Chapter 2
1080 Words
By eight a.m., the war room smelled like coffee, old paper, and wet fur.
Amara slipped inside just as the big clock on the wall clicked to the hour. The long table in the center was already ringed with wolves—patrol leaders, trackers, a couple of older scouts who refused to retire. Her father stood near the end, back straight, fingers curled around a mug.
He caught her eye. A tiny nod. On time.
She took a spot along the wall with the other senior guards, hands loose behind her back. From here she could see the map spread across the table, territory lines marked in red and green. The western border—her border—was a dark smear of ink and thumbprints.
Alpha Lysander stepped forward, a quiet ripple going through the room. He was lean, dark-haired, his dominance worn like an old coat—comfortable, never shouted. Luna Seren hovered at his shoulder, soft smile fixed in place.
“Thank you for coming,” Lysander said. His voice was mild, but Amara heard the thread of tension under it. “We have important guests arriving within the week, and I want my patrols ready.”
A murmur ran through the room. Guests. Not rogues. Not hunters.
Lysander touched the map, fingertip landing right on the valley road. “In three days’ time, a delegation from the Blackridge Pack will cross into our territory to renew the valley treaty.”
The word landed like a dropped stone. Blackridge.
Amara’s wolf stiffened. The faint scent from last night brushed across her memory—power, steel, something cold.
“Alpha Rowan Hale will be in attendance,” Lysander went on. “Along with his beta, his gamma, and several key advisors. Officially, they’re here to confirm resource-sharing and hunting boundaries.”
“Unofficially?” someone near the table said.
Lysander’s smile didn’t change. “Unofficially, they’re here so we can all look one another in the eye and pretend we trust each other.”
A few low chuckles. The tension didn’t ease much.
Amara’s father spoke up. “They’ll be armed, sir?”
“Of course,” Lysander said. “As will we. But this is a diplomatic visit, not a challenge. Which means”—his gaze swept the room—“we will be on our best behavior. No posturing. No picking fights. No assuming Blackridge wolves are the enemy simply for breathing our air.”
He looked straight at the patrol captains. Amara could almost feel Jace rolling his eyes somewhere behind her.
“What do we know about their route?” she asked before she could talk herself out of it.
Dozens of eyes flicked her way. She kept her shoulders loose, voice even.
Lysander didn’t seem bothered. “They’ll cross here.” He tapped the far western edge of the map. “Then follow the road, pass the northern ridge, and arrive at the pack house by midday. We’ll post guards along the route as a courtesy and a warning.”
Elias’s gaze slid to Amara, then back to the Alpha. “Amara should be on the border team,” he said. “She knows that stretch better than anyone.”
Heat pricked her cheeks, not from embarrassment but from that odd, backhanded pride. Reliable. Useful.
Lysander considered her for a moment. “You were on west patrol last night, weren’t you, Frost?”
“Yes, Alpha.”
“Anything unusual?”
The ghost of that foreign scent stirred. She hesitated a fraction, then shook her head. “No physical sign of rogues or trespass. Wind carried something non-local over the line, but it stayed on their side. Nothing fresh.”
Her father’s jaw ticked, almost imperceptibly. He didn’t like her giving him edited truths, but this was observation, not confession. Saying more—saying I think Blackridge wolves were already out there, watching us—would only stoke nerves he was trying to keep banked.
Lysander nodded. “Good. I want Blackridge to see competence, not paranoia. You’ll take border escort, Frost. Fifty-meter interval, no closer, no snapping or pissing contests.”
A couple of soft snorts. Amara dipped her head. “Yes, Alpha.”
He moved on. Assignments rolled out in crisp lines: extra scouts on the southern ridge, medic teams on standby, kitchen prepared for twice the usual mouths. Through it all, Amara’s mind drifted to last night’s phantom scent.
Rowan Hale.
She’d never seen him, only heard stories. The way older warriors said his name, like it tasted of iron. The way elders leaned forward when the news mentioned Blackridge’s latest negotiation. The way her father’s mouth went thin whenever politics drifted west.
He’ll be in our hall, she thought. In our forest.
“And one more thing,” Lysander said, jolting her back. “There is talk that Alpha Rowan’s upcoming mating will further solidify his alliances to the east.”
“Political match?” one of the trackers asked.
Lysander’s mouth twisted faintly. “What else? A well-bred daughter of a small pack that needs his protection.” He shrugged. “It’s not our business. But you may hear it mentioned. I expect no commentary. No gossip. Understood?”
A low rumble of assent.
Amara’s wolf bristled at the casual way he spoke about mating like a trade agreement. Then again, that was how it usually was for Alphas. Love was for lower ranks and storybooks. Bonds, if you believed in them at all, were bonuses, not guarantees.
Her father’s hand brushed her arm as the meeting broke up. “Don’t overthink it,” he murmured. “We host, we escort, they leave. That’s all.”
“That’s all,” she echoed.
He squeezed once, then moved off to talk with another captain.
Amara lingered, eyes on the map. West ridge. The narrow cut of road where Blackridge cars would appear. Where their Alpha would roll into her world with his pretty political future already arranged.
Her wolf paced under her skin, restless.
“Steady,” she told herself under her breath. “You’re just a border guard. You walk, you watch, you go home.”
Outside, the morning air felt sharper than usual, full of scents she knew by heart—and one she didn’t, faint on the far edge of the wind.
Blackridge was coming.
And whether she wanted it or not, the border was about to stop being just trees and fences and quiet nights.
- Writer
