Chapter 20 Thirty Minutes
Dawn had barely bled across the eastern sky when the door to Fernando’s chamber slammed open hard enough to rattle the iron hinges. Darius stood in the frame, face pale beneath windburn, snow crusting his cloak and hair. In his gloved hands he carried a silk-wrapped bundle the size of a melon. Dark stains had already soaked through the green fabric.
“They left it at the border stone under a white flag,” he said, voice raw. “The head of Torvald Greystone’s youngest apprentice. The boy could not have been more than twenty. There is a note.”
Fernando was already on his feet, half-dressed, shirt hanging open, eyes burning gold with the wolf barely leashed. He crossed the room in three strides and took the bundle. The silk was still warm. Blood dripped from the bottom corner and spattered onto the flagstones.
He did not open it. He did not need to. The smell told the story.
Darius held out the rolled parchment. Fernando snatched it, broke the black wax seal, and read aloud in a voice that shook the rafters.
The south is far from broken. Every caravan will pay this price until your sister is returned in pieces to match this gift. The next head will be hers. Vargus.
The parchment crumpled in Fernando’s fist. A roar tore out of him, pure animal, shaking dust from the ceiling beams. He hurled the silk-wrapped head across the room. It struck the stone wall with a wet thud and rolled to a stop against the hearth.
Darius did not flinch, but his throat worked as he swallowed.
“They took everything,” he said quietly. “Wagons, guards, merchants. Burned what they could not carry. Our patrols found the fires still smouldering. Vargus did not even try to hide it.”
Fernando was already moving. He dragged on boots, buckled his sword belt with hands that trembled from rage rather than weakness. His cloak lay across a chair; he swept it around his shoulders and fastened the silver wolf clasp with a snarl.
“I want every wolf in the courtyard in full battle gear,” he growled. “We ride south within the hour. I will have Vargus’s head on my own pike before the moon sets.”
He strode toward the door.
The corridor outside filled instantly with the thunder of boots. Five council elders pushed through the doorway, faces flushed, voices overlapping in fury. Elder Corvin led them, white beard bristling, staff slamming against the floor with every step.
“Alpha!” he bellowed. “This insult cannot stand! They murder our merchants in our own passes and send us trophies? We are not sheep to be toyed with!”
Sabine shoved forward beside him, single eye blazing. “Call the banners! Every pack from the river to the ice fields will answer. We end this now!”
Torin, youngest and hottest, was already half-shifted, claws pricking through his fingertips. “Let me take fifty wolves and burn their border camps tonight. They will learn what northern steel tastes like!”
The others shouted agreement, voices rising until the chamber rang with it.
Fernando spun, fangs lengthening, and the roar that exploded from his chest silenced every mouth.
“Enough!”
The single word cracked like a whip. The elders froze.
“I said enough,” Fernando snarled, stepping into the center of the room. His shadow loomed huge against the wall, distorted by torchlight into something monstrous. “You want war? You want blood? So do I. But I will not be driven to it like a maddened bull because Vargus waves a head at us!”
Corvin opened his mouth to argue. Fernando’s glare pinned him silent.
“I am thinking,” Fernando said, voice low and lethal. “For once in your lives, shut your mouths and let me think.”
The room went still enough to hear the wind rattling the shutters.
Then the door flew open again.
Mira stood panting in the frame, apron soaked with blood and herbs, gray-streaked hair escaping its braid. Her eyes were wide and wild.
“Fernando,” she gasped. “Alberto. The poison surged. His heart is failing. He has thirty minutes. Maybe less. If you want him alive, come now.”
For one heartbeat the world narrowed to that single sentence.
Fernando’s rage fractured, replaced by something colder and far more terrifying. He looked at the elders, at the crumpled silk bundle leaking blood across his floor, at Darius standing silent and grim.
Then he looked back at Mira.
“Darius,” he said, voice suddenly calm, deadly calm. “Take care of them.” He jerked his chin toward the elders. “Lock the door if you have to. No one leaves this room until I return.”
Darius stepped forward instantly, placing himself between Fernando and the council. His hand rested on his sword hilt.
Elder Torin bristled. “You cannot—”
Fernando was already moving. He shoved past the elders hard enough to send Torin stumbling, caught Mira by the elbow, and pulled her into the corridor. The door slammed behind them, cutting off the rising protests.
They ran.
Boots pounded stone, cloak billowing behind Fernando like black wings. Wolves in the halls flattened against walls as their Alpha thundered past, Mira struggling to keep pace. Down the main staircase, through the greatlevels, across the inner courtyard where dawn light painted frost pink. The infirmary doors stood open. Two assistants looked up in alarm as Fernando burst in.
Alberto lay on the central cot, chest barely moving. The black veins had swallowed half his face now, threading across one eye like corruption made visible. His breath came in wet, bubbling gasps. The heart monitor herb Mira had rigged from silver wire and moonstone pulsed erratically, the glow dimming with every beat.
Fernando dropped to his knees beside the cot and seized Alberto’s hand. The skin was ice cold.
“Boy,” he said roughly. “Look at me.”
Alberto’s remaining eye fluttered, unfocused, pupils blown wide.
Mira shoved a clay cup into Fernando’s free hand. “Red lotus and silverroot distillate. Last dose. It may buy minutes.”
Fernando tilted Alberto’s head and poured the liquid between slack lips. Most of it dribbled down his chin, but some went down. Alberto coughed once, weakly, then stilled again.
Mira pressed both palms to his chest and began the old healing chant, voice shaking. Golden light flickered beneath her hands, faint and faltering.
Fernando leaned close until his forehead almost touched Alberto’s.
“You do not die today,” he commanded, voice raw. “You hear me? You do not have my permission. Stay.”
The heart monitor flickered, dimmed, flared once, then settled into a fragile, trembling rhythm.
Mira sagged, sweat dripping from her chin. “I have him. For now. Minutes, not hours.”
Fernando stayed on his knees, gripping Alberto’s hand as though sheer will could anchor the boy to life. Blood from the wrapped head still stained his other palm, mixing with the herbs on Alberto’s skin.
Outside the curtained alcove, the pack waited on a knife’s edge. War howled at the gates. A severed head lay cooling on his chamber floor. His sister languished in southern chains.
And here, in this small room that smelled of death and desperate hope, Fernando held the hand of the only wolf who might still hold the truth.
Thirty minutes.