The Keep
1371 Words
Soft. Weightless. Warm.
For one ridiculous second, Talia floated on the edge of consciousness. Heaven, she thought. The Moon Goddess gave me a cloud.
She reached out, expecting Thomas. Expecting him to kiss her hair and swear the rejection, the river, and the fall were just a nightmare.
Her fingers closed on cool linen.
Not arms. Not heaven. Not Thomas.
Awareness slammed in like an iron bell. Pain fired behind her eyes; bruises stacked on bruises. Her left hip pulsed with the solid memory of rock. Wolves healed fast, but the witch-cold of the fen still clung to her skin like a nettle.
Sound arrived last: birds trilling, the steady rush of water, and the rustle of pages turning.
She cracked her eyes open.
The room was a striking contradiction, a blend of two worlds. Rough, ancient stone walls, veined with pale quartz, met sleek, modern glass windows that stood half-open to the balcony. The floor was old timber, dark and polished by centuries of feet, but the furniture was minimalist and sharp—low tables of brushed steel and blackwood.
Mountain air shouldered in, crisp with pine and snow melt. Far below, a silver river stitched the valley.
A chair waited near the door—angled to watch both her and the exit.
He sat there reading, long legs stretched out, a book in one hand: broad shoulders, intricately inked forearms, and a thin white cut through one eyebrow. An inked oath mark sat just inside his wrist.
Casius. Beta of the Royal Obsidian. Alina’s scent clung to him.
Talia’s breath hitched.
His head came up. Winter-bright eyes found hers. For a heartbeat, something unguarded crossed his face—relief?
"You're awake," he said, his voice low. He closed the book, rose, and came only as far as the bedside table. “Water?”
Her pride wavered. Her throat said yes. “Please.”
He poured. He stood near enough to catch her if she fell. She pushed herself up with a quiet oath and drank. The water stung cold and good.
“Alina,” she managed.
“Two rooms over,” he said immediately. “Sleeping. Bruised, not broken. She’s under guard.”
Relief hit so hard it almost hurt. "I need to see her."
“You will. Eat first.” He gestured to a tray of steaming broth on the steel table. “If you faint in the hall, the healer will hang both of us by our tails.”
Kaela stirred, groggy. He smells like snow. And like Alina.
“Thank you,” she said. For the water. For the guard at Alina’s door.
He inclined his head.
“How long?” she asked, spooning broth.
“Since the fall? A night and a day.”
Memory hit fast: the seam ripping, the moonlight and bog-dark colliding, Thomas lunging, the metal plate near his knee.
Her stomach rolled. She raised a hand to her brow.
“The river,” she forced out. “We fell into it.”
“It runs under the keep,” Casius said. “The king… encouraged it to catch you.”
Talia nodded toward the abandoned book. “Light reading?”
He showed the cover. River Law and Marsh Bargains. “Duller than it sounds. Locals call the black water below the fen. Witches like it; peat holds their work.”
“Fen,” she said. “Mud that holds grudges.”
“That’s the one.”
She set the empty bowl aside. Her hands had stopped shaking.
“Lucian?”
“In council. The witch. The rogues. Black River.”
Talia’s expression hardened. “Thomas knew,” she said. The name burned. “He expected the attack. They tried to kill me, but they wanted to capture Alina.”
She clenched her hands on the sheets. “And the mark on the plate he dropped? It matches the one hidden on my father’s dagger. The blade that went missing when he drowned.” Her voice broke. “It was a river mark. Thomas didn't just sell us out. He killed my father.”
Casius didn’t offer pity. “Your thought matches others,” he said.
A soft knock interrupted them. A young healer slipped in, checking bandages with cool, efficient hands.
“Your sister is awake,” the healer said. “Eating. Asking after you.”
Talia kicked the covers off. Her body protested; she ignored it, swung her legs down, and stood—too fast. The room tilted. Casius stepped close, a solid wall of heat, but didn’t touch her.
“You are not here as a friend, are you?” she asked, eyes on the floor until it steadied.
He didn’t answer.
“You’re here to guard me. To make sure I don’t leave.”
His eyes sharpened. One small nod. Respect for the truth.
“I’m being called before the council,” she guessed.
Another nod. “Your magic is impressive, Talia. You stood against a binding that swallows seasoned warriors. They have questions.”
“Good. I have answers.”
They walked down a short corridor. The palace continued its strange duality—electric sconces mounted on iron brackets, smart-glass keypads next to heavy oak doors.
Casius opened one. Alina lay propped against pillows, hair a chaotic crown. When she saw Talia, she grinned so hard her eyes disappeared.
“Hi,” Alina said, already crying.
“Hi,” Talia whispered.
She crossed the room and hugged her sister. Alina smelled like soap and meat and pack—the kind that didn’t hurt.
“You look like you lost a fight with a cliff,” Alina murmured.
“The cliff won, but I bit it on the way down.”
Alina’s gaze slid towards Casius. “He won’t leave.”
“He shouldn’t.”
Peace uncoiled in Talia’s belly. Just enough to remember this wasn’t home.
As if the keep heard her thoughts, a horn sounded below: three notes, low-high-low. Casius’s eyes went wolf-bright.
“What is that?” Talia asked.
“South gate,” Casius said quietly. “Parley.”
“With whom?” Alina asked.
“Black River banners. And a northern standard. His future Luna wears gold.”
Mira. Thomas.
Kaela snarled in Talia's mind.
A sliver of parchment, tucked against the carved moon-phase on Alina’s bedpost, caught Talia’s eye. She slid it free. One line in a hand she knew too well:
Meet me at the marsh. Bring the dagger. — R.
Roland.
Talia folded the note and tucked it into her sleeve. Later. If there is a later.
She turned to Casius. “Take me to the council. It’s time.”
He didn’t argue. He stepped aside, palm extending toward the door.
“Walk with me.”
Talia squeezed Alina’s hand once and let go.
The corridor beyond smelled of polished wood and cold iron, but the air hummed with a frequency that made Kaela’s ears twitch.
Talia fell into step beside him, her eyes scanning the hall. To a stranger, this place was a museum of ancient wolf history. But Talia had been trained to survive, and she saw what the shadows hid.
It was a fortress of terrifying modernity.
She spotted the matte-black lenses of high-definition cameras recessed into the mouths of stone gargoyles—the faint, rhythmic pulse of thermal sensors disguised within the weave of antique tapestries. Even the heavy iron sconces weren’t just for light; she clocked the glint of biometric scanners housing glass eyes that tracked her heat signature with cold precision.
Every oak door they passed was fitted with a retinal lock embedded seamlessly into the ironwork. It was top-of-the-line military tech grafted onto bedrock: old magic, new teeth.
Wolves stepped aside as they moved—not hostile, not welcoming—watchful. They didn't need to bare their teeth; the building itself was ready to bite.
At the end of a long gallery, two black-oak doors waited under an arch of carved stone: wolves and rivers, storms and oaths.
Casius looked at her once. “Ready?”
“No,” Talia said, setting her shoulders. “Open it.”
The doors swung. Cold council light spilled across her toes.
And she walked in.
- Writer
