The winter road to the north was a frozen ribbon of misery.
Iris sat huddled in the corner of the crude wooden carriage, her knees pulled tightly to her chest in a desperate attempt to retain some semblance of warmth. The carriage had no cushions, no glass in the narrow windows—only heavy, grease-soaked canvas flaps that rattled violently against the frame with every gust of the freezing northern wind.
Her body ached with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. She had been traveling for five days, escorted by a silent, cold guard of four massive northern warriors on horseback. They did not speak to her. They did not look at her, except to hand her a dry chunk of hardtack and a skin of near-frozen water at their brief, desolate night camps. To them, she was a weak, deceitful southern spy, a piece of flesh traded to keep the peace.
She pulled her hands out of her thin wool mittens, wincing as she looked at her skin. Her fingers were raw, red, and cracked from the bitter frost. Without her herbal salves, which the guards had confiscated along with her medical kit, she had nothing to soothe the burning pain.
Slowly, carefully, she reached into the small pocket of her woolen kirtle and pulled out a tiny, cracked tin she had managed to hide in her boot before they left Oakhaven. It contained a small amount of camphor and lard salve.
With trembling fingers, Iris began to nurse-cleanse her physical wounds. She rubbed the soothing grease into the raw cracks of her knuckles, her amber-gold eyes narrowing as she forced herself to focus on the small, physical act of healing.
Save the living, she reminded herself. Even if the living is only you.
As she worked the salve into her skin, her mind drifted back to the night of the decree, the memory as vivid and painful as an open wound.
She remembered standing in the middle of her ruined cottage, her chest heaving with a mixture of terror and white-hot fury. Elder Orin had stood by the door, his face impassive as he explained that she had forty-eight hours to pack her belongings and prepare for her journey to Ironwood.
"You cannot do this," she had hissed, her voice shaking with rage. "You are selling me to the man who slaughtered our people! He killed my mother! He killed Leo!"
"Your mother died in a raid, Iris, as did many others," Orin had replied coldly. "This treaty will ensure no more children die. Would you have us refuse? Would you have the Gravedigger return to finish what he started? If you run, he will view it as a breach of contract. He will burn what is left of Oakhaven to the ground. Every drop of blood shed will be on your hands."
The sheer, suffocating weight of that guilt had crushed her. She had realized, with a sickening certainty, that she had no choice. She was trapped.
But as she sat alone in the dark ruins of her home that night, staring at her mother's silent silver locket, a cold, hard resolve had taken root in her soul. She would go. She would play the part of the submissive, sacrificial peace bride. But she would not be a victim.
Iris looked down at her heavy wedding cloak, which lay draped over her knees. It was a deep, forest-green wool, the only nice thing she owned.
Slowly, she traced her finger along the thick, double-folded hem of the cloak. Beneath the heavy wool, hidden from the eyes of her captors, was a secret she had sewn in with her own hands.
During her final night in Oakhaven, she had walked out into the frozen woods, searching beneath the snow until she found the withered, dormant stalks of wolfsbane. She had harvested the roots and the dried, toxic violet petals, carrying them back to her cottage in secret.
With meticulous, trembling care, she had crushed the poisonous plant into a fine, lethal powder. Then, using a small bone needle and her strongest thread, she had painstakingly sewn the deadly powder directly into the thick hem of her wedding cloak.
It was enough to kill a dozen men. It was enough to kill an Alpha wolf.
Iris reached up, her fingers wrapping tightly around her mother's silver locket. The metal was freezing against her bare collarbone, a heavy, silent anchor. She had locked it around her neck before she left, vow-swearing to herself that she would never take it off until her task was complete. It was her shield, a reminder of who she was and what she had lost.
"I will not be your prey, Kazimir Vale," she whispered into the cold darkness of the carriage, her voice small but deadly sharp. "You think you have bought a lamb. But I am a Thorne. And thorns draw blood."
The carriage jolted violently as the wheels hit a deep, frozen rut, knocking her against the wooden wall. She gritted her teeth, ignoring the pain as she pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders.
The air was growing colder, the wind carrying the distinct, heavy scent of old stone, pine, and the terrifying, musky scent of a massive wolf pack.
She looked out the canvas flap. In the distance, rising like a jagged black tooth against the gray, snow-heavy sky, was the fortress of Ironwood.
Iris felt her heart hammer against her ribs, a wild, frantic beat. She closed her eyes, taking a deep, slow breath of the freezing air, letting the camphor-scented salve on her hands ground her.
She had a few months before the spring thaw. A few months to find her moment, to slip the wolfsbane into his food, his drink, or his bed.
She would make her monstrous new husband a widow before the spring flowers had a chance to bloom in the northern soil. And then, she would run.
With that cold, murderous vow locked tight in her heart, Iris Thorne braced herself as the carriage began its slow, final ascent into the dragon-teeth gates of the Gravedigger's fortress.