3 #3
The shock was so violent that the air caught in my throat.
My heart gave a brutal lurch against my ribs; blood roared in my ears with the force of an overflowing torrent, and a surge of animal heat rushed up my spine to the base of my skull.
My pupils must have dilated instantly, because the light from the oil lamps turned blinding, sharp, cutting every edge of the room into unbearable clarity.
I took an involuntary step toward the brazier, fingers hooked as though ready to close around a throat or a body.
“Where did that cloth come from?” I demanded. My voice came out so hoarse, so weighted with primal command, that Riven drew half a step back and gripped his sword hilt on instinct.
Iven pulled the spatula from the flame quickly, smothering the smoke with a clay stopper.
“It was wrapped around one of the distillation vials, my lord,” the physician answered, his voice carefully neutral, though his eyes studied me with surgical precision. “The compound appears to be a scent-fixing resin. Very old. Very complex.”
“It’s not a resin,” I said, trying to master the tremor running through my forearms. “That’s no apothecary formula.”
“Biologically, what just burned is glandular residue,” Iven clarified, lowering his voice so only I could hear.
“The signature of a living person, not a distilled perfume. And judging by your pulse, I would venture to say your wolf just found what we’ve spent two years looking for in the halls of the court. ”
I clenched my teeth until my jaw ached.
The scent had already dissipated in the cold air of the chamber, but the memory of that rain and that salt still burned the back of my tongue like a live ember.
My beast clawed against my ribs, restless, demanding to break out, to track, to run east along the frozen canal until it found the source of that impossible presence.
I wrestled it down by sheer force of will. I forced it back, step by step, until it was locked once more beneath the armor of my discipline.
“Riven,” I commanded, fixing my gaze on the captain of the guard.
“My lord.”
“Confiscate this entire shipment under the direct seal of the Crown. No one on the Council—not even my uncle Odran—is to know what was in that bag.”
“Count Odran has already requested a copy of this morning’s customs dispatch,” Riven pointed out, with that calculated calm that was beginning to strike me as dangerous.
“Tell him the cargo was tainted spirits and untanned hides. And if a single word about this residue leaves this room, I’ll hang you from the battlements of the south gate before dawn.”
Riven held my gaze for two endless seconds. Then he bowed his head, gathered the jars with methodical movements, and stowed them back in the canvas bag.
“Understood, my lord.”
He turned on his heel and left the chamber, his boots striking hard against the floor.
When the door closed, I braced both hands on the edge of the marble table. Cold sweat ran down the nape of my neck, soaking the collar of my linen shirt.
Iven stepped forward with a clean cloth and a cup of fresh water.
“Drink this.”
I took the cup and emptied it in a single swallow. The icy water cooled the burning in my throat, but it didn’t put out the dull fire still pulsing at the center of my chest.
“That wasn’t a pureblood Alpha, Iven,” I whispered, staring down into the empty cup.
“No, my lord. Alphas don’t produce that saline note. That resonance comes from the scent gland of an Omega with a very ancient bloodline, if your wolf’s memory reacted with such violence.”
“Omegas haven’t existed in the nobility registers of Asteria for fifty years,” I said, looking up at him. “The Council classified them as protected bloodlines under state guardianship and dispersed them across the rural districts to keep rebel packs from forming power ties outside the Crown.”
“The law may write whatever it pleases in the chancery books, Lord Corven,” Iven said, wiping the spatula with an alcohol-soaked cloth. “But the blood of Eryndor doesn’t read royal decrees.”
I straightened and fastened the buttons of my doublet with steady fingers.
“How long until the Solstice Gala?”
“Fourteen days.”
“Keep the eastern tower laboratories ready. And I want you to analyze that residue until you identify the soil and plant matter bound up in the resin. I need to know in what district, on what estate, and under what roof that vial was made.”
“That will be difficult without raising the suspicions of the Council’s alchemists.”
“Then do it at night.”
I walked toward the chamber door, but stopped with my hand on the iron latch.
Outside, through the high landing window, the afternoon wind dragged dense, dark clouds from the north, blanketing the towers of Vhal Citadel beneath a leaden shadow.
Snow was beginning to fall over the rooftops of Asteria—slow, heavy flakes erasing footprints in the lower streets and dusting the roads leading toward the eastern fields.
I touched the hilt of my shortsword.
Beneath my ribs, the beast remained awake, watchful in the cold, waiting for a sign that the law of my realm would never allow me to claim without unleashing war.
“Give me something,” I whispered to myself, pushing the door open into the frozen corridor.
Winter was only just beginning.
And the hunt no longer belonged to the Council.