Chapter 18 The Breaking Point #2
Gasps broke through the silence. Someone stood. Someone else swore.
The envoy finally understood.
It was too late.
Soren crossed the distance between them in an instant and closed a hand around the man's throat.
The envoy struggled, though not for long. His eyes widened as terror replaced confusion.
The chamber froze.
No one moved, and no one spoke.
The sound that followed was horribly small—a single sharp crack.
Then there was nothing.
The body collapsed to the floor, motionless and unmistakably dead.
Silence swallowed the room whole.
Soren stood above the corpse, breathing hard. His claws remained visible, and his eyes still burned gold.
No one dared approach him. In fact, no one seemed capable of speaking, because everyone in the room understood the same thing.
The envoy had not threatened anyone, drawn a weapon, or committed a crime.
And yet he was dead.
The realization settled over the chamber like winter frost, slow, cold, and unavoidable.
Soren looked down at the body. For a moment he did not understand what he was seeing, but then understanding arrived, bringing with it something far worse than anger.
Behind him, the chamber doors opened.
Someone had already left to seek help, whether from the healer or from anyone else who might know what to do.
For the first time in living memory, the wolves of Ironfang had witnessed something they never believed possible.
Their alpha had lost control.
No one followed him, at least not openly.
Soren left the council chamber without looking back, and the silence he carried with him seemed to spread through the fortress like a shadow.
The corridors parted before him as warriors stepped aside and servants lowered their eyes, while no one spoke or made any attempt to stop him.
The realization should have meant nothing, yet it settled beneath his skin like another wound.
By the time he reached the training yard, snow had begun falling again, and thin flakes drifted through the cold air before settling upon the dark stone walls surrounding the yard.
The place was empty for once, with no warriors, no sparring matches, and no noise to disturb the stillness.
Only silence remained, and Soren welcomed it.
He crossed the yard and stopped beside one of the old wooden training posts.
The familiar ache beneath his ribs remained, stronger now than before, while the pain arrived in sharp, unpredictable waves that felt deeply wrong.
He closed his eyes, drew a slow breath, and waited for it to pass, but the pressure only tightened.
Something hot spread across his chest, causing Soren to frown as he recognized the sensation all too well.
Slowly, he looked down and saw a dark stain spreading beneath the leather ties of his shirt, larger than before and impossible to dismiss.
For several seconds he simply stared.
The first time had been easy to explain away as a scratch, a tear, or simple exhaustion, while the second had been harder to ignore.
The third left no room for excuses.
Blood seeped steadily through the fabric, not enough to pour freely but more than enough to demand attention.
The sight should have alarmed him, yet all he felt was irritation.
It was simply another problem, another weakness, and another burden demanding attention when he had none left to spare.
His hand moved to the collar of his shirt, and he pulled the fabric aside.
The mark stretched across his skin exactly where it always had, except it no longer looked the same.
The dark lines appeared deeper and angrier now, as though something beneath the skin had begun forcing its way outward.
A thin line of blood traced one edge of the mark before sliding downward, and Soren watched it travel across his chest before disappearing beneath the fabric.
"Idiot."
The voice came from behind him, and Soren closed his eyes.
Of course he recognized it immediately.
"I was hoping for something more original."
Varda stepped into the yard, gray hair escaping from beneath her hood while snow gathered upon her shoulders.
She stopped several paces away, and her gaze dropped instantly to the blood.
The irritation vanished from her expression.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
The answer came too quickly, but she ignored it.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
Her eyes narrowed.
"You murdered a diplomatic envoy."
The statement landed with impressive precision, and Soren grimaced.
News traveled quickly.
"That explains the silence."
"It explains many things."
For a moment neither of them spoke, while the healer's attention returned to the stain spreading across his shirt.
"Show me."
"No."
"Show me."
Soren let out a short, humorless laugh.
"You're becoming repetitive."
"And you're becoming difficult."
"I've always been difficult."
"Not this difficult."
The answer came quietly, and something in her tone made him look at her.
Varda was no longer irritated. Instead, she looked genuinely worried, and Soren hated it immediately.
"Show me."
This time he didn't argue, perhaps because he was tired or perhaps because the pain was becoming harder to ignore.
Slowly, he pulled the fabric aside.
Varda stepped closer and then abruptly stopped.
For a moment she neither spoke nor moved, and she seemed to forget how to breathe.
The color drained from her face.
Soren noticed the change immediately, and for the first time since the blood had appeared beside the campfire days earlier, something dangerously close to unease settled in his chest.
He had known this woman for years, and she had stitched wounds that should have killed men, set shattered bones, and walked through battlefields without the slightest hint of fear.
Nothing frightened her.
Yet as she stared at the mark upon his chest, she looked truly afraid.
And suddenly Soren wasn't certain he wanted to hear what she was about to say.