The cold of the Frost Pack territory did not just bite; it settled deep inside the bones like a permanent, heavy marrow.
Linnea squeezed her eyes shut, leaning her forehead against the freezing stone wall of the Great Hall’s kitchen. She took a slow, shallow breath, trying to ignore the way the air burned her throat. Outside, the wind howled through the jagged peaks of the northern mountains, a relentless, screaming beast that never seemed to sleep. Inside, the drafty fortress of her father’s pack was barely any warmer.
She opened her eyes and looked down at her hands. They were raw, chapped, and trembling. She was twenty-one years old, but her slender, wire-thin frame made her look younger, starved of both warmth and the rich food her father hoarded in his private cellars. While the rest of the pack survived on meager rations of salted meat and dry grain, Viktor Frost lived like a king in a dying kingdom.
"Linnea! You lazy, useless girl!"
The harsh, grating voice of her father’s housekeeper, Martha, shattered the silence. Martha was a stout wolf with a bitter disposition, hardened by years of surviving Viktor’s temper. She marched into the kitchen, her heavy boots clacking against the stone floor. She thrust a wooden bucket filled with dirty, frozen washwater into Linnea’s hands.
"The hearth in the Great Hall is dying, and the Alpha demands it be cleaned and relit before the evening council," Martha snapped, her breath pluming in the air. "Move those thin legs of yours. If the hall is cold when your father arrives, we will all pay for it."
"I am going, Martha," Linnea said, her voice quiet but steady.
She carried the heavy bucket out of the kitchen, her muscles straining. Every step was an exercise in pure willpower. Her ash-brown hair, woven into a thick, tight braid that fell past her shoulders, whipped around her face as a sudden draft swept through the long, dark corridor. She kept her head down, her pale grey-green eyes focused on the stone floor.
The Great Hall was a massive, vaulted chamber built from dark, weeping stone. High above, the iron chandeliers hung empty, the candles long since burned down to stubs. At the far end of the room, the massive stone hearth lay dark, filled with gray ash and half-charred logs.
Linnea set the bucket down and knelt on the cold stone. She pulled her thin wool cloak tighter around her shoulders, but it did little to block the chill. She reached beneath the collar of her tunic and grasped her only source of comfort—the silver locket that had belonged to her mother.
The locket was a beautiful, strange thing. It was made of heavy, polished silver, shaped like a thick disc with three interlocking, concentric rings on its face. The metal was covered in tiny, intricate runes that Linnea had never been able to translate. Unlike everything else in this frozen wasteland, the locket never felt cold. When she held it tightly in her palm, a faint, soothing warmth radiated from the metal, a tiny spark of life in a world of ice.
Her mother, Evelyn, had given it to her on her deathbed, fourteen years ago.
“Keep it safe, Linnea,” her mother had whispered, her breath shallow and weak. “Never let your father take it. Inside this locket is the truth of who you are. When the time is right, you will know how to open it.”
For years, Linnea had tried to unlock the concentric rings, but they remained stubbornly frozen in place. Yet, she kept it hidden beneath her clothes, her fingers constantly tracing the smooth silver whenever the loneliness and fear became too much to bear.
"You're slacking again."
Linnea flinched, her grip tightening on the locket before she quickly tucked it back beneath her tunic. She turned her head to see her father, Viktor Frost, standing at the entrance of the Great Hall.
Viktor was a massive man, bloated on stolen resources and self-importance. His greasy dark hair was slicked back, and his pale, watery eyes glared at her with utter contempt. He wore a thick, luxurious coat of white wolf fur—a stark contrast to the threadbare rags worn by the rest of his pack. He stepped into the hall, his heavy footsteps echoing off the high ceiling.
"I asked for a fire, not a statue," Viktor growled, stepping closer. The smell of cheap ale and stale sweat rolled off him in waves.
"The wood is damp, Father," Linnea said, keeping her voice low and neutral. She had learned long ago that defending herself only made his temper worse. "I am cleaning the old ash out so the new kindling can catch."
Viktor sneered, stepping up to her and kicking the wooden bucket. The dirty water splashed over the side, soaking Linnea’s worn boots. She did not flinch, though the freezing water immediately soaked through the thin leather, making her toes go numb.
"You are a disappointment, Linnea," Viktor said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Twenty-one years old, and you can barely even summon your wolf. You have no strength, no magic, and no value to this pack. Your mother was a weak, fragile creature, and you are just like her."
Linnea kept her gaze fixed on the floor, her teeth clenched so hard her jaw ached. She wanted to scream. She wanted to tell him that her wolf was not weak, but suppressed—starved of the pack bond and the nourishment she needed to grow. But she kept her mouth shut. Silence was her only armor.
"The Marsh Pack is advancing," Viktor continued, pacing the length of the hearth. He rubbed his hands together, his eyes darting anxiously toward the heavy timber doors of the hall. "Their Alpha, that red-headed beast Theo Marsh, has pushed our warriors back to the frozen ravine. We have no food, no coal, and our fighters are deserting us."
Linnea felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. The Marsh Pack. Everyone in the north knew of them. They were a fierce, powerful pack that lived in the warm, misty lowlands. Rumor had it that their territory was rich with thermal springs and fertile soil, but their warriors were ruthless. They said Alpha Theo Marsh was a solemn, cold-blooded giant who showed no mercy to his enemies.
"What will you do?" Linnea asked, unable to help herself.
Viktor stopped pacing and looked down at her. A strange, oily smile crept across his face, making Linnea’s stomach turn.
"I will do what a true leader does," Viktor said softly. "I will secure my survival. And you, Linnea, are finally going to be of use to me."
Before she could ask what he meant, the heavy doors of the Great Hall creaked open. Gregory, Viktor’s loyal Beta, stepped inside. Gregory was a lean, rat-faced man with a permanent sneer. He bowed low to Viktor, though his eyes darted toward Linnea with a look of smug satisfaction.
"Alpha," Gregory said, his voice greasy. "The messengers have returned from the border. The Marsh Pack has accepted the meeting. They are waiting at the neutral stone pavilion."
"Good," Viktor grunted, straightening his fur coat. "Prepare the carriage. We leave within the hour."
"And the girl?" Gregory asked, gesturing toward Linnea.
"Have her washed and put her in a decent dress. Not that we have much," Viktor sneered. "But she needs to look presentable. The Marsh Pack expects a proper offering."
Linnea’s breath hitched. She stood up, her wet boots squeaking against the stone. "An offering? Father, what are you talking about?"
Viktor turned on his heel, his eyes cold and lifeless as the winter sky. "You are going to help me sign a treaty, Linnea. You should be honored. Your useless life is finally going to buy your father his peace."
Without another word, Viktor strode out of the hall, Gregory hot on his heels.
Linnea stood alone in the freezing, empty room, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She reached into her collar, her trembling fingers wrapping around her mother's locket. The silver metal pulsed against her palm, a tiny, warm heartbeat of hope in the suffocating darkness.
* * *