A small smile quirked the corner of his lip, and he shook his head, placing the slice in my hand. Never one to pass up an opportunity, I grinned and shoved the bread into my mouth, savoring the warmth and taste.
The wench returned some time later, collecting the plate. “The master says the delivery came, but he asks that ye take yer tonic in the next room. Worried ‘bout others seein’ it, I’d wager.”
We stood, and I tugged my hood lower. He kept his hand on the small of my back, guiding me along. The woman knocked on the same door she disappeared through earlier, then stepped aside, allowing Sainte to open it and usher me inside.
The space, lit by a single lantern, remained cloaked in shadows. I craned my neck, trying to see the figure at the table. The door shut behind us with a click, and a jolt of panic surged, hearing the lock latch in place.
“Wolf,” he ground out. His tone held steady, his hand on my back a calm anchor. He stood firm, unfazed by the eerie room or the fact that we were locked inside.
“The only Nytestorm I know of has completed the velebond to none other than our Lost Princess, Elspeth the Second Born.” A low, feminine chuckle filled the eerie space. “Come, come, Princess. You have words for me, I imagine.”
My body tensed, caught in a moment of indecision. Trapped within these walls, facing off against an uncertain foe, awareness pricked my skin. The truth of my identity lingered like an unspoken secret. Sainte’s touch grounded me, a firm presence at my back. His thumb traced soothing patterns against my spine, a silent reassurance amid the tension.
“You’re the Dire Wolf,” I said, voice raspy with intrigue.
“Ah, someone’s been telling you stories,” she mused. “Come into the light so I can see these fabled eyes everyone speaks of.”
I inhaled a slow breath, composing myself before I stepped away from Sainte’s reassuring presence. My cloak fell back as I moved, and I struggled to conceal the rush of revulsion that swept through me upon seeing the figure seated at the table.
Underneath a deep hood, a wolf’s skull grinned. Her posture relaxed with her fist propping up her chin, as if awaiting a game of cards. Bleached by the sun, the bone gleamed bright and pristine, evidence of meticulous care in its upkeep.
Cloaked in black, the woman behind the mask remained shrouded, her form obscured by the folds of her attire. The lantern’s glow danced in her irises, reflecting off their golden hue—reminiscent of a wolf’s gaze. As I drew nearer to the table, those eyes seemed to hunger, adding a layer of anticipation to the already charged atmosphere.
“Marked by the gods.” She gestured toward the lone chair opposite her. “I heard tales of a goddess’ touch upon your skin, yet it seems some blessings fade with time.”
“I returned from the second Rite with handprints on my face, be they Togamar’s or not, I don’t know.”
“One who doubts the gods?” Her tone carried a hint of mockery as she sat straighter, feigning surprise. “You are in good company, then! I, too, doubt the things I’ve seen.”
Her words hung between us, shrouded with uncertainty. She leaned back, her eyes narrowing as she studied me. “A princess, believed dead, emerges on the very day of her brother’s coronation. The people hail you as the Gods’ Chosen, yet your disdain for them is palpable.”
The room seemed to shrink with the sharp edge of her words, the tension thickening. I shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny, feeling the weight of expectations press down on me.
“I’ve heard the whispers of your deeds,” she continued, her voice measured. “Riding to confront the Glades, seeking retribution for your own. Yet, I find myself asking, why? Why return unprepared to stake a claim to a throne you know nothing about? Why provoke conflict with Gladier if not for war? What drives a free spirit to embrace the chains of politics and morality?”
Her questions echoed in the silence, each one a dagger aimed at the heart of my resolve.
“You assume I had a choice.” I spoke without emotion, my expression a challenge in itself.
The room grew still as she scrutinized me, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her features.
Then she laughed.
She threw herself back, howling at the ceiling as she clutched her belly. The sound was wild, untamed, like the call of a distant wolf. As she composed herself, she tilted her head in a very canine way.
“So, who brought you? Who’s the puppet master pulling your strings? I would say Adastrus, who I’ve heard recently puppeted your friend about–”
I snarled, slapping my hands on the table. “Don’t speak of things you know nothing about.”
“Oh, is that what you think?” A haughty smirk crept beneath her mask. “That my information is false? That I wasn’t there?”
“You couldn’t–”
“He called for witnesses. Do you believe he cared who saw your friend splayed out like a–”
Rage erupted within. I snapped, shrieking as I flung the table. It was heavier than I expected, and the lantern went flying. She lashed out, catching it before it hit the ground.
“Don’t youdarespeak of–”
