, strapping his broadsword to his hip without looking at her. "The elders are agitated. I must settle the administrative shift."

"Let the servants handle it," Vivianne complained, sitting up and drawing the ermine sheet to her breasts, displaying the sapphire Luna collar at her throat with petulant vanity. "You are the Alpha. You should not be troubling yourself with ink and parchment. That is what little mouse Mira was for. Where is she, anyway? She should have brought up the hot spiced wine by now."

Rowan’s jaw clenched so hard a tendon jumped in his cheek. "Mira is not a servant, Vivianne. And do not refer to her as a mouse. Watch your tongue in this keep."

Vivianne blinked, stung by the sharpness in his tone, her face flashing with momentary indignation before melting back into a cooing, injured mask. "I only meant that she should know her place, my love. You are the master here."

Rowan did not answer. He turned on his heel and strode out of the master suite, his heavy boots echoing down the cold stone corridor.

The castle was unnervingly quiet. Usually, by second bell, the halls were bustling with servants carrying laundry baskets, firewood, and breakfast trays. Today, the servants moved in terrified silence, keeping their eyes glued to the floor, shrinking against the stone walls whenever Rowan passed.

Rowan reached the heavy oak door of Mira’s study. He pushed it open without knocking.

"Mira," he began, his voice commanding and stern. "We need to speak about last night's disgraceful—"

The words died in his throat.

The study was freezing cold. The hearth was filled with dead gray ash.

The grand desk was immaculate. The inkwells were capped, the silver pens neatly aligned in their velvet tray, and the heavy leather-bound pack ledger sat closed in the center of the mahogany surface.

Rowan stepped into the adjoining bedchamber.

The brass-bound cedar chest beneath the bed lay wide open. Empty.

The wardrobe doors hung ajar. The silk gowns he had bought her were still hanging inside, untouched. But her traveling boots, her heavy cloak, and her personal dispatch case were gone.

Rowan’s heart gave a violent, sickening lurch.

Kneeling, he wrenched up the false bottom of the chest, where the territorial treaties were kept under triple lock.

The heavy iron lock had been neatly picked. Inside, the velvet-lined tray was empty.

The Treaty of Silver Falls—the eighty-year-old sacred covenant that guaranteed the northern borders and bound the ancestral spirits to the defense wards—was gone.

"No," Rowan snarled, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. "No, no, no!"

He snatched the grand ledger from the desk, ripping open the cover with trembling hands. On the final page, written in Mira’s elegant, flawless hand, were three lines:

'To Alpha Rowan Blackwood:
The accounts are settled. The grain reserves will last forty days without replenishment. The treaty was never yours to sell, and the Luna was never yours to break.
Rule your kingdom of ash.'

"RAAAARGH!"

Rowan’s roar of pure, unadulterated fury shook the tower walls. He hurled the massive oak chair across the room, smashing it to splinters against the stone hearth.

He burst into the corridor, his eyes flashing crimson with the feral rage of a maddened wolf. "NOAH! GUARDS! TO THE HIGH COURTYARD! NOW!"

Within five minutes, thirty armed warriors and the senior council elders had assembled in the freezing courtyard beneath the sleet. Vivianne stood on the covered portico, wrapped in a sable cloak, looking annoyed and bewildered by the sudden alarm, shivering as the sleet blew beneath the eaves.

Beta Noah stood at attention, his face an unreadable mask of iron discipline.

"Where is she?!" Rowan bellowed, marching up to Noah and grabbing the front of his tunic, lifting the Beta onto his tiptoes. "Where did she go?!"

"Who, Alpha?" Noah asked calmly, not flinching from Rowan’s bared fangs.

"Mira!" Rowan roared, spittle flying from his lips. "She is gone! She stole the Silver Falls Treaty! She took her belongings and fled like a thief in the night! How did a lone she-wolf pass the outer gates without the night watch sounding the horn?!"

Elder Corin stepped forward, leaning heavily on his wooden staff, his ancient eyes filled with cold, merciless judgment.

"She did not flee like a thief, Rowan," Corin said, his voice cutting through Rowan’s hysteria. "She walked out of the front gates of her own free will, after you publicly stripped her of her honor and handed her birthright to a southern strumpet."

"Silence, old man!" Rowan snarled, releasing Noah and whirling on the elder. "She stole pack property! The Treaty of Silver Falls belongs to Blackwood!"

"The Treaty was signed by House Valerius, boy!" Corin fired back, his voice rising with venomous authority that silenced the entire courtyard. "Not by the Blackwoods! Your grandfather only held this valley because he swore fealty to Mira’s grandmother! Without a Valerius bloodline to ratify the wards each moon, the treaty is void! The magic that protects our borders is already dying!"

A horrifying whisper of wind seemed to echo Corin's words. Far to the south, beyond the misty horizon, a faint tremor rumbled through the earth—the subtle, terrifying resonance of an ancient boundary ward snapping like brittle glass. The war horses in the stables whinnied in terror, kicking against their wooden stalls.

Rowan looked to the south, the color draining completely from his face.

Lord Cassian rushed out onto the portico, his face pale as he looked at the southern ridge. "Alpha Rowan! The southern scouts report movement in the valley! Silverfang banners have been spotted crossing the river!"

"What?!" Rowan shouted, his head whipping toward Cassian. "You promised the Ironridge army would secure the river crossing!"

Cassian stammered, his eyes darting evasively. "Our... our supply wagons were delayed by the snow, Alpha. You must deploy your vanguard immediately!"

Rowan looked around the courtyard. His warriors were disorganized, whispering among themselves in fear. His elders looked upon him with contempt. His new mistress clutched her furs, useless and terrified.

And the woman who had managed the armies, the supplies, the treaties, and his very soul for five years was somewhere out in the freezing blizzard, riding away from him.

"Mount the horses!" Rowan roared, his voice cracking with a terrifying blend of rage, dread, and sudden, suffocating panic. "Sound the hunt horns! Unleash the tracking hounds! Search every pass, every cave, every forest between here and the northern border!"

He turned back to his men, his eyes bloodshot and wild with the agonizing agony of a loss he had brought upon himself.

"Bring my Luna back to me," Rowan commanded, his voice breaking into an agonized snarl. "Bring her back, dead or alive!