Violet didn't wake so much as jerk awake.
Her body twisted as if something inside her was trying to claw its way out. Sweat soaked her hairline. Her breath came in fractured pulls. The sheets tangled around her legs like she'd been fighting them in her sleep.
A sharp cramp seized her lungs. She tried to inhale.
Pain answered.
She pushed herself up on trembling elbows.
Her vision swam. The ceiling doubled. A cold ring spread around her throat like an invisible hand tightening.
Beside her bed, Garrett slept in a chair, legs stretched out, head tilted back in an uncomfortable angle. Maria had fallen asleep with her head resting near Violet's knees, her hand still loosely wrapped around Violet's ankle.
Violet tried to swing her feet onto the floor.
Her muscles buckled.
A violent cough ripped out of her chest.
Blood sprayed across the blanket.
It was the sound of the cough that woke them—too sharp, too wet.
Maria's eyes flew open first. She stared at the stain, at the tremble in Violet's shoulders, and panic flashed across her face so fast and raw it cut deeper than the pain.
"Violet—Violet, breathe, breathe—"
Her voice pitched up. She pulled Violet upright, one hand bracing her back, the other cupping the back of her skull. Maria rubbed her in frantic circles, trying to ground her, trying to keep her from collapsing.
Garrett was up in a heartbeat. He didn't speak. He didn't ask. He ran straight into the kitchen and began tearing through drawers as if he could find salvation buried under cutlery. Each noise—each clatter of wood and metal—echoed louder than the last.
Violet raised a shaking hand.
"Stop… I have it… I'm fine."
She wasn't.
But she had prepared for this.
She reached beneath her pillow and pulled out a thin, smoky-glass vial. Bitter-smelling liquid sloshed inside. She had brewed it herself during late-night training sessions, knowing that poison usually hit her faster than help could reach her.
Maria froze. "What is that?"
Violet didn't answer. She uncorked it with her teeth and swallowed half the contents before her body could protest.
Cold.
Immediate.
A numbing chill wrapped around her chest, then shot up her spine. The dizziness that followed wasn't gentle—it was a violent tilt, like the room had dropped sideways, dragging her with it.
Violet slumped back onto the pillow.
"Maria…" her voice rasped, thin as wire. "Make the soup I like."
A simple request. A familiar one.
Maria bit her lip so hard Violet thought she'd draw blood. She nodded silently and went to the kitchen, shoulders rigid.
Garrett returned to the doorway, staring at Violet's pale face, his hands balling and unballing uselessly. He looked like he wanted to punch something—anything—just to stop himself from feeling helpless.
He exhaled.
Long. Controlled. Tired.
Then he walked out of the house without a word.
Violet didn't blame him.
She let the dizziness settle over her like a shroud.
Her heartbeat steadied into slow, heavy thuds.
The concoction would work. Not quickly. Not comfortably. But it would work.
If she survived the next hour.
****
Far north, colder winds swept through the Direwolf camp.
Inside Da'ar's great hall, the letter Violet left was spread across a carved table. Kael stood over it, eyes narrowed, ears angled forward in concentration. His claws tapped the wood in slow rhythm—measured, thoughtful, never rushed.
Around him stood members of the tribe. Broad shoulders. Pale eyes. Fur-lined armor. Most watched in silence.
One did not.
A tall direwolf with a jagged scar slicing across his right eye stepped forward.
"Kael," he said, voice low but edged with sharp hostility, "you should have killed her. A human child entering our den is already an insult. Keeping her alive is worse."
Murmurs rippled behind him.
Another warrior countered, "Da'ar accepted her. That is enough."
The scarred male gave a humorless laugh. "Da'ar is lenient. Too lenient for this age."
Kael didn't look up from the letter. "You talk as if my decisions need your approval."
The traitor's lip curled.
Another older male spoke, "We trust our chief. We wait for Da'ar's judgment."
Kael straightened, folding the letter. His silver eyes met the traitor's.
"I have reasons to kill her," he said. "More than you know. But killing a child under our canopy would disgrace our name."
"Canopy" referred to more than shelter—it was ancient law within the tribe: any outsider seeking protection within the tribe's perimeter was not to be killed unless they attacked first. The law was older than their recorded history.
The scarred male's jaw tightened.
Kael lifted a hand, dismissing him. "Leave."
The traitor bowed, stiff and resentful, then exited the hall.
He did not stop walking until he reached his tent.
Inside the dim canvas space, he knelt and pulled a small pot from beneath a woven mat. It was iron, shaped unnaturally smooth, with thin grooves curling around it like veins. There was no true opening, only a narrow slit at the top sealed with stretched hide.
He wrote quickly. Sharp, angular strokes. Nothing more than a few lines.
He rolled the message and slipped it into the slit.
He uncorked a leather waterskin, poured clear water over the pot, and sealed it. The iron shivered faintly under his touch.
He whispered, "Carry it."
The pot glowed once, faint and sickly.
****
Far from the Valley of Winds, closer to the heart of the kingdom, a military camp stirred under fog-thick night.
A man hung tied upright to a post. Blindfolded. Mouth gagged. A chain of dark metal coiled around his torso and burned into his skin. It had melted into him long ago. The iron links were part of his flesh.
A pot hung against his chest.
It pulsed.
The man convulsed violently.
His body jerked like he was being electrocuted from the inside. A choked groan escaped behind the gag.
A soldier sprinted toward a nearby tent.
"Commander Gaius! The pot reacted!"
Gaius emerged, armor strapped tight, eyes sharp with habitual suspicion. He approached the bound man and inspected the pot. The water inside had turned pitch black.
He dipped his fingers inside, lifted the inky liquid, and brushed it across a fresh parchment.
Characters formed immediately.
Ink curled into letters. Words. Instructions.
"Refugee placements," Gaius muttered. "Guard count. Entry points. Routes."
Footsteps approached.
The first princess.
She wore dark armor shaped to her frame, her movements sharp, her eyes cold.
"What has the mutt sent now?" she asked.
Gaius bowed slightly. "Logistics concerning the relocation of children and noncombatants."
She glanced at the man chained to the post. "My ancestors were primitive. Or barbaric. To create something like this."
Gaius answered without lifting his head. "This was their only secure method. These pots have no mouths. Only a sealed slit. The chain fuses with the flesh. The man's blood mingles with mana. When the partner pot receives water, the message converts to ink. No animal or arrow can be tracked. Not even by creatures with keen senses."
She scoffed. "Old magic. Inefficient. But useful."
Gaius continued reading.
His brow furrowed. "A human girl challenged Da'ar."
The princess laughed.
Short. Sharp.
"Then perhaps the wolves amuse themselves with children."
Gaius went still. "There is more. Kael was frozen. Inside a garden of ice."
The princess's laughter died instantly.
Her eyes sharpened.
Her aura shifted.
"No one in this kingdom," she said slowly, "can create ice on that scale except the royal bloodline."
A long silence settled.
Gaius asked, "You suspect sabotage among your kin?"
Her fingers tightened on the hilt of her sword. "I suspect treachery."
"What are your orders?"
She looked toward the faint outline of mountains.
"Too late to turn back," she said. "We advance faster. Before anyone else moves first."
Her voice was the only sound as the fog swallowed the night.