Malachi’s pov I sat alone in my office, the heavy oak door sealed against the rest of the keep.
The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long shadows across the maps spread over my desk.
Border lines, troop numbers, tax tallies from the southern holdings.
None of it held my attention.
My stepmother’s words from dinner still sat in my mind like a stone.
“She is Malachi’s concubine, soon to give us an heir.” I poured myself a measure of dark wine and drank it without tasting.
Mira was not a concubine.
She was not a second daughter-in-law.
She was a convenient body, a willing mouth, a warm cunt when the nights ran long and the kingdom’s affairs had left me restless.
That was all.
I had never promised her a place in the line of succession.
I had never spoken of children with her.
The only heir I required would come from the woman I had bound by treaty and blood, even if that woman currently slept on the floor at the foot of Mira’s bed like a disgraced servant.
The Queen Dowager had overstepped.
She had sat at my table, in front of my lords, and spoken as though the future of the North was hers to arrange.
As though Mira’s womb belonged to the realm and not to my temporary use.
My jaw tightened.
She was not even my blood.
My father had brought her into the keep after my mother died, and she had worn the title of Queen Dowager ever since—soft-spoken, smiling, always reaching for influence that did not belong to her.
Tonight she had tested the edge of my patience.
She had named Mira in a way that elevated her.
She had reduced Lauretta in a way that served her own designs.
And she had done it while looking me in the eye, daring me to correct her in front of the court.
I should have silenced her then.
Instead I had punished Lauretta.
The memory of my wife’s stubborn silence at the table returned.
The thin line of her mouth.
The refusal to give me the words I demanded.
It had angered me.
It still did.
But the larger insult had come from the woman who was not my mother.
I set the cup down harder than necessary.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Enter.” One of the lesser kings stepped inside.
Lord Harran of the Eastern territory, a man whose territory sat under my banner by conquest.
Harran was broad, gray at the temples, and careful with his expressions.
Tonight the care had slipped.
His face was set, his shoulders rigid.
“My king,” Harran said.
He bowed, but I was already impatient.
“Speak.” Harran closed the door behind him.
“My territory grows restless.
The men who ride my borders speak of bandits.
They say they want independence.
They claim the bandit invasions may be a result of your control.” My eyes narrowed, though the mention of bandits surprised me.
“Your men speak.
Or you speak through them?” “I bring you the truth as it stands,” Harran replied.
“The Eastern Reach has bled for your campaigns.
We have sent wolves and grain.
In return we receive orders—and attacks from wolf bandits.” I froze.
My heart raced as I thought of the wolf duel I had fought yesterday.
And now bandits?
I swallowed, trying to repress the flicker of anxiety.
“My people grow tired of the attacks.” The fire popped.
I leaned back in my chair, studying the man the way I studied a map before deciding where to strike.
“You come into my office after dark to tell me your territory wants to slip its leash because of bandits,” I said.
My voice stayed level.
“I don’t see how that gives you the right to threaten me.
Choose your next words with care.” Harran’s throat moved.
“I am not a fool.
I know what happens to men who raise banners against you.
But I also know what happens to kings who ignore the ground shifting under their feet.
My people will not remain quiet forever in the face of these bandits.
If their ruler stays indifferent, they will begin to question the usefulness of being conquered.
They will overthrow.” The threat hung between us, plain and ugly.
I did not rise.
I did not raise my voice.
I simply looked at Harran until the older man shifted his weight.
“You stand in the presence of the King of the North,” I said, my pride refusing to give the bandits any further weight, “and you speak of your people rising against him.
That is not informing me.
That is the beginning of a grave.” “It is a warning,” Harran answered.
“One you would be wise to hear before the snows close the passes and the choice is taken from both of us.” My fingers tapped once against the arm of my chair.
In my mind the pieces moved.
Bandits.
Who dared invade a conquered territory?
The Eastern Reach supplied good wolf soldiers.
Losing it would open a wound while the southern territories were still settling under my rule.
Harran knew that.
The man had waited for this moment carefully, choosing to inform me of the bandits while the southern holdings remained unsettled.
“Leave,” I said.
Harran hesitated.
“My king—” “Leave.
Before I decide that your warning sounds too much like treason and have your tongue nailed to the gates as an example.” Harran’s face tightened, but he inclined his head and stepped back.
The door closed behind him.
I stood from my chair, anger boiling in me.
I would go and put the Queen Dowager in her place.
It was a necessary outlet.