Chapter 7: The Rival's Offer
The silence in the Great Hall was a physical thing, thick and brittle as the ice on the walls. The only sounds were the unnerving crackle of the blue-tinged fire and the low, collective growl vibrating from every Parfyn throat.
Alpha Torin stared down at the three pups attached to his boots like terriers. He didn’t shake them off. A slow, incredulous smile spread across his handsome face. “Your pack manners are… unique, Cregan.”
Cregan’s hand was still embedded in the splintered wood of his antler throne. He didn’t look at it. He didn’t look at the pups. His sky-blue eyes were locked on Torin, pale as a winter lake. The air around him grew colder.
“Marlow. Sela. Finn.” Lysaria’s voice cut through the growls, sharp and clear. She hadn’t moved from her place by the wounded Stormfang warrior, her hands still covered in his blood. “Release. Now.”
The command in her tone was absolute, familiar to them from the infirmary. With tiny, reluctant whines, the pups let go, scampering back to hide behind her skirts, leaving damp tooth marks on the fine leather of Torin’s boots.
Lysaria wiped her hands on a clean rag, the movement deliberate, final. She then looked at Torin, meeting his golden gaze directly. Her heterochromatic eyes gave nothing away. “My thanks for the offer, Alpha Torin. It is… flattering, to be sought for one’s skills.”
A slight, hopeful relaxation in Torin’s shoulders. Cregan’s jaw clenched so tight a muscle spasmed in his cheek.
“However,” she continued, her voice dropping into a register that carried to every corner of the hall, “I am not a stray pup to be offered a new home. I am a sworn healer under the Parfyn roof, by the invitation of Alpha Cregan. My skills are not for barter, and my person is not part of any treaty. You’ll have to find your witch elsewhere.”
The collective intake of breath was audible. A she-wolf didn’t refuse an Alpha so publicly. A human certainly didn’t.
Torin’s smile froze, then thawed into something darker, more intrigued. He took a step closer to her, ignoring Cregan completely. “Invitation?” he mused, his eyes tracing the line of her throat. “Is that what they call it when a wolf drags a prize to his den?”
Before anyone could move, Elara was there. She didn’t step between them, but her presence at Lysaria’s shoulder was a wall. Her hand rested on the hilt of her knife. “The witch is under pack protection,” she stated, her voice flat and hard. “You’ve made your offer. It’s been refused. The discussion is closed.”
Jace let out a low whistle from his place by the fire, his eyes dancing with a mix of alarm and sheer appreciation for the chaos. “Well, that’s that, then. Anyone else need their wounds stitched? Torin, your lads look peaked. Maybe a sit-down?”
Torin finally, slowly, dragged his eyes from Lysaria to Cregan. The implicit challenge hung in the air: Your second speaks for you? Your she-wolf guards your witch? What kind of Alpha are you?
Cregan stood. He pulled his hand from the ruined armrest, fingers trailing splinters. He walked down from the dais, his steps measured, silent on the packed earth floor. The crowd parted. He stopped a pace from Torin, close enough that the scent of Stormfang—ozone and wet stone—clashed with the Parfyn scent of pine and deep earth.
“My healer has spoken,” Cregan said, his voice so quiet it was almost lost beneath the fire’s hiss. Everyone leaned in to hear. “She stays. Your men are mended. Your welcome is spent.”
It was a dismissal, blunt and absolute.
Torin held his ground, but his smirk was gone. This was the language he understood: dominance, territory. “A curious priority, Cregan. Guarding a single human so fiercely, while your western tree line smells of poison and false charms. It makes a wolf wonder where your true strength lies.”
The direct mention of the snare and the witch knot was a calculated provocation. It confirmed their suspicions—Torin knew, or his people did. The threat was no longer implicit.
Cregan didn’t flinch. “My strength lies where I choose to put it. Remember that, when you cross back into your own territory. The woods have ears. And teeth.”
The standoff stretched, a contest of wills pressed into the frozen air. Finally, Torin shrugged, a fluid, elegant motion. He looked past Cregan to Lysaria one last time, his gaze lingering with a possessive curiosity that made her skin crawl.
“A pity,” he said. “We could have burned brightly.” He turned, a swirl of dark furs, and gestured to his warriors. “We ride. The air here has gone stale.”
No one moved until the last Stormfang wolf had passed through the great oak door and into the twilight. The moment it slammed shut, a tremor went through the hall.
Cregan didn’t turn. He stared at the closed door, his back rigid. “Jace. Double the watch on all borders. Rotating shifts. No one goes beyond the stream alone.”
“Already on it,” Jace replied, his usual levity gone.
“Elara.”
“Alpha.”
“Take the pups back to their mothers. Explain that biting visiting Alphas is… premature.” He finally turned. His eyes found Lysaria. The cold control in them was terrifying. “You. With me. Now.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He strode toward a narrow archway at the rear of the hall that led to his private chambers. The command hung in the air, undeniable.
Lysaria felt every eye on her. She handed her bloody rags to a nearby warrior, gave Elara a slight, reassuring nod, and followed him.
His rooms were spartan: a large bed layered with furs, a scarred table covered in maps, a fireplace where a normal, orange fire burned. He stood before it, his back to her, hands braced on the stone mantle.
She closed the door softly. The silence here was worse.
“That was exceptionally stupid,” he said, his voice a low rasp.
“Which part? Healing his men, or refusing him?”
“The refusing!” He whirled around. The calm was gone, stripped away, revealing the raw, pulsing fury beneath. “You humiliated him in front of two packs! You think a wolf like Torin forgets a slight? He doesn’t want you for your skills, he wants you because you’re mine—because you are a symbol of something he can take! And you painted a target on your back in pure, defiant crimson!”
“What was I supposed to do?” she shot back, her own temper fraying. “Accept? Go with him to keep the peace?”
“Yes!” The word exploded from him. He paced, a caged predator. “No. I don’t know. But you didn’t let me handle it. You stepped into an Alpha’s challenge without the teeth to back it up!”
“I have my own teeth, Cregan. They may not be fangs, but they bite.” She stepped forward, into the heat of his anger. “You were silent. You let him speak. What was I supposed to read from your shattered chair? Poetry? You gave me nothing, so I acted on my own.”
He stopped pacing, looming over her. “I was holding onto my control by a thread! If I had spoken… if I had moved…” He dragged a hand through his blond hair. “Gods, Lysaria, if I had claimed you as pack in that moment, it would have been a declaration of war. If I had denied him without your refusal, it would have been an insult. My silence was the only shield I had!”
The confession hung between them. His rage wasn’t at her defiance, but at his own powerlessness, at the brutal politics that forced his hand.
The fight left her in a rush. She saw it now—the impossible tightrope he’d been walking. “So my refusal was the only safe path,” she said, her voice softening.
“It was the only path that didn’t end in immediate bloodshed,” he corrected, exhausted. “But it’s not safe. Nothing is safe now. He’ll be back. Or he’ll send others. That little performance with the boots?” A grim, almost proud shadow crossed his face. “That sealed it. He saw the pups defend you. He saw Elara guard you. He knows you’re woven in here. To get to me, he unravels you.”
The understanding was a cold weight in her stomach. “I’m a vulnerability.”
“You’re a weapon I didn’t know I had,” he countered, his eyes searching her face. “And a weakness I can’t afford. But I can’t… I won’t…” He broke off, frustration swallowing the words.
“You won’t send me away,” she finished for him.
A low growl rumbled in his chest. “No.”
The simple word held a finality that shook her. It was not the possessive claim of a wolf for a prize. It was the grim, steadfast decision of a protector for something precious.
Outside, the wind howled, mimicking the tumult within. Cregan looked at the fire, then back at her, the blue of his eyes reflecting the flames. “From now on, the shadow is me. No rotations. Jace can handle the patrols. Where you go, I go.”
“Cregan, you’re the Alpha. You can’t be my permanent guard dog.”
“Watch me.” The ghost of his old stubbornness returned. “You made your choice to be part of the scenery. This is the scenery. I’m in it.” He took a step closer, the heat of him cutting through the chamber’s chill. “And we need to talk about what happens next. Torin came probing for a weakness. He found one. He won’t stop.”
Lysaria wrapped her arms around herself, not from cold, but from the sudden, dizzying realization. She was no longer just a witch in the woods, or a healer in a den. She was a piece on the board in a game played with claws and ancient grudges. And the wolf beside her, for reasons she was only beginning to fathom, refused to let her be captured.
“So we give him a different weakness to target,” she said quietly, her mind beginning to turn, strategies forming not of magic, but of perception. “One of our own choosing.”
Cregan’s gaze sharpened. “What are you thinking?”
But before she could answer, a frantic knocking shook the door. Jace’s voice, stripped of all humor, came through the wood. “Cregan. You need to come. Now. The western watch… they found something. It’s not a snare.”
Cregan’s eyes met hers. The brief respite was over. He moved to the door, pulling it open. “What is it?”
Jace’s face was pale, his lips thin. “A body. One of Torin’s. Left right on the marker stone. And it’s been staged.”
Cregan was already moving, pulling on a heavier fur. He paused, looking back at Lysaria. The command was in his eyes, but so was the question.
She grabbed her cloak from a hook. “You go where I go,” she said, throwing his own words back at him, her voice steady. “Let’s go see what story they’re trying to tell us now.”
The cold outside was a slap after the oppressive heat of the hearth. Lysaria pulled her cloak tight, the wool scratchy against her neck. Cregan moved like a shadow ahead of her, his form fluid and silent despite his size.
Jace fell into step beside her, his usual humor absent. "It's a mess, Red."
"Details," Cregan snapped, not breaking stride.
"Ronyn from the dusk patrol found him. Stormfang colors. Left smack on the boundary stone, like a damned gift basket." Jace’s voice was tight. "Throat’s torn out. But the rest… it’s arranged."
The western tree line loomed, a wall of whispering darkness. A circle of torches flickered ahead, casting wild, jumping light over assembled warriors. Their faces were grim masks. Elara stood at the edge of the circle, her arms crossed, a solid barrier.
She nodded as Cregan approached. "No one’s touched it but Ronyn. He’s over there. Looks like he’s seen a ghost."
Cregan pushed through the ring of watchers. Lysaria followed, the scent hitting her first—cold iron, voided bowels, and something faintly sweet underneath. The scene was grotesquely staged.
A Stormfang warrior, maybe twenty, lay supine across the flat granite marker stone. His head hung back over the edge, exposing the ragged horror of his neck. His arms were folded neatly over his chest. In his stiffening hands, someone had placed a bundled twist of damp greenery.
"Feverfew," Lysaria whispered, the healer in her overriding the shock. "And… yarrow."
"Not just that," Elara muttered, pointing with her chin.
Nestled in the hollow of the man’s throat, above the killing wound, was a careful braid of three different grasses. Lysaria’s blood went still. She knew that braid. Every child in the villages bordering the cruel forest knew it. A witch’s knot.
A collective rustle went through the Parfyn wolves. They all looked at her.
Cregan’s expression didn’t change. He crouched, ignoring the body, and studied the ground. "Wolf tracks. A dozen. Coming from the east, leaving to the north. Stormfang territory."
"He was dumped," Jace said, crouching beside him. "Dragged here. Look at the heel grooves in the mud. They didn't even carry their own dead."
"That’s the point," Cregan said, his voice like gravel. He stood, his gaze sweeping the tense faces of his pack. "They wanted him found just like this. On my border. Dressed in their colors, killed by a wolf, but arranged by human hands." His eyes finally found Lysaria’s. "By a witch’s hands."
"They’re framing us," Elara said, the conclusion landing with a dull thud.
"Not ‘us’," Lysaria corrected, her voice surprisingly steady. She moved forward, kneeling a respectful distance from the stone. The sweet, cloying scent from the herbs was stronger here. "Framing me. The feverfew and yarrow are for healing fevers and staunching wounds. It’s a healer’s bundle. And the knot…" She swallowed. "It’s the same kind left on old man Harrow’s fence the year his sheep all died. The kind they talk about in the villages."
"So it’s a message for the village louts, too," Jace concluded. "Look at the savage witch, playing with the dead, inciting pack wars. Neat."
"Where’s Ronyn?" Cregan asked.
Elara nudged a young warrior forward. He was pale, his hands shaking. "Alpha. I… I just found him. Like this."
"Did you see anything? Hear anything?"
Ronyn shook his head violently. "Nothing. It was quiet. Too quiet. No forest sounds at all." He glanced desperately at Lysaria, then away. "It felt wrong. Like the air was thick."
"Poisoned," Lysaria murmured, more to herself. She leaned closer to the body, ignoring the gore, and inhaled deeply near the braided witch’s knot. Under the blood and herbs, it was there: a faint, acrid trace of burnt marsh-elder and copper. "There’s a glamour on him. Faint. Breaking."
Cregan was beside her in an instant. "A what?"
"False scent. A masking. Meant to fade after discovery." She looked up at him, her heterochromatic eyes catching the torchlight. "Whoever did this doesn’t just want to frame a witch. They want to frame this specific witch. They used components I buy from the traveling cart. They knew about the village stories." Her jaw tightened. "This is personal."
The implications settled over them, colder than the night. This wasn't just Torin posturing. This was a plot with roots.
Cregan straightened, his alpha’s mask falling back into place, but his eyes were volcanoes. "Jace. Get a clean shroud. We wrap him, scents and all. We carry him to the midpoint clearing, and we leave him there for Stormfang to find."
"Are you mad?" Elara hissed. "That’s admitting guilt!"
"It’s denying them the spectacle," Cregan countered, his tone leaving no room. "If we keep the body, we hide their evidence. If we send it back ruined, it’s an act of war. Returning it intact, but moved, says we saw their pathetic play. We’re not engaging. We’re clearing our table."
He turned to the pack, his voice carrying. "This is what they want. Chaos. Suspicion. For us to turn on each other." His gaze swept over them, lingering on the ones who wouldn't meet Lysaria's eyes. "They left a witch’s knot. They think that’s enough to break us. Is it?"
A low growl started in the back of the crowd. Then another. Ronyn, the pale young warrior, stiffened his spine. "The pups bit Torin for her," he said, as if realizing it for the first time. "My kid sister’s alive because of her tinctures." He looked directly at Lysaria, then back to Cregan. "It’s not enough, Alpha."
The growl built into a unified, vibrating hum of defiance.
Cregan gave a single, sharp nod. "Move. Now. Before their scouts come looking for their lost pawn."
As the pack sprang into motion, Cregan pulled Lysaria aside, his hand warm and firm on her arm. "The personal part. Think. Who knows you like that? Your habits, your supplies?"
"The village," she said, a hollow opening inside her. "Anyone who’s ever bought a 'cure' from me and spat on my step afterwards. The cart merchant, maybe."
"Or someone closer," he said, his blue eyes searching the dark tree line as if he could see the enemy standing there. "Someone who’s been watching my den for a while."
A new, more chilling thought occurred to her. "Cregan… the glamour. To layer a false scent that specific, they’d need something of mine. Hair. Blood. Saliva."
He went very still. "Has anyone gotten that from you?"
"Not willingly." The memory of the snare, the witch-knotted rope biting into her ankle, flashed in her mind. "The trap in the woods. It broke my skin. There was blood on the ropes they left behind."
The pieces clicked together with an almost audible sound. The same orchestrator. Escalating.
"They’re not just trying to drive you out," Cregan said, the realization turning his voice to ice. "They’re building a narrative for a execution. A wolf-killing, corpse-desecrating witch, corrupting a pack from within. It’s justification."
"For what?"
"For the other Alphas to sanction a cleansing. For Torin to rally support and come in here not as a rival, but as a righteous purger." His grip on her arm tightened, not to hurt, but to anchor. "They’re not starting a skirmish. They’re laying the groundwork for a war, and they’re handing out the righteous flags."
Lysaria felt the world narrow to the solid feel of his hand, the cold air in her lungs, the torches painting manic shadows around the grisly stage. "So what do we do?"
"We give them a different story." He released her, turning to watch his pack carefully lift the shrouded body. "We show them a pack that’s not fractured. We show them a witch who’s not hiding." He looked back at her, a fierce, wild gleam in his eyes. "Starting tomorrow, you’re not just healing in the den. You’re training with Elara. In the yard. Where everyone can see."
"Training? To fight?"
"To move. To not be an easy target." A faint, grim smile touched his lips. "And we invite the village cart merchant for a trade. A very public, very friendly trade."
"He could be the one who sold my herbs to them."
"Exactly. Let’s see how he acts when he’s sitting at our fire, eating our food, and sees you alive and well and under my very direct protection." Cregan started walking back toward the hall, his pace decisive. "They want a hidden witch causing trouble. We give them a visible one, integrated into the pack’s core. We flip their script."
Lysaria hurried to keep up, the plan forming, dangerous and bold. "And the war they’re building towards?"
"Will happen whether we cower or not." He held the heavy oak door open for her, the warmth from inside spilling out. "But if it comes, they won’t be fighting a weakened pack torn apart by superstition. They’ll be fighting all of us. Together."
He followed her in, the door thudding shut behind them, sealing out the night and its staged horrors. For now.