Chapter 1: An Icebound Contract
"Don’t stumble," the envoy muttered. “He’s watching.”
Katherine kept her chin high despite the wind biting her skin raw. The snow didn’t fall—it slashed. Whitefang Keep rose like a glacier out of the storm, jagged and eternal. Guards flanked the doors, armor rimed with frost, eyes unblinking.
“I’m not afraid,” she lied.
The envoy gave her a look. “Just remember what’s at stake, my lady.”
A servant opened the great doors. Heat spilled out in a gust, but it couldn’t melt the dread thickening her spine.
Inside, torches hissed. A long hall stretched into shadow, flanked by silent nobles in wolf-pelt cloaks. At the end stood Damian Whitefang—taller than the stories, silver-eyed, and unmoving. Like a statue carved from winter.
He didn’t speak as she approached.
“You are Katherine Graywood,” the herald announced.
“I am,” she replied, voice clear.
Damian’s eyes flicked to the ceremonial chains held by the priest. “Bring them.”
Katherine extended her wrist without hesitation. The iron cuffs snapped around her skin. Cold lanced into her bones.
The priest’s voice boomed. “By blood treaty, by moon law, the South offers a bride for peace. Let none question the contract.”
Damian took one step forward. “Do you accept the terms?”
Her heart pounded. “I do.”
He said nothing. Simply turned and walked away.
She blinked. “That’s it?”
The envoy grabbed her elbow. “Say nothing. Don’t provoke him.”
He left her in the echoing hall, the chains still tight. No feast, no vows, no kiss. Just ice.
Later, in a high tower chamber stripped of warmth, a maid offered her furs and soup.
“Has he… said anything?” Katherine asked.
The maid flinched. “His Majesty doesn’t speak to brides.”
“Brides? There were others?”
“Only you, my lady. But still… he does not speak.”
Katherine sat stiffly on the fur-lined bed. “What am I to him, then?”
The maid lowered her eyes. “A ghost. A contract.”
Katherine’s fingers curled. “He didn’t even look at me.”
“He looked,” the maid whispered, and fled.
Days passed in routine. Meals arrived, guards rotated, no footsteps ever approached the tower after dark. She explored the room—books in northern dialects, none of them hers. No flowers, no symbols of welcome. A place to vanish, not to live.
But every night, just past midnight, she heard it.
A howl. Low, guttural, anguished. Carried by wind, sweeping across stone.
She pressed her hand to the frozen glass. “Why did you take me, then?”
One night, after another silence-soaked dinner, she snapped.
She stormed past the guards. “I demand to see the king.”
They didn’t stop her. The keep didn’t seem to mind her breaking rules—perhaps it expected her to go mad.
She found him alone in the great hall, sword in hand, sparring against phantoms.
“You ignore me, yet keep me prisoner?” she shouted.
Damian didn’t look up. “You are not a prisoner.”
“You locked me away!”
“You walk freely now.”
“That’s not freedom!”
He turned. Pale skin, hair like snowlight. “You are here by your people’s request.”
“I was forced.”
“We all were.”
She hesitated. “Why didn’t you refuse?”
His voice was flat. “Because I don’t kill innocents for pride.”
“You didn’t even touch me. No bond. No vows. Why agree at all?”
He stepped closer. “Would touching you have made it better?”
Katherine flinched.
Damian studied her. “Your people needed a symbol. Not a lover.”
“Then what am I?”
He said nothing.
She whispered, “Why the chains?”
“Because even symbols break.”
They stood in silence, the fire crackling between them.
Finally, she spoke. “I will not cause scandal. I will not run. But I will not be a shadow.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then what will you be?”
“I don’t know. Yet.”
A long pause.
Then Damian said softly, “Good.”
She turned to leave.
Behind her, he added, “Sleep well, Katherine.”
It was the first time he said her name.
That night, no howl echoed over the parapets.
Only silence.
And somehow, that silence screamed louder than any wolf.