Chapter 31 The Weight Of A Dead Friend
The guard’s words still hung in the air of the infirmary when Samael and Mira moved. They left Alberto behind without a word, the unfinished honey cakes forgotten on the bedside table. The corridors blurred past as they ran, boots pounding flagstones worn smooth by generations of wolves. Mira’s apron fluttered behind her like a bloodied banner, and Samael’s fresh stitches pulled with every stride, sending sharp reminders of the wound beneath his ribs.
They burst into the main hall and stopped abruptly.
The vast chamber, usually filled with the clamor of wolves and the crackle of hearth fires, stood silent and heavy with the scent of death. Torches burned low in their sconces, casting long shadows across the flagstones. In the center of the room, beneath the great timbered ceiling, lay the source of the silence.
Elder Torin’s body rested on a rough canvas shroud, dragged from the old mill and deposited like refuse. His face was unrecognizable, swollen and split from repeated blows. Dried blood crusted his hair and pooled beneath the stump of his severed arm. A great sword, broad and heavy, pierced his chest from collarbone to spine, pinning him to the canvas. The blade’s edge had splintered ribs and shredded lung, leaving his final breath trapped in a spray of red foam across the floorboards.
Corvin knelt beside the corpse, ancient hands resting on the hilt of his staff. His white beard was streaked with fresh blood, and his eyes held the dull sheen of a man who had seen too much in too short a time. Darius stood opposite him, arms folded across his chest, gaze fixed on the body with the intensity of a wolf studying a snare.
Mira moved first, dropping to her knees beside the shroud and pressing two fingers to Torin’s neck. The skin was cold and stiff. She examined the sword wound without touching the blade, her face tightening at the ragged edges.
Samael remained standing, fists clenched at his sides, the pain from his own wound fueling a rising fury.
“How did you find him?” Darius asked Corvin, voice level but edged with steel.
The old elder did not rise. He kept his eyes on his friend’s ruined face.
“We planned to meet this morning,” Corvin said. “Council matters. Border defenses. I went to his quarters at first light. No answer. The door stood open. His bed was empty, blankets undisturbed. On the pillow lay a note.”
He reached into the pouch at his belt and withdrew a folded scrap of parchment, creased and stained with blood. Darius took it without a word and opened it.
The script was tight and hurried, written in Torin’s own hand.
I have taken steps to end the rogue threat. I go alone to confront the source. If I do not return, know that I acted for the pack. Vargus cannot be trusted. Neither can those who deal with him.
Darius read it twice, then handed the parchment to Mira. She scanned the words, her expression unchanging.
Corvin continued, voice rough as gravel. “I gathered a patrol. We searched the outer holdings until one of the mill hands came forward. He had heard noises in the night. We found Torin there, as you see him.”
Samael’s breath came short and ragged. He took a step forward, boots scuffing the stone.
“This is madness,” he growled. “The note speaks of confronting Vargus. The same Vargus who sends severed heads and burns our caravans. Torin goes alone to face an Alpha and ends pinned to the floor like a rat?”
Corvin’s eyes lifted at last, meeting Samael’s without flinching.
“Torin was always reckless when he believed himself right. He saw conspiracy everywhere. He would have gone after Vargus himself if it meant exposing a traitor.”
Samael’s hands flexed, claws pricking through the tips of his fingers. The anger boiled up, hot and immediate, the image of Torin’s battered face fueling a storm he could barely contain. He opened his mouth to unleash it, to demand how any wolf, no matter how foolhardy, could walk into a rogue ambush and come out so thoroughly destroyed.
Darius lifted a hand, silencing him.
“The story does not fit,” Darius said quietly. “Torin suggested attack after attack on the southern packs. He raged for war when the merchant’s head arrived. If he truly went to confront Vargus, why no trace of a struggle beyond the mill? No bodies of attackers? No sign of pursuit?”
Corvin’s knuckles whitened around his staff. “Perhaps he found what he sought and paid for it.”
The words hung unanswered in the heavy air. Mira rose from her examination of the body, wiping her hands on her apron.
“The sword wound alone killed him,” she said. “The blade severed his spine and flooded his lungs. But the beating came first. Someone wanted him helpless before they finished him.”
Samael’s gaze never left Corvin. The fury still simmered, but Darius’s doubt had planted a seed of restraint.
Corvin pushed himself to his feet with visible effort, joints creaking. He looked down at Torin’s body, then at the wolves surrounding it.
“Let me take him,” the elder said. “We were friends for sixty years. I will prepare his body. See him to the pyre.”
Darius studied him for a long moment. The hall remained still, the weight of the decision pressing against every breath. Finally, he nodded once.
“Do it,” he said. “But two guards will accompany you at all times. Every step.”
Corvin inclined his head, accepting the terms without protest. He gestured to two waiting attendants, who moved to roll the edges of the shroud around Torin’s body. The canvas grew heavy and wet with blood as they lifted it, the sword still embedded in the corpse.
As Corvin turned to leave, Darius spoke again.
“I will investigate this death,” he said. “Every patrol that searched the borders last night. Every wolf who saw or heard anything near the mill. Someone lured him there. Someone killed him.”
Samael stepped forward, voice low and edged.
“Leave it to me.”
Darius turned to face him fully.
“You returned from the west only days ago,” he said. “The borders still need you.”
“And this needs someone who will not flinch from what must be done,” Samael countered. “I cut off his arm. I know what he was capable of. Let me find who put the sword through him.”
The two men locked eyes, the tension between them coiling tight as a drawn bowstring. Mira watched without speaking, her presence a quiet anchor in the storm.
At last Darius nodded.
“Find the truth,” he said. “But remember what hangs in the balance.”
Samael gave a curt inclination of his head.
Corvin and his attendants carried the shrouded body from the hall, leaving a trail of damp footprints and the sharp, metallic scent of blood. The heavy doors closed behind them with a thud that reverberated through the stone.
Darius turned to Mira.
“Anything else from the body?”
She shook her head.
“Death was quick once the sword struck. But whatever happened before was prolonged. Someone wanted him to suffer.”
The hall emptied slowly, leaving the three of them alone with the bloodstained flagstones and the unanswered questions that lingered like smoke.