Inside the fort, the temperature was lower than outside.
It wasn't the temperature, but the presence of roaring hearths in sconces made of black iron. The silence in the North seemed deliberate, as if the stone walls themselves were paying attention.
The steward led 01911 down a corridor of resounding steps.
He didn't say who he was. No one ever did.
Silver moons and clawed crescents were displayed on banners that hung from the hall's long ceiling. The corners were covered in shadows. The oil lights flickered like cautious eyes.
Everything here was too quiet.
They didn't see anyone else. No sounds. No talking.
In 1911, she maintained a low profile by keeping her head down, her hands folded, and her movements silent. The fact that her breath fogged up in the air demonstrated that she was still alive, even if it didn't always seem that way.
The steward ultimately stopped in front of a set of enormous doors adorned with wolves in the midst of a hunt.
"Keep quiet. Unless called, don't lift your gaze."
He unlocked the doors.
The chamber beyond was magnificent and austere: a fire and stone hall. The tribunal was convened, sitting in a crescent arc of chairs with high backs. They were twelve in number: nobles with blood and frostbitten eyes, dressed in fur and midnight. Although not all of them were werewolves, the majority of them were. She could detect a wild element behind their skin.
And in the centre, sitting on a throne made of iron and antler—
—was the Alpha.
She didn't have the guts to glance.
As she had been instructed, she knelt down.
The Lady of Virelen walked in after her, her robes sounding like the wind moving over stone. Without stopping, she extended a beautiful bow as she approached the center.
She said, "My lord Fenris, House Virelen presents this gift in the spirit of peace and shared strength." An unspoiled man from the south who has received training in obedience. completely yours.
She was aware of a dozen pairs of eyes on her in 01911. She wasn't breathing.
The quiet continued.
"Lift up her head."
The voice was resonant, low, and masculine. Not mad. Not in the least curious. Just making up one's mind.
The steward grabbed her chin and raised it.
The Alpha's boots were visible in 01911 after a slight glance upward. They were black, worn, and covered in claw marks. She made no attempt to raise her gaze. She didn't have to.
He stood up.
The court held its breath.
His footsteps made little noise, but they were not gentle. Beneath the snow, they sounded like drumbeats that reverberated throughout the room. She could sense him approaching her. She took a breath.
But then there was a surprise.
He crouched.
Close, but not close enough to meet her gaze.
She observed his hand extending, but not in an attempt to hit her; rather, it seemed to be reaching for the spot of her neck where the elf's collar was still located.
"This is not needed," stated Lord Fenris.
A server showed up with a snap of his fingers. The collar was taken off.
The court mumbled in a low voice, albeit with displeasure.
"She will remain, but not in shackles," said Lord Fenris.
The Lady of Virelen was anxious. "All I meant to do was show respect, my lord—"
"I know what you meant," he said, his tone turning icy. "You may leave."
As the footsteps faded behind her, she lowered her head once more.
She was confused by what had just occurred.
All she knew was that the collar was gone.
And she was still alive.
She was taken to a space close to the servants' quarters that evening. It lacked locks, had stone walls, and just a thin blanket.
She continued to be awake, though.
Because kindness, too, had teeth in the North.
Furthermore, regardless of how oddly merciful he was, Lord Fenris was still a wolf.