River's lower lip trembled. "But what if the bad men come?"
"This is the safest place in the kingdom right now," Casteel said, crouching beside Nero. "Look at those walls, those guards. No bad men can reach you here."
The boy's eyes darted between them, uncertainty warring with hunger and exhaustion. "You promise to come back?"
"I swear it," Nero said solemnly, placing a hand over his heart. "On my honor as a wolf."
That seemed to satisfy River. He gave a small nod and tentatively took Martha's outstretched hand. The woman smiled reassuringly.
"Come along, young sir. Cook just pulled fresh bread from the oven, and I believe there might be blackberry preserves as well." Not a sign of starvation here when there were so many in the kingdom that couldn't fill their children's empty bellies.
As Martha led River toward the kitchen entrance, the boy looked back once, his small face a mixture of fear and hope. Nero raised his hand in reassurance, maintaining the connection until River disappeared through the doorway.
"A child?" Eryken asked quietly, one eyebrow raised. "Whose?"
"Ours," Nero replied, his tone brooking no argument. "His family was murdered by Doran's mercenaries."
Something like understanding flickered in Eryken's eyes. "Another orphan of this war."
"The last, if I have anything to say about it," Nero said grimly.
They entered the manor: servants paused, whispering “Silver Wolf” and “prophecy.” In the vast great hall, nobles in finery argued over maps and letters. At the head of the table, Lord Morven rose—tall, silver-haired, his look all command. He raised a hand, and the room went silent.
“The Silver Wolf arrives,” he announced.
Heads turned. Some faces lit with hope, others with suspicion. Eryken stepped forward. “May I present—”
“Casteel of Abergenny,” Morven finished, his eyes on Casteel. “We’ve waited a long time.”
Casteel took a breath. “Thank you for sheltering us. But I need you to know—I’m not the wolf anymore.”
Murmurs rose. A heavyset noble slammed a fist. “What nonsense is this? You’re either the wolf or you’re not!”
Casteel met his glare. “I was. But I had to surrender it.”
Nero moved beside him. “The wolf-soul lives in me now.”
Laughter burst out—mocking, loud from a sneering noble, “Now we’re to trust a soldier?”
“As if a stable hand wasn’t bad enough,” another muttered.
Nero’s eyes flashed. Power pulsed around him, chill as starlight. The temperature in the hall dipped.
Nero added, “A soldier who’s killed more men than you’ve seen in your gilded life.”
The noble’s hand went to his sword, but a silver-haired woman in midnight-blue robes stood. “Show us, then. Prove you’re the wolf.”
Murmurs of agreement. Nero stepped forward. Where Casteel's shifts had been gentle, Nero's was explosive—one moment a man stood before them, the next a massive silver wolf with eyes like molten metal.
Power radiated from him in waves that made candle flames gutter and wine tremble in goblets. Several nobles recoiled, chairs scraping against stone. The wolf's presence filled the hall like a storm contained within walls.
"God Almighty," whispered the woman in emerald silk. The wolf's gaze swept the room, lingering on each face as if measuring souls.
After a moment, the silver wolf shifted back into Nero, standing tall, silver still bright in his eyes. Silence filled the room.
“The prophecy named a silver wolf,” he said softly. “Now it’s done.”
Morven’s gaze was intense, then turned to Casteel. “Why the sacrifice?”
