The morning sun bled through the barred windows of the guest wing, casting long, skeletal shadows across the stone floor, but the light brought no warmth to the room. The air was stagnant, heavy with the scent of old dust and the fresh, sharp tang of Cassian’s anxiety, which clung to him like a second skin. He had dismissed the guards hours ago, wanting, needing, this moment to be private.
He couldn't have his warriors seeing the Alpha King of the North as a beggar before a child.
In his hands, Cassian carried a small, velvet-wrapped bundle. He set it on the heavy oak table with the trembling reverence of a priest placing an offering on a forgotten altar. When the dark fabric fell away, it revealed a training dagger of exquisite, brutal beauty.
It was forged from cold iron, the blade
