The Northern Fortress
? Ivy ?
We don’t talk afterward. The carriage rocks through the dark, steady and rough enough to keep me from falling fully asleep. Sometimes I wake to hooves striking frozen ground. Other times, Roman’s voice cuts through the night outside the carriage.
The mark around my wrist pulses beneath the dried moonflower paste.
The first time it happens, I jerk awake with my fingers curled in Roman’s coat and my heart beating so fast it might come up my throat.
Roman sits across from me, upright despite the long road, his bandaged hand resting on his thigh.
“You felt it,” he says.
“Does it always do that?”
His mouth doesn’t move. “No.” I close my eyes.
Of course it doesn’t. Nothing about tonight has been allowed to be normal. The carriage rolls on.
Sometime before dawn, Roman pulls a pair of boots from a compartment beneath the bench. They’re plain black leather, too large for me, lined with wool, and ugly enough to make Sloane faint.
“Put these on,” he says.
I stare at him for a second. He stares back, boots outstretched, neither impatient nor amused. Reluctantly, I take them.
They swallow my feet. I have to tuck the wedding gown around my ankles to make them fit beneath the hem.
They’re not pretty. They don’t match the pearls still pinned too tightly in my hair or the thin white gown beneath Roman’s black coat, but they keep my feet warm, and I love them a little for that.
Roman looks away while I fix the blanket over my knees. He doesn’t make a show of it. He simply gives me privacy and lets the road fill the quiet. After that, I drift again.
The world narrows to wheel, hoof, and breath.
Near dawn, the road changes. The air grows colder, but not like capital cold. This cold presses against the carriage seams and fogs the window glass.
I wipe a small circle clear with my sleeve and look out.
Pine trees crowd the road on both sides. Snow lies in the ditches, hardened into ridges. Iron posts mark the route at intervals, each one carved with a wolf sigil and scarred by weather. Watch fires burn from the ridge ahead.
Roman follows my gaze. “We’re close.”
I lean nearer to the window as the carriage climbs. The trees thin, the road curves, and the fortress rises from the northern slope.
Black stone walls cut across the ridge. Iron gates stand between two square towers. Smoke rises from chimneys. Banners hang from the battlements, dark cloth marked with a silver wolf.
The carriage passes the first watch post. A northern wolf steps forward, recognizes Roman through the window, and strikes a fist to his chest.
The gates open with a grinding sound that vibrates through the carriage floor. Captain Carr waits beyond them with Dane, Nora, two stable hands, and a kitchen boy trying not to stare at the bride the court sent north by accident.
Inside, the courtyard is already awake. No one has lined the path with flowers.
A wolf crosses the yard with a bundle of firewood balanced on one shoulder.
Two soldiers move past with patrol reports tucked under their arms.
A young man sits on a low wall while another wraps his ankle with practiced speed.
Near the far side, a woman in a healer’s apron hurries from one doorway to another with a basket of bandages.
The carriage stops near the main steps.
Roman steps out first, then turns and offers his hand. Cold washes in around him.
I place my uninjured hand in his.
The courtyard goes quieter. Maybe they see the wedding gown, his coat around my shoulders, the black-and-silver vow mark darkening beneath the dried paste at my wrist. Maybe no one expected Roman Maddox to return from a royal vow ceremony with a wife. I step down.
A man waits near the steps, broad-shouldered and dark-eyed, with close-cropped black hair and a scar through one brow. He stands soldier-still in a heavy northern coat, a short blade at his hip and nothing soft in his expression.
If I remember the whispers correctly, he’s Dane Carter, Roman’s beta.
He looks at Roman. “You left with a vow debt and came back with a Luna.”
Roman’s hand remains near mine, though he doesn’t hold it. “The vow is complete.”
Dane’s jaw shifts once. His eyes flick back to me. “The north wasn’t warned.”
“Neither was she,” Roman says.
Dane’s expression doesn’t warm, but his assessment changes. He hasn’t welcomed me or approved me, but he’s been given one piece of information he intends to keep.
A woman strides across the courtyard before he can answer.
She’s wrapped in a dark wool cloak thrown over a healer’s apron, her brown hair braided tightly back from a face too sharp to waste on court softness.
Her eyes are dark and direct, and there’s a smear of green salve along one wrist.
She has practical hands, quick steps, and no jewelry except a thin copper band on one thumb.
She stops in front of Roman, looks at him, then me, then my hand. Roman’s brow lowers slightly. “Nora.”
“You left for a ceremony and came back with a bride in shock, a fresh vow cut, and shoes that don’t fit.”
Dane mutters, “Good morning to you too.” Nora ignores him.
Roman says, “Can you treat her?”
“I can start.” Nora looks at me, not him.
She steps closer, then stops a respectful distance away. “May I see your palm?”
I look at Roman before I can stop myself. He doesn’t answer for me. He doesn’t even nod.
So I unwrap the bloodied cloth from my hand.
Nora takes my wrist with careful fingers. She looks at the cut first and makes a small, dissatisfied sound. “Clean enough. Needs salve and binding. You’ll live.”
Her attention shifts to my wrist, and the humor leaves her face.
She turns my hand slightly without touching the mark at first.
The dried moonflower paste has darkened where the vow burned beneath it, silver turned almost black in places.
Under the paste, the mark looks too deep, like ink caught below the skin. Nora’s fingers still.
Roman notices. Dane notices Roman noticing.
I catch the chain of reaction before anyone speaks. “What?”
Nora looks at me. “May I clean some of the paste away?”
She pulls a small cloth from her pocket and dampens it from a vial. The edge of the moonflower paste softens beneath her slow, careful movements. The mark underneath is darker than it should be. I know it before she says anything.
Blackened silver curls around my wrist in a crescent shape, but small threads branch from it, faint and delicate, disappearing under my skin. Nora stops wiping.
The courtyard sounds too loud around us. A hammer rings somewhere near the forge. A horse stamps. Someone coughs. Roman’s voice lowers. “Nora.”
“It should’ve stayed on the surface,” she says.
She glances at Roman, and the look between them is quick, old, and not reassuring. “After a legal seal, even a strong one, it should fade to skin-bound silver before morning. This is anchoring.”
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
Nora’s eyes return to mine. She hesitates, and that’s answer enough.
“Not wrong,” she says. “Unusual.”
I almost smile. I know softened truth when I hear it, but Nora isn’t hiding cruelty under gentleness. She’s choosing not to frighten me before she knows what she’s looking at. Still, my stomach tightens.
Roman looks toward the gathered courtyard, then steps forward. The effect is immediate. Wolves who were staring remember their work. A few lower their heads. One turns too fast and nearly walks into a stack of firewood.
Roman’s voice carries across the yard. “This is Ivy Maddox. She’s my wife and your Luna.”
The courtyard stills after Roman names me his wife and their Luna.
I don’t know how to be a Luna. I don’t know how to be his wife. I barely know how to stand in borrowed boots while Nora studies my wrist like the vow has grown roots under my skin.
The northern wolves react in uneven silence. Some lower their heads. Some press fists to their chests. Some stare for half a second too long before they correct themselves.
No one cheers. No one welcomes me with false warmth. For now, that’s enough.
Dane steps closer to Roman, his voice low enough that most of the courtyard won’t hear him. I do.
“A court Luna will be eaten alive here.”
Roman turns his head. “Then the north will learn better manners.”
Dane doesn’t flinch. “Manners won’t stop winter.”
I look at him. He doesn’t look sorry, but he doesn’t look pleased either. That makes the warning harder to dismiss. I know dining rooms, council seating, household accounts, and the exact amount of silence required to keep Marissa from turning a room against me. None of that’ll help me here.
Roman follows my expression. “She’s had enough court for one night.” Dane steps back. “Nora?”
“Inside,” Nora says. “Warm room. Food if she can keep it down. Then I look at the mark.”
“Nora.” Roman’s warning is quiet.
She looks at him. “Move.”
Nora snorts, and the sound nearly pulls a smile out of me.
Roman turns toward the main doors. I brace myself for him to take my arm, but he only walks slowly enough that I can keep pace.
The fortress doors open before us.
Inside, it’s warm. The entrance hall is built of black stone and iron sconces, with thick rugs worn flat, battle banners hanging from the rafters, and a long table near one wall stacked with maps, gloves, and half-empty mugs.
A servant hurries past with a basket of laundry, bows quickly, then keeps moving like no one here has time to hold a pose.
We climb a wide staircase. The boots are clumsy on the steps, and my gown catches twice.
Roman slows both times without looking back to make a point of it.
Nora walks on my other side, sharp eyes moving between my wrist and my face.
Dane follows behind us, quiet enough that I have to listen for his steps.
The halls grow quieter as we climb. Old banners hang between narrow windows, some faded nearly gray and others torn and repaired with darker thread. A scorch mark stains one section of wall near a stair landing, and no one has tried to hide it behind a tapestry.
Roman stops before a dark wooden door carved with the northern wolf sigil. He pushes it open himself.
“The Luna suite,” he says.
I step inside and hesitate. The rooms are large, but not delicate.
The dark stone walls are softened by thick woven hangings.
A fire burns in a deep hearth, throwing gold light over a heavy wooden table, two chairs, shelves of books, and a wide window facing the pine forest.
Beyond an open inner door, I glimpse a bedroom with a large bed covered in gray wool and black furs.
Another door stands partly open to a bathing room where steam curls faintly from a copper tub.
The suite feels old and unused, as if it’s been waiting without expecting anyone to come.
I stand in the center with Roman’s coat around me, blood on my hand, and too-large boots beneath a ruined wedding gown. I feel like a mistake set down in a place meant for someone stronger.
Roman closes the outer door behind us, but he doesn’t lock it.
Nora moves to the table and begins unpacking supplies from her satchel. “Sit before you fall.”
I sit because my knees agree with her. The chair is sturdy and warm from the fire. I settle into it carefully, holding my injured hand away from the coat.
Roman remains near the door. Dane lingers just outside the suite until Roman looks at him.
“Secure the inner hall,” Roman says.
Dane’s gaze flicks once to me before he leaves.
Nora pulls a small jar from her bag. “Palm.” I give it to her.
She cleans the cut with something that stings hard enough to make my eyes water. Roman shifts near the door.
Nora looks up. “Hold still, Roman.”
His jaw tightens, but he does.
I stare at her. Roman says nothing.
Nora wraps my palm with efficient hands, then checks my pulse at my wrist, careful not to press the mark. Her brow tightens again.
“Food,” she says. “Sleep. No more vows before noon.”
A small laugh escapes me before I can stop it. It hurts, but it feels better than silence. “I’ll try.”
Nora’s mouth softens for half a second before she stands. “If the mark burns sharper, pulses more than once in a row, or you start feeling emotions that aren’t yours, call me.”
My throat tightens. “Emotions that aren’t mine?”
Nora looks at Roman. Roman looks at the fire.
“Unusual,” I say quietly.
Nora’s gaze returns to me. “Exactly.”
Then she leaves, closing the suite door behind her.
For the first time, Roman and I are alone.
He crosses the room and stops beside the outer door, where a heavy iron lock sits above the latch.
“These rooms are yours,” he says. “The door locks from inside. Servants wait for permission. Guards stay in the hall.”
My hand tightens on the arm of the chair.
Roman touches the lock with two fingers. “Nora has a healer’s key for emergencies. I don’t.”
“If you stop answering and Nora thinks you’re hurt, she comes in. No one else does.”
The words settle strangely inside me because they aren’t a threat or a loophole dressed up as concern. They’re a boundary, and a real one.
I’ve known locks all my life. Locks on study doors I wasn’t allowed to enter. Locks on cabinets that held family records. Locks on Marissa’s jewelry cases. Locks that kept me out of truth or inside obedience. This one is different. My vision blurs.
Roman watches me for one quiet moment. Then he turns toward the door.
“Food will be outside. If you need something, tell the guard. If you need quiet, lock the door.”
Then he leaves.