The frost had worked its way through the soles of Adrian’s leather boots, turning his toes numb hours ago.
He rode his bay stallion, Baron, through the snow-choked mountain pass that marked the dividing line between his dying lands and the prosperous territory of the Obsidian Pack. The horse’s breath came in ragged, white plumes. Adrian’s own breath was shallower, his chest tight with a fatigue that went far deeper than physical exhaustion.
He had not eaten a full meal in three weeks. Every scrap of dried meat, every handful of grain that his scouts managed to scavenge, had been redirected to the nursery and the communal kitchen where the elders sat shivering. An Alpha ate last. An Alpha of a starving pack sometimes did not eat at all.
Adrian adjusted his grip on the leather reins. His hands, even inside his heavy woolen gloves, were stiff. The small cut on his thumb—where he had sliced it to seal the treaty with his own blood—throbbed in the biting cold. The pain was a tiny, sharp needle, reminding him of what he was doing.
He was walking into the lion’s den. Alone.
"Keep moving, boy," Adrian murmured, leaning forward to pat Baron’s frosted neck. The horse gave a low nicker, its hooves crunching heavily through the deep drifts.
The silence of the mountains was oppressive. It was the kind of cold that felt heavy, pressing down on a man’s shoulders until he wanted to lie down in the white powder and sleep. But Adrian couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the hollow cheeks of the children in his village. He heard the quiet, desperate weeping of mothers who had nothing to feed their pups.
And he saw Sloane.
He saw her as she had been four years ago, standing in the sacred pavilion under the light of the full moon. She had been wearing a simple white tunic, her long, beautiful hair adorned with a single winter-lily. Her dark eyes had been so bright, filled with a fierce, burning hope as they prepared for the bonding ceremony.
And then, he had spoken the words that tore her world apart.
“I cannot accept this bond. The Silverwood Pack needs an alliance of gold and steel, not a mate of dust and ash.”
Adrian closed his eyes, a violent shudder writhing through his lean frame. The memory was a physical blow. He had thought he was doing the right thing. His father had died only weeks prior, leaving the pack treasury empty and the northern borders threatened by rogue clans. The Goldcrest Pack had offered a massive dowry, hundreds of cattle, and three hundred seasoned warriors—but only if Adrian married their Alpha’s eldest daughter, Cassia.
So, he had chosen duty. He had chosen survival. He had rejected the girl the moon had chosen for him, believing that a leader’s heart belonged to his people, not his own desires.
But the gods did not tolerate such arrogance.
Cassia had turned out to be a viper. She had systematically drained Silverwood’s remaining resources, funneling them back to her father’s domain. When the winter blight struck, turning their fertile valley into a frozen wasteland of rot and disease, she had not stayed to help. She had packed her remaining chests, taken her warriors, and fled back to the safety of the south, leaving Adrian with a broken pack, empty barns, and a guilt that lay like lead in his stomach.
Now, he was going to beg the girl he had discarded to save the people he had sacrificed her for.
The irony was a bitter, choking thing.
Adrian pulled Baron to a halt. They had reached the border.
Before him stood the boundary stones—tall, jagged pillars of black basalt, carved with the heavy, ancient runes of the Obsidian Pack. Beyond these stones lay Sloane’s new home. The air here smelled different. It didn't have the sour, stagnant scent of Silverwood's decay. It smelled of rich pine, of woodsmoke, of fat game moving through the brush. It smelled of life.
And beneath it all, faint but unmistakable, was the scent of her.
The phantom mate-bond in Adrian’s chest gave a sudden, violent throb. It was a cold, hollow sensation, like a draft blowing through an empty house. Since the night he had rejected her, the bond had been a dead thing, a severed nerve that occasionally flared with phantom pain. But as he looked across the border, the dead nerve twitched.
His inner wolf, silent and depressed for years, let out a low, pathetic whine in his mind.
Sloane.
"I know," Adrian whispered, his throat tight. "I feel it too."
He dismounted, his boots sinking deep into the snow. His knees buckled slightly, his weak muscles protesting the sudden weight, but he forced himself to stand straight. He couldn't afford to look weak. Not yet. He had to show them that while his pack was starving, their Alpha was still a man of dignity.
He tied Baron’s reins to a low-hanging pine branch. He would go the rest of the way on foot. To ride a warhorse across an enemy's border was an act of aggression. To walk was a declaration of peace—or surrender.
Adrian unbuckled his sword belt. The heavy iron blade, a family heirloom passed down through four generations of Silverwood Alphas, clattered against the frozen ground. He laid it gently in the snow at the base of the boundary stone. Next, he drew his hunting knife from his boot and laid it beside the sword.
He was completely unarmed.
He stepped over the boundary line, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
The moment his foot touched the Obsidian snow, the silence of the forest shattered.
With a chorus of savage snarls, three massive wolves burst from the underbrush. They were huge, their coats thick and dark, their eyes glowing with predatory yellow light. They circled him instantly, kicking up clouds of white powder, their jaws snapping inches from his thighs.
Adrian stood perfectly still. He did not drop into a defensive stance. He did not let his fangs emerge. He kept his hands raised, palms open, showing his empty fingers to the circling beasts.
"I am Adrian, Alpha of the Silverwood Pack," he said, his voice carrying the calm, steady resonance of his alpha status, though he kept the dominant edge completely tucked away. "I am unarmed. I cross your border peacefully to seek an audience with Alpha Drake."
One of the wolves, a massive brute with a coat the color of wet coal, stopped circling. It let out a low, vibratory growl, its chest expanding. Slowly, the wolf began to shift. The bones cracked and reshuffled, the dark fur receding into pale skin, until a tall, muscular warrior stood in the snow.
It was Jarek.
Adrian recognized him. He was a rising star in the Obsidian Pack, a young warrior who had earned a reputation for ruthless efficiency. He was also, if the rumors were true, Sloane’s right hand.
Jarek stared at Adrian, his pale gray eyes narrow and filled with deep suspicion. He did not offer a greeting. He looked down at Adrian’s empty belt, then at the weapons lying across the border.
"You're a long way from your rotting valley, Silverwood," Jarek said, his voice flat and hostile. "And you're stupid to cross our line without an invite. Alpha Drake doesn't take uninvited guests. Especially not ones who look like they’re about to fall over."
Adrian swallowed the insult. He had no pride left to defend. "I sent a treaty to your Alpha yesterday. I am here to discuss the terms."
Jarek let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "The treaty? We read it. Or rather, the Alpha and Sloane read it. Personally, I think we should just let you starve and take your timber when the spring thaws your corpses."
Hearing her name spoken so casually made Adrian's chest tighten. "Is she... is Sloane at the stronghold?"
Jarek’s eyes darkened. He stepped closer, his chest nearly touching Adrian’s. He was broader than Adrian, his muscles thick from a winter of heavy eating and constant training. "You don't get to speak her name. You lost that right four years ago, coward."
Adrian did not look away. He accepted the blow. "I know. But the treaty requires her signature. The ancient magic of our land will not bind the agreement without her blood. I must speak with her."
"She wants nothing to do with you," Jarek snapped. "She wanted to burn your paper the moment she saw your seal."
"But she didn't," Adrian said, his amber eyes locking onto Jarek’s. "If she had burned it, you would have killed me the moment I stepped over the line. But you haven't. Which means she is waiting."
Jarek’s jaw tightened. He clearly didn't like how perceptive the desperate Alpha was. He looked at the other two wolves, who were still pacing in the snow, their ears pinned back.
"Search him," Jarek ordered.
The two wolves shifted into human form—two burly warriors who didn't hesitate to rough Adrian up. They grabbed his arms, kicking his legs apart and running their rough hands over his heavy coat, his boots, and his tunic. They found nothing.
One of them grabbed the leather scroll tube hanging from a strap across Adrian's shoulder and ripped it away, handing it to Jarek.
Jarek unscrewed the cap and pulled out the parchment. He scanned the text, his eyes lingering on the dark, dried smudge of Adrian’s blood at the bottom. He shoved the treaty back into the tube and slung it over his own shoulder.
"He's clean," one of the warriors said, stepping back. "No silver. No hidden steel. He's as weak as a pup, Jarek. I could snap his neck with one hand."
"Don't touch him," Jarek said, his eyes still fixed on Adrian. "If we kill him here, his pack will scatter, and the magic of their land will blight the soil. We need that treaty signed. And the Alpha wants him brought in."
Jarek turned to the younger of the two warriors. "Kael. Run ahead to the stronghold. Tell Alpha Drake and Sloane that the beggar-king has crossed the border. Tell them he is unarmed, on foot, and coming to plead his case."
The young warrior, Kael, nodded once. He shifted back into his wolf form with a fluid, practiced motion and bounded off into the trees, his dark shape disappearing into the gray forest in seconds.
Jarek turned back to Adrian. He reached out and grabbed Adrian’s shoulder, his grip unnecessarily tight, his fingers digging into the muscle.
"You're going to walk, Silverwood," Jarek said, a cruel smile touching his lips. "It’s a five-mile trek to the stronghold through the deep drifts. Let's see if that fragile Alpha blood of yours can handle the cold."
Adrian did not complain. He did not protest. He simply nodded.
"Lead the way," Adrian said.
As they began the long, brutal march through the snow, Adrian focused on his breathing. His legs felt like lead, and the wind seemed to slice right through his coat, but he kept his eyes on the trail ahead.
The phantom bond in his chest was humming louder now. It wasn't a pleasant sound. It felt like the high-pitched vibration of a metal wire stretched to its absolute breaking point. It was filled with Sloane's anger, her coldness, her absolute contempt.
He welcomed it.
Every wave of pain that washed over him from the broken bond was a reminder of what he had destroyed. It was a debt he had to pay. And as he trudged deeper into Obsidian territory, Adrian knew that the physical cold of the mountains was nothing compared to the storm of ice and fire that was waiting for him at the end of the trail.
* * *