Chapter 44 The Feast Before The Fall
Samael stormed onto the training ground like a thundercloud, armor half-buckled, eyes still burning from the fight in the cells. He snatched a heavy practice axe from the rack and began hammering a wooden pell with blows that cracked the post with every strike.
Darius stepped from the shadows near the weapon racks, arms folded.
“I came to speak,” Darius said.
Samael did not stop swinging. “Speak then.”
“I was wrong to raise steel in the cells,” Darius said. “I was wrong to threaten the old man. I lost my head.”
Samael spun the axe and drove it into the pell so hard the top half shattered. “That was hours ago. It is in the past.”
Darius stepped closer. “Good. Then we bury it.”
Samael wiped sweat from his brow. “Consider it buried.”
Darius glanced around the empty yard. “Tell me true. If the keep were attacked tonight, unannounced, how ready are the armies?”
Samael gave a short, humorless laugh. “They were born ready. Western border is quiet because we made it quiet. Eastern patrols are doubled. Southern walls are reinforced. Every wolf knows his post.”
Darius nodded slowly. “And morale?”
“High,” Samael said. “They smell victory in the west. They think the worst is behind us.”
A guard jogged up, leaned in, and whispered into Darius’s ear. Darius listened, lips curving into a slow, dangerous smirk.
He stepped back and drew his sword. “Then let us test that readiness. One duel. You and me. No rank. No holding back.”
Samael’s eyes narrowed, then glinted with dark amusement. “You want to bleed before the feast?”
“I want to see if the gamma who sent a boy into the Thornwood still has fire left,” Darius said.
Samael rolled his shoulders and lifted a second axe. “First to yield or bleed out. Rules?”
“First blood from torso or throat,” Darius answered. “Yield only if you cannot stand.”
Samael grinned without warmth. “Begin.”
Steel rang on steel. They circled once and collided. Darius struck high, Samael low. Sparks flew. Darius parried a vicious overhead chop and riposted with a thrust that Samael barely turned aside.
“You fight angry,” Darius said between blows.
“I always fight angry,” Samael replied, driving Darius back three steps with a flurry of strikes.
Darius laughed once, short and sharp. “Good.”
They hammered at each other for long minutes, boots carving trenches in the dirt, breath harsh in the cold air. Neither gave ground. Neither yielded.
Finally Darius feinted high and opened a shallow cut across Samael’s forearm. Blood welled.
“First blood,” Darius called.
Samael glanced at the wound and shrugged. “Barely a kiss.”
Darius sheathed his sword. “Tonight the armies celebrate the western victory. Every unit will be in the great hall. Food. Drink. Song. You should come.”
Samael wiped the blood away. “I will be there.”
Darius clapped him once on the shoulder. “Then clean up. We drink like brothers tonight.”
He turned and strode off toward the keep.
In the corner of the vast kitchens, steam rose from a dozen cauldrons. Cooks shouted orders, servants darted between tables, the air thick with the smell of roasting boar and spiced stew.
A figure in a plain kitchen mask and apron moved among them, unnoticed. No one marked the slight bulge beneath the apron.
The masked figure reached the row of massive iron pots that would feed the western legions. One hand slipped inside the apron and drew out the first small glass bottle. The cork came free with a soft pop.
The toxin poured in a thin, colorless stream, vanishing instantly into the bubbling stew.
The second bottle followed seconds later, emptied into the neighboring cauldron.
The masked figure stirred once with a long ladle, then melted back into the bustle of the kitchen and was gone.
No one saw. No one smelled. The toxin had no taste, no scent, only a promise of slow death.
In the great hall, horns were already sounding. The feast of victory had begun.
The great hall roared with life. Long tables groaned under platters of roasted boar, venison, and steaming bowls of stew. Horns of ale and mead passed hand to hand. Wolves from every unit stood on benches, singing victory songs that shook the rafters. Torches blazed. Laughter and boasting drowned every other sound.
Darius and Samael sat at the high table, shoulders almost touching, two massive flagons already empty before them.
Darius lifted a third and slammed it into Samael’s. “To the west. To the wolves who held the line.”
Samael drank deep. “To the wolves who never have to hold it again.”
They drained the flagons in unison and set them down hard.
Darius wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Remember the first time we fought together? Ridge of Broken Spears. You were barely twenty. Thought you could take a rogue alpha alone.”
Samael snorted. “I almost did.”
“You almost died,” Darius said. “I dragged your bleeding carcass out while Nadia screamed at both of us for being idiots.”
Samael’s smile faded. He stared into the empty flagon.
Darius refilled both from a passing pitcher. “She screamed louder at me than at you.”
Samael’s voice came low. “She always did.”
Silence stretched between them, heavy under the noise of the hall.
Darius turned the flagon in his hands. “I never said it properly. Not once in all these years. I am sorry, Samael. Nadia was like a sister to me. She was blood to me in every way that mattered. And I carry the blame for her death every single day.”
Samael’s knuckles whitened around his cup.
Darius kept going. “She died one day before your wedding. One day. She had the dress finished. White with silver thread at the hem. She showed it to me the morning we rode out. Said she would wear it when she bound herself to you under the moon.”
Samael’s jaw worked. “I remember.”
“I gave the order to charge that ambush,” Darius said. “I saw the trap too late. I should have waited for scouts. If I had waited, she would never have followed me into the Thornwood to drag me out. She would be alive. You would have your mate. I took that from you.”
Samael stared at the table for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was rough. “I hated you for years. Every time I saw your face I saw her instead. I wanted to kill you with my bare hands.”
“I know,” Darius said quietly. “I would have let you.”
Samael lifted his flagon. “But hate is a heavy thing to carry into every battle. Tonight I set it down.”
He drank.
Darius watched him, eyes unreadable. “You forgive me?”
“I bury it,” Samael said. “Same as we buried the argument in the yard. Nadia would curse us both if she saw us still bleeding over her grave.”
Darius raised his own flagon. “Then to Nadia. The bravest wolf I ever knew.”
Samael clinked his cup hard enough to slosh ale over the rim. “To Nadia. Who should be sitting here laughing at us right now.”
They drank again, throats working until the flagons were empty.
Samael set his down and looked at Darius straight. “She loved you like a brother. She would hate to see us enemies.”
Darius nodded once. “Then we are not enemies tonight.”
“Tonight,” Samael agreed.
Darius refilled both cups again."Tonight we drink like the world ends at dawn.”
They drank.
Around them the hall roared on, songs rising higher, wolves growing louder, none of them knowing the stew in their bellies was already beginning its slow work.