Chapter 207
The massive shadow did not take long to disappear entirely from view.
Varkas drew back on the reins to slow his mount. There was no need to hurry. The beast was already cornered.
With horsemen stationed in every direction and an arrow lodged in a vital spot, it could not run far, no matter how desperately it struggled.
He pulled a torch from his saddlebag and struck a flame.
The flickering firelight fell across the earth, laying bare a scattered trail of dark red.
Boughs broken by the weight of a heavy body and deep furrows torn into the loam by sharp claws marked the ground. The beast no longer had the strength to conceal its path.
He rode at a walk, trailing the wolf's passage.
The deeper he pressed into the woods, the thicker and heavier the blood fell. The frantic flight seemed to have ripped the wound wider.
The hooked barbs of the subjugation arrows were forged to burrow deeper into the flesh with every thrash of the quarry.
‘…It severed an artery.’
Following the uneven prints, Varkas brought his horse to a halt before a pool of blood saturating the frozen earth. With a hemorrhage like this, the creature could only have collapsed nearby.
He stepped down from the saddle, sweeping the shadows with cold, sharp eyes.
A frost-bitten wind whistled through the birches standing straight as lances.
A sudden chill grazed his cheek, and Varkas looked up toward the pitch-black sky.
The torchlight caught a drift of soft, downy ice. The first snow had fallen early.
He watched it drift down for a long moment, until an unfamiliar scent rode in on the biting gale.
Drawn by it, he turned. A dark mass lay huddled among the pale, luminous birches.
He walked toward it until the slumped form of the direwolf came into view.
The beast's massive chest rose and fell in ragged, shuddering gasps.
The flesh around the arrow's entry was thoroughly drenched in black blood. That breath still remained in that body after such bleeding was a small miracle of endurance.
His hand went to his hilt. Left alone, it would die soon enough, yet he had to ensure the life was finished.
Drawing his sword, he stepped toward the wolf's head. Only then did the heavy lids lift.
Catching sight of those faintly glowing blue eyes, Varkas froze. Within the glistening pupils swirled a chaotic storm of despair, grief, agony, and loathing.
In that breathless second, her frantic voice rang loud in his ears.
“Look into Khan’s eyes, and you will see! Khan is our son! The child who never even took a single breath has come back to life!”
He forced his stiffened fingers to tighten hard around the grip.
It was madness. Nothing more than the ravings of a woman lost to superstition.
Repeating the words to himself, he raised the steel.
The wolf looked up at the drawn blade hanging over it with eyes washed hollow by resignation. White flakes of snow settled on those pale irises.
The crystals melted in an instant, running down the corners of its eyes like water.
Varkas looked down upon it—as though the beast were weeping—without twitching a single muscle, and swung the sword.
The blue light of dawn was just touching the earth when the subjugation party returned to Raedgo Castle.
The riders, drained after scouring the forest throughout the night, filed heavily through the gates.
Sentries and castle servants hurried out into the courtyard to meet them. The vassals were among them.
Edgar, the squad leader of the cavalry, crossed the grounds at a brisk stride and approached the Grand Duke, speaking with caution.
“Are you unharmed, Your Grace?”
Dismounting, Varkas answered in a flat tone.
“I am well.”
“What of the wolf…?”
At the urgent question, Varkas’s jaw hardened slightly.
When he offered no answer, the faces of the head butler and the retainers who had rushed out to hear the outcome stiffened as one.
Beirof stepped forward then.
“The hunt was successful. His Grace has dealt with the beast, so rest your minds.”
“Did you bring the head?”
The sudden voice drew every eye to one place.
Modrian, dressed in plain robes, was striding across the yard flanked by his men. He spoke with open distrust.
“Surely you did not return empty-handed?”
He seemed convinced the Grand Duke, whose weakness had always been his wife, might have set the monster free and lied to cover it.
Letting out a low sigh, Varkas gave a slight nod of his chin. Beirof unfastened a heavy leather sack from his saddle and dropped it at their feet.
“See for yourselves.”
The old knight yanked the leather cord loose without hesitation.
The severed head of the wolf rolled into view, soaked in dark, crusted blood. After squinting down at it to be sure, the old man shouted in bitter triumph.
“Burn it in the center of the courtyard, where everyone can see!”
The men assembled in the yard let out a raw roar of pent-up rage.
Varkas watched in silence before turning away. As he dragged his heavy legs toward the interior, Beirof hastened to his side.
“What punishment will you hand down to the Grand Duchess?”
Varkas paused, glancing back at his aide. Beirof shrank slightly, but pressed on with firm resolve.
“If you let this pass, the vassals will revolt. To quiet their anger, you must hand down an appropriate penalty to Her Grace.”
Varkas gave no answer and continued on his way.
Soon, the morning sun broke over the fortress, casting sharp brilliance across the grounds.
Stepping past the garden, pale and brittle with the first frost, Varkas entered the Great Hall.
A sudden dizziness clouded his vision.
He pressed a hand to his brow. He had gone nearly half a month without proper rest. On top of that, he had ridden hard for five days without pause and spent the night tracking through freezing woods. It was natural enough that his body had reached its limit.
Forcing focus back into eyes that felt rimmed in frost, he climbed the stairs. Reaching the second landing, he saw the door to Lucas’s chamber across the gallery railing.
Varkas stared at the light leaking from beneath the door for a quiet moment, then turned and continued up to the third floor.
As he walked down the corridor toward her chamber, the guards stationed there bowed their heads in unison.
He dismissed the men with a wave and turned the knob. With a faint groan from the hinges, the desolate room opened before him, drowned in cold blue light.
Stepping inside, he saw Talia perched on the windowsill.
Her long hair hung in tangled strands, and she sat leaning against the glass in the thin dress she had worn the night before.
Varkas looked at the fragile line of her back as if frozen, then let his boots fall deliberately heavy as he crossed the floor.
She seemed carved of stone.
Her forehead remained pressed against the cold glass, unmoving, as his voice cut the stillness, dry and flat.
“I am stripping you of every authority you hold as Grand Duchess. Until Lucas regains consciousness, you will remain confined to the annex.”
She gave no sign of having heard. She simply stared down into the yard with an empty face, devoid of all feeling.
Varkas let his gaze follow hers, and a chill locked his spine. In the middle of the courtyard below, hundreds of soldiers were gathered around a newly kindled fire.
They cast something into the leaping crimson flames. Thick, black smoke began to rise into the air.
As she looked down upon it, a single tear tracked down her pale cheek. Varkas stared at her, his face setting hard as she wept without a breath or a sob, then turned his back.
Just as he reached the threshold, a cold voice drifted from behind.
“I will never forgive you.”
Varkas paused and turned back. An unreadable face, emptied of warmth and blood, was turned to him.
Her deep blue eyes glimmered with a dreadful, hollow light.
“Not until the day I die.”
Clear tears fell steadily from her eyes, silent and unbroken.
Varkas held her gaze in silence for a fleeting beat, then turned and walked out of the room.
END