The Trial Hut was less of a building and more of a cage made of mud and history. The walls were lined with the skulls of small forest animals, their empty sockets staring at Elara as she shivered on the dirt floor. The fever was a heavy blanket, making the room tilt and spin. Every time a drop of condensation hit her forehead, she flinched, thinking it was Caleb's hand reaching out for her. The silence of the North was different from the silence of her old life. Back at the pack house, silence was a luxury. Here, it was a threat.
The heavy wooden bolt on the door groaned—a sound of ancient wood screaming against iron. Elara scrambled toward the back corner, her fingers fumbling for the silver dagger tucked into her belt. Her knuckles were white, her palms sweaty despite the freezing air. She expected the woman with the bird-bone braids to come in and finish what the swamp had started. She expected a spear to her throat.
Instead, a tall figure stepped into the hut, blocking the moonlight. He had to duck to enter, his shoulders nearly touching the doorframe.
"Lower the blade," he said. His voice wasn't a snarl or a command. It was deep and resonant, like a low drum echoing in a canyon. "If I wanted you dead, I would have let the sinkhole finish the job. You were half-buried when I found you."
He set a small wooden bowl on the floor between them. The steam rising from it was thick and carried the scent of bitter herbs, crushed pine, and wild honey. Elara didn't move. She kept the dagger leveled at his chest, though her arm was shaking from exhaustion.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice a raspy shadow of its former self.
"Kaelen," he said. He sat down on his haunches, keeping a respectful distance that felt intentional. He didn't look like the other indigenes she had seen. He wore a simple tunic of dark, supple leather, and his skin wasn't caked in the grey ceremonial clay. His eyes were a piercing, steady grey, like the sky before a heavy snow. "My father is the High Elder of this circle. He is the one who ordered you locked in here to see if the forest would claim you."
Elara lowered the knife an inch, but her heart was still thudding against her ribs. "And you? Did he send you to watch me die?"
"I am the one who told them not to kill you at the border," Kaelen said, his eyes never leaving hers. A small, ghost of a smile touched his lips—not a cruel one, but one of genuine intrigue. "I have never seen a city wolf walk through the Black Marsh in silk shoes. It was either the bravest thing I have ever seen or the most foolish. Either way, the forest let you pass. That means something to my people, even if they won't admit it yet."
He pushed the bowl toward her with the tip of his fingers. "Drink this. It is a decoction of root and spirit. It will stop the fever before it turns your brain to ash. The elders want you to rot in here for three days to prove you are 'worthy.' I think three days in this damp without medicine is just a slow execution, and I do not care for executions."
Elara hesitated. Her mind screamed that it was poison, that this was another trap set by a man who wanted something from her. But as she looked into Kaelen's grey eyes, she didn't see the gold flash of an Alpha's greed. She saw a strange, quiet honor. She took the bowl, her hands trembling so much the liquid splashed over the rim. It was hot, scorching her throat, but almost instantly, a dull, heavy warmth began to spread through her chest, numbing the ache in her bones.
"Caleb is at your borders," she whispered, the name feeling like a curse on her tongue.
"He is," Kaelen replied, his expression hardening. "He is howling and clawing at the stone markers like a common beast. He thinks his bloodline gives him the right to demand entry into a land that has never known his laws. My father is worried. Your Alpha is bringing a lot of noise to our gates, and noise brings trouble."
"I will not go back," Elara said, her voice turning into flint. "I would rather the marsh take me."
"I know," Kaelen said. He stood up, his massive frame nearly filling the small hut. He looked down at her, not with pity, but with a guarded sort of respect. "For now, sleep. The medicine will pull you under. I will come back tomorrow with something more substantial than herbs. If you are going to survive the Council on the third day, you need to look like a survivor, not a ghost."
He stepped out and slid the bolt back into place. For the first time since she had bolted from the study, Elara didn't feel like prey. She felt... anchored. She didn't like him—she didn't trust the way his presence made the room feel smaller—but as the herbs pulled her into a dreamless sleep, the image of his steady grey eyes was the only thing keeping the golden glare of Caleb at bay.
That is the full Chapter 9. Ready for Chapter 10, where they start "getting to know each other" through the bars of the hut, and she realizes he's not just a villager, but a prince in exile?
That's the move. We need to let that tension build so the kiss in Chapter 15 actually feels earned. Chapter 10 is all about that friction—her walls are up, and he's the only one patient enough to wait outside them.