Chapter Thirty-six: The Alarm

SIGRUN

Three weeks passed.

Which, considering I’d been magically abducted into another dimension and forcibly married to a giant werewolf king, was probably the closest thing to “settling in” that I was ever going to get.

I’d spent nearly every morning after breakfast buried in the library.

Varul had been true to his word. The library was mine whenever I wanted it. No one questioned me. No one hovered. The servants simply unlocked the doors if they happened to find them closed, bowed, and disappeared again.

Except my actual research project here was a total bust. I still hadn’t found a single mention of realm interlopers.

Apparently, the North had meticulously documented eight hundred years of livestock taxation, seventeen separate border disputes over whose goats had wandered onto whose mountain, and the complete bloodlines of every Great Pack Alpha since the founding of the kingdom… but not one helpful chapter titled *So You’ve Accidentally Fallen Into Another Dimension*.

Typical.

Every afternoon I’d slide a heavy ledger back into its slot, dust off my hands, and sigh. Still. Only ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-seven books left to check. Optimism. It was either that or lose my mind entirely.

Over those three weeks, I’d also become painfully acquainted with Northern etiquette. There were a lot of rules.

For instance, never sit before the Alpha sat. Never pour your own wine if an unmarried steward was present—which I found out was considered a blatant, highly offensive insinuation that the poor guy was completely incompetent at his job.

Never interrupt the Elder Council unless directly addressed. Never whistle indoors because apparently it invited hungry frost spirits right through the masonry.

Never place bread upside down on a table unless you wished a literal, multi-year famine upon the entire household.

Never draw steel during a feast, which seemed fair enough. Never touch another wolf’s ceremonial cloak without explicit permission.

And, of course…

Never tip your chalice toward a lord during the First Toast unless your lifelong dream was apparently to curse his entire bloodline down to the seventh generation.

Now *that* one, I now understood.

Elara had also, to my absolute delight and relief, visited thrice during this time, bringing fresh gossip, more charcoal pencils, fresh pigments, and several beautifully stretched canvases she’d somehow convinced a local carpenter to make for me.

“I told him they were for the Luna,” she’d whispered conspiratorially, leaning over the table in the drawing room while my guards stood a few paces back. “He refused payment entirely. Wouldn't take a single coin.”

I wasn’t entirely convinced that was because of any lingering affection for me. It was probably because refusing the Alpha’s wife was an excellent way to lose one’s head. Still, I appreciated the sentiment, and having actual art supplies made the endless, cold days vastly more bearable.

Painting was grounding. I’d discovered an airy drawing room on the western side of the castle that overlooked the inner courtyard through enormous arched windows. The afternoon light there was perfect. It had quietly become my favorite room in the entire fortress.

I’d already finished several landscapes. Snow-covered pines stretching into a white horizon. The sharp mountain peaks surrounding Pillak Towers, capturing the way the morning light turned the snow a brilliant pink. I even did a detailed study of the castle itself at dawn, capturing the heavy stone architecture fading into the early mist.

Every now and then, a maid or servant would wander past the open doorway. They’d stop and peek inside. Then gasp dramatically enough that you’d think I’d personally painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel right there on a three-foot canvas. It was wonderful for my ego. Apparently, fine art wasn't exactly a staple of Northern military life, so they treated my little landscapes like literal witchcraft.

Today, I was working on the view below. The winding cobblestone paths of the inner yard. The rolling green hills breaking through the melting ice beyond the fortress walls. Tiny, blocky figures of guards and stable hands crossing the courtyard beneath me.

I dipped my brush into a mixture of muted green, carefully wiping the excess onto the edge of my palette. Steady. Gentle. Controlled.

Unlike my thoughts. Which, against my better judgment and every ounce of common sense I possessed, insisted on drifting toward Varul.

Annoying. Truly annoying.

I’d barely spoken to him during the past three weeks. Breakfast. Dinner. Occasionally passing one another in the vaulted corridors if fate decided I hadn’t suffered enough tension for one day. That was it.

The meals themselves had become strangely… comfortable, though. Neither of us spoke much. Sometimes he’d look up from his plate, his dark amber eyes softening just a fraction, and ask if I’d slept well or if the castle rooms were warm enough. Sometimes I’d complain about a particularly ridiculous, archaic law I’d uncovered in the archives that afternoon. He’d respond with the kind of dry, infuriating amusement that made me want to throw a dinner roll right at his massive head. Then we’d eat in silence. It was… nice.

Besides, he was busy. Conny had told me as much while she helped me clean up. “The Alpha is always locked away in his study or the map room,” she’d sighed one afternoon, scrubbing a stubborn smudge of Prussian blue from my knuckles.

More than once I’d glimpsed Darren striding purposefully through the castle with massive, rolled parchment maps tucked beneath one arm, his expression utterly blank and professional. Other unfamiliar commanders often followed him. Hard-faced men and women wrapped in heavy traveling cloaks, their armor scuffed and smelling of the road. Scouts. Captains. Messengers arriving dust-covered and breathless from the northern borders. Whatever political or territorial storm was brewing beyond the castle walls… it hadn’t stopped just because I was inside painting hills.

I rinsed my brush in the jar of water, watching the liquid turn a murky green. I added another stroke to the canvas. I really should stop thinking about him. It was good that he wasn’t constantly hovering over me. Good that he respected my space. Good that I could spend my days reading and painting without an Alpha King breathing down my neck and making my skin flush with that weird, traitorous heat. Perfectly good.

So why did breakfast somehow feel shorter whenever he left the table first?

I frowned at my canvas, realizing I'd gone completely still. Absolutely not. We were not examining that thought.

A sudden blast split the air.

The horn echoed through the castle walls so violently that my paintbrush jerked violently across the canvas, leaving a thick, ugly streak of green right across the sky where no green had any business being.

I froze, the brush trembling in my hand.

Another horn answered from the outer walls. Then another, deeper and more urgent. Shouts erupted in the courtyard below. Boots pounded furiously over stone corridors. Heavy wooden doors slammed somewhere deep within the fortress, reverberating through the floorboards.

I hurried to the window, pressing my hand against the cold glass. The courtyard below had exploded into chaotic motion. Guards sprinted toward the front gates, drawing their weapons. Servants abandoned whatever laundry or firewood they’d been carrying, dropping them into the slush. Stable hands ran frantically toward the lower yard to take the reins of arriving mounts.

I dropped my brush onto the table without bothering to clean it and hurried from the drawing room, my heart hammering against my ribs.

By the time I reached the grand foyer, dozens of servants had already gathered near the main entrance, watching the heavy oak doors with pale, anxious faces.

The moment they noticed me coming down the stairs, they went rigid and bowed in unison, a chorus of hushed, frightened voices.

“My Lady.”

“My Lady.”

“My Lady.”

Before I could even open my mouth to ask what was happening, Marta swept into the foyer from the central hall. The head maid’s sharp gaze swept across the gathered servants like a scythe.

“Back to your duties. Now,” she snapped, her voice cutting through the panic.

The effect was immediate. Everyone scattered with remarkable speed, disappearing into the side corridors like mice hiding from a hawk. Within seconds, the vast foyer was entirely empty, save for Marta and myself.

I stepped off the final riser, my pulse beginning to quicken into a frantic flutter. “Marta,” I asked, my voice tight. “What’s happening?”

She looked toward the great front doors. For the first time since I’d met her, her usually composed, unbreakable expression seemed completely grim, the lines around her mouth deep and rigid.

“The men are back from Linewatch.” Her jaw tightened. “They brought our dead back home.”