CHAPTER FOUR — THE ENVOY
1268 Words
CHAPTER FOUR — THE ENVOY
Isolde Rivenhart’s POV
When the Bloodvale banner appeared on the horizon, the wind shifted.
Not in temperature, but in intent. Like the land itself had gone still, listening.
Silverpine’s gate guards spotted the envoy before noon. A single rider. No army behind him, no threat drawn yet. Just a lone figure cloaked in black, crest of a bleeding moon stitched into the fabric at his shoulder.
I was in the southern orchard, pruning low branches, when the horn sounded — one long, sharp note that meant visitors with teeth.
Thorne found me before I reached the inner wall.
“They’re not here for war,” he said. “Not today.”
“But they’re not here in peace either.”
“No.”
The last time a Bloodvale emissary crossed into another pack’s territory, three scouts went missing and one beta’s head was sent back in a box.
We let this one in anyway.
Because to refuse a parley is to declare war.
And we weren’t ready for war.
---
He dismounted like he owned the land.
Tall, wiry, dressed in fine black leather stitched with red. His eyes flicked over the gathered warriors, then landed on me.
Recognition. Then something colder.
Contempt.
I kept my chin high.
“You must be the traitor,” he said.
“And you must be the messenger sent to deliver empty threats,” I replied coolly.
A flicker of amusement touched his mouth.
Thorne stepped beside me, imposing and silent. His presence didn’t need words. It was all height and heat and stillness coiled like a blade.
“You’ve crossed a guarded line,” he said.
“I bring a sealed decree,” the envoy said, drawing a parchment from his coat. “From Alpha Ronan Blackvale of Bloodvale.”
“I’m not interested in what he has to say,” I said, stepping forward.
But Thorne stopped me with a slight touch to my wrist.
“Let him read it,” he said.
The envoy broke the seal, unrolled the parchment, and read aloud:
“To the rightful mate of Bloodvale’s Alpha and the wayward she-wolf who bears my rejected mark — Isolde Rivenhart —
You were granted a place beside me, born of blood and bond. You cast it away.
I offer you a final reprieve.
Return to your rightful position before the next blood moon, or be declared a traitor of the old vow, and an enemy of the Blackvale line.
No sanctuary will shield you after that date.
Choose wisely.
— Ronan.”
The envoy refolded the letter and held it out to me.
I didn’t take it.
“Let me be clear,” I said, my voice low and even. “I am not your Alpha’s to summon. I am not his to threaten. I will not return to a man who wore devotion like a leash and love like a collar.”
“You swore an oath—”
“He broke it first.”
The envoy’s face twisted into a sneer. “You think this pack can protect you forever?”
“I don’t need protecting,” I said. “I just need space to breathe. And I’ll tear the lungs from any man who tries to take that from me again.”
The silence after that was absolute.
Then Thorne said, simply, “Message delivered. You may leave now.”
The envoy lingered a moment too long, eyes locked on mine like he wanted to burn something into me. Then he turned, mounted his horse, and rode out the same way he came — back into the misty tree line, banner trailing like a shadow behind him.
---
Inside the council hall, the air was thick.
Thorne sat at the head of the long table, his inner circle gathered: Lyra, his second; Fen, the war captain; and two of the eldest advisors. I stood to his right, arms crossed, trying not to let my pulse betray me.
“He’ll attack,” Lyra said.
“Yes,” Fen agreed. “He’s testing the line now. Next time, he’ll cross it.”
“What’s the timeline on the blood moon?” Thorne asked.
“Seventeen days.”
Long enough to prepare. Too short to run.
“We can’t provoke him, but we can’t ignore it either,” said Elder Maren.
I finally spoke. “He wants me to feel cornered. He thinks if he makes the walls close in, I’ll come crawling back.”
“Will you?” Lyra asked, blunt as ever.
I met her gaze. “No.”
There was no room for doubt in me anymore.
Not after what I’d survived.
Not after I’d started breathing again here, in this strange, strong place where silence wasn’t a punishment and loyalty wasn’t control.
Thorne’s hand brushed mine under the table.
Just for a moment.
I didn’t pull away.
---
That night, I didn’t return to my room.
I stayed in the east wing training hall long after everyone else had gone, working the blade against the wooden post until my arms trembled and my breath came in sharp, hot bursts.
Ronan’s voice rang in my ears, not from today’s message, but from years before — whispered in private, dressed as love.
No one will want you if you leave me.
You're mine. You don’t get to rewrite the story.
I struck harder.
I struck until the post splintered.
“You can’t kill memories, you know,” Thorne said from the doorway.
“I can try.”
He stepped in slowly, his boots soft against the wood.
“Want company?”
I nodded.
He didn’t speak again as he walked over, picked up a training blade, and mirrored my stance. We sparred without talking — the rhythm of movement louder than words. I struck, he blocked. He advanced, I evaded. We moved like dancers trying not to step on old wounds.
Then he caught my wrist mid-swing.
Held it.
Not hard.
Just firm enough that I had to stop and look at him.
His gaze searched mine.
I didn’t know what he saw, but he let go a second later and stepped back.
“I don’t think you’re broken,” he said. “I think you’re burning.”
“And what happens when I burn out?”
“You won’t. You’ll forge.”
---
When I finally returned to my room, the parchment was waiting on my bed.
I didn’t need to ask how it got there. Lyra, probably.
Thorne’s people were efficient.
I sat with it in my lap for a long time.
Not reading it.
Just holding the weight of it.
An invitation to return to a life I had barely escaped.
An ultimatum disguised as a plea.
I took it outside with me. Walked to the edge of the bluff. Held it over the firepit.
Then I said the words, not for Ronan, but for myself.
“I am not yours.”
And I let it burn.
---
The next morning, I woke to a scream.
Not mine.
Not a dream.
Outside — one of the guards.
I threw on a coat and boots and ran.
A body had been hung in the trees just beyond the western wall. One of Thorne’s outer scouts. His throat slashed, his wrists tied, his eyes removed.
Pinned to his chest: a torn piece of the original rejection letter I had written Ronan.
In my own hand.
I swayed.
Thorne caught me before I hit the ground.
And I knew, without anyone saying a word:
This was just the beginning.
- Writer
