GOLD & AZURE

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 16: THE FURROWS OF PAIN

PART I: THE CONVOY OF INFAMY

Darkness was no longer a protective cloak, but a moving cell. For Mia and Béa, the night had not ended with a sunrise, but with a crash of metal and raucous screams. Before dawn could even pierce the leaden sky above Krane’s fortress, the doors of their dungeon flew into splinters.

They were shoved around with gratuitous savagery. Calloused hands grabbed them by the hair and shoulders, tearing them from a heavy sleep. Mia tried to struggle, but a blow to the stomach doubled her over. Before she could catch her breath, a gag of coarse cloth, steeped in the smell of old sweat and grease, was tied behind her neck, stifling her protests. A terrified Béa suffered the same fate. Their wrists, already bruised by silver, were bound so tightly that blood ceased to pulse in their fingers.

— “Move it, little dolls of the North,” growled a Flayer whose face was masked by a poorly tanned hide. “The journey is going to be long, and Alberik doesn’t like to wait.”

They were dragged through cold corridors, their feet only intermittently touching the ground. At the fortress exit, a hay wagon, its sideboards raised with studded planks, awaited them. They were tossed inside like sacks of grain. Just before the heavy leather curtain was pulled shut, a hand threw them a loaf of black bread, hard as stone, and a canteen of stagnant water.

This was the entirety of the feast for the princesses of the Royal Clan of Snow Leopards. They, who had known only fine linen tablecloths, spiced reindeer broth, and winter fruits candied in honey, found themselves staring at a moldy crust in the fetid gloom of a cart.

The journey was a hell of every second. The wagon had no suspension, and every rut in the mountain path sent a jolt of pain through their battered bodies. The icy North wind rushed through the gaps in the poorly-joined planks, hissing like a mocking serpent. Béa quickly began to suffer. Her feet, protected only by thin slippers of deerskin and embroidered velvet, palace finery totally unsuited to the rigor of frozen passes, had turned to ice. Her toes were losing all sensation, a bluish bite slowly creeping up toward her ankles: the first signs of frostbite.

Mia, despite her own bonds, managed to crawl toward her sister. She used her own body as a shield against the wind, attempting to rub Béa’s legs and feet with her knees and arms. They stayed huddled together, united by a bond that even silver could not totally break: that of blood and survival.

The supreme humiliation came from the cruelty of their jailers. The Flayers never stopped. The convoy had to move in a forced march toward the secret pier. When nature called, no halt was granted. Mia and Béa had to endure the unspeakable: relieving themselves where they lay, in the cramped space surrounding them. The stench quickly became unbearable, a mixture of sweat, fear, urine, and decay that saturated the confined air of the wagon. Royal dignity faded beneath the filth, but in Mia’s eyes, a flame of pure hatred gradually replaced despair. Every kilometer traveled was a promise of blood she vowed for Krane and Malphas.

PART II: THE HUNT AND THE WEB OF SOULS

Leagues away, the snow did not suffer infamy; it carried justice. Beneath the dark vault of the conifers, a ribbon of muscle and fur sped between giant firs, breaking the crystalline silence of the night. Alpha Thalys, transformed into a massive snow leopard of imperial stature, led the charge. His thick coat, dappled with dark rosettes, almost blended with the shifting shadows of the rocks and the bluish glint of the frost. Behind him, fifty of his best warriors followed, forming a pack of silent and deadly predators whose breath created faint clouds of steam in the frozen air.

Two of these warriors, particularly broad-shouldered, wore special rigs: harnesses of reinforced leather and hemp rope used to pull light sleds. These, gliding on smoothed bone runners, were filled with dry rations, pure steel weapons, and boiled wool clothing for the future survivors. At the head of the convoy, Elara, in her form of an agile pearl-gray wolf, ran with fluid grace alongside Solas, her legendary endurance hound. On Solas’s back, clinging firmly to his short fur, the cat Mishka watched the heights. Her feline eyes, two slits of pure gold, scanned the canopy, catching the slightest suspicious quiver in the spruce branches.

The silence of the forest was deceptive, however. In Thalys’s mind, there was a true tumult. Thanks to the Alpha’s mental link, an invisible psychic web connected every member of the clan, a symphony of thoughts and tactical alerts.

“Brothers, report,” Thalys ordered, his voice echoing like a roll of thunder in the minds of Xander, Matveï, and Maxim.

“The ramparts are held, Thal,” Xander replied from the Quartz Palace. “The Silver Guard is deployed, archers are in position. No enemy movement on the horizon, but the tension is so thick you could cut it with a dagger.”

Suddenly, a thinner voice, vibrating with restrained worry, that of Anastasia, slipped into her brother’s consciousness.

“Thal, we have an internal problem. Our Uncle Hokan is taking advantage of your absence to sow discord among the Elders. He claims Elowen’s presence brings a curse upon the clan, that the Northern gods are punishing us. He is calling for a vote to hand her over to Krane... or worse, to exile her into the storm. What is the course of action?”

Thalys’s physical growl vibrated the snow crust for several meters. His claws plowed into the frozen ground with renewed fury.

“Do not let him gain the upper hand, Ana. Olga has orders not to let him out of her sight. If he attempts physical action, have her immobilize him without hesitation. My priority is to bring our sisters home safe and sound, but I will let no one touch my betrothed. Handle the Council with your usual diplomacy, but do not forget to remind them who wears the crown. A Barsky never backs down from a traitor, even if he shares his blood.”

In the heart of the Quartz Palace, in the Secret Room, the atmosphere was radically different. This sanctuary, carved into pure crystal beneath the mountain’s roots, was bathed in a soothing bluish glow. The quartz walls reflected the light from oil lanterns, creating a glittering universe where the cold had no place.

Anastasia received her brother’s orders while supervising the refuge. She sent a discreet link to Olga, who stood like a granite statue near the entrance:

“Olga, keep an eye on Uncle Hokan. His words are distilled venom. If he approaches Elowen or tries to isolate her, neutralize him by any means.”

Inside, the mood was heavy, but a rigorous organization had taken hold. Elowen, the future Luna and Queen, showed a strength of soul that commanded the respect of even the most skeptical leopards. She did not settle for passively waiting out the crisis. She was active, her agile hands distributing blankets and rations of clear water to the mothers.

She approached a group of elderly women, the “Matriarchs of the Frost,” who were knitting nervously in a corner.

— “Have some of this lichen infusion,” she said softly to one of them whose hands were trembling. “It warms the blood and calms the heartbeat.”

The old woman looked up at her with misty eyes.

— “They say you are our ruin, little one... but your hands are as soft as a queen’s.”

Elowen smiled with a serene sadness.

— “Rumors are like the wind; they howl a great deal but build nothing. We are together in this mountain, and that is all that matters.”

Seeing a group of children huddled together, eyes wide with fear, Elowen realized that terror was a poison more dangerous than the enemy. A little boy, barely five years old, began to sob loudly, calling for his father who remained on the ramparts.

Elowen sat cross-legged on a fur rug, right in the middle of the room.

— “Did you know,” she began in a clear voice that cut through the crying, “that dragons aren’t always those scary beasts you see on banners?”

The children turned toward her, intrigued. Even a few guard warriors listened in.

— “A long time ago,” she resumed with a wink, “there lived a dragon named Gribouille. Gribouille was huge, bottle-green, and he had a very embarrassing problem: he was allergic to smoke.”

A timid little laugh rose from the group.

— “Every time he tried to breathe fire to impress a princess or toast a marshmallow, he ended up sneezing... and instead of flames, he spat out thousands of multicolored soap bubbles!”

The children drew closer, their faces lighting up. Elowen used her fertile imagination to paint the scene.

— “Imagine a knight arriving in his shiny armor, ready to fight the ‘monster,’ and suddenly... ACHOO! There he is, covered in strawberry foam, forced to scrub his shield just to see anything! Gribouille was so sad he hid in a crystal cave, a bit like this one. But one day, a little princess who was afraid of nothing entered his cave. She didn’t carry a sword; she carried... a giant chocolate cake.”

— “A chocolate cake?” asked a little girl, wiping her nose.

— “Exactly! Because she knew Gribouille didn’t want to devour the kingdom; he just wanted friends who accepted his bubbles instead of his flames. They spent the night making up games. Gribouille made giant bubbles that the princess could bounce on like a feather bed.”

Elowen mimed the bouncing, making the little ones burst into laughter. She continued her tale, transforming the fear of the siege into a fantastic epic where courage resided not in the strength of claws, but in the warmth of the heart. She told how the dragon eventually saved the kingdom not by burning enemies, but by making them slide on a carpet of soapy bubbles until they were too tired from laughing to fight.

The mothers, watching the scene, felt a weight lift from their chests. Elowen was not just protecting them physically; she was healing their souls and their fears. She prepared the fur nests for the night, ensuring every child had a stuffed toy or a rabbit skin for comfort. Her calm acted as a balm on the ambient terror, proving to every member present, from the youngest to the oldest, that she possessed the dignity of a true Royal Luna.

Above them, the quartz walls seemed to vibrate in harmony with her voice, transforming the underground prison into a palace of dreams. Elowen, the “Cursed Wolf”, according to Hokan’s words, had just conquered the hearts of her people by the sole strength of a fairy tale and a protective smile. She was the destined Queen of this clan, and no traitor could ever claim otherwise before those who had seen her console their children.

PART III: THE ANTECHAMBER OF DEATH

If the Palace was a fortress of will, the infirmary was a bloody battlefield. The smell of death was so strong there that it seemed to cling to the white stone walls.

Sacha’s hands were red up to the elbows. Her face, usually so serene, was a mask of absolute concentration. This was no time for tears and cries, even though her mate and lover, Gamma Anton, lay before her, life escaping him in jolts. Beside her, Vera, Karl’s mate, worked with the same fervor to stabilize the father of her children.

The wounds were atrocious. The Flayers’ arrows were not just wood and iron; their silver tips had been dipped in aconite, the shifter killer. Where a normal wound would close in minutes for a snow leopard, these remained gaping, the flesh necrotizing under the effect of the poison.

— “Vera, I need more peat moss compresses and snow lily root!” Sacha shouted without looking up.

Anton had been hit in the femoral artery of the thigh. The vessel, a highway of life, had been shredded by a serrated blade. The blood pulsed violently, covering the crystal floor in a dark sheet. Sacha had to perform emergency surgery, a manual suture while the silver continued to burn the tissues.

— “Hold him!” Sacha ordered the two young wolf nurses assisting her.

These two young women, not yet mated, showed exemplary courage. They pressed their hands onto Anton’s massive shoulders to keep him from thrashing in pain as Sacha plunged her instruments into the wound to clamp the artery.

The silence in the room was “solemn,” interrupted only by the clinking of metal against bone and the labored breathing of the wounded. Karl, the Alpha’s right hand and best friend, was also unrecognizable, his chest plowed by gashes that refused to heal. Sacha and Vera worked relentlessly, ignoring fatigue and hunger. They knew that if they faltered for a single second, the smell of death lurking in the corners of the room would finally descend upon their mates.

In this atmosphere of desolation, the science of the Elders and the magic of herbs fought against the cruelty of men. The healers were the last ramparts between life and nothingness, their hands trembling with exhaustion but guided by a love stronger than the poison of aconite.