The cheer of five thousand warriors shook the soot from the cedar roof beams.
Aurelia did not hesitate. In full view of the veteran captains of the Western Host, she placed her hand into Malakor’s broad, calloused palm. The moment her skin touched his, a faint, rhythmic pulse of silver and gold licked across the seam of their laced fingers, casting a pale, supernatural halo across the flagstones of the dais.
A hush rippled through the front ranks of the sell sword commanders. These were men who had traded their youth for scars, who believed in little beyond coin and bread, yet the ancient authority emanating from the two figures before them commanded instinctual reverence.
Malakor drew her up beside him to the edge of the ash-wood dais. He did not sit upon the ducal throne. He remained standing, tall and monolithic against the roaring fire pit, his hand still anchored firmly to hers.
"Kaelen," Malakor commanded, his voice slicing clean through the lingering murmur.
"My Lord," the gray-bearded general answered, stepping forward from the ring of captains, his hand resting on his broadsword pommel.
"The two wagons of bullion in the courtyard are to be weighed and distributed by dawn," Malakor ordered with cold, rapid precision. "Every spearman receives six silver crowns as earnest of their enlistment under the Northern Crown. Double shares for the cavalry outriders and the sappers."
"And the four wagons remaining in Oak haven?" Kaelen asked, his eyes gleaming with pragmatic greed.
"Take three hundred light horse and sixty pack mules," Malakor said. "Ride the old logging trails along the eastern bluffs to bypass the flooded marshes. Strip the garrison armory, bring the reserves back to Val-Roc, and burn the river gate to the waterline. I want no Concord scout entering this province without swimming across thirty leagues of dead water."
"Consider it done," Kaelen grunted, offering a crisp, fist-to-chest salute before wheeling on his heel to bark orders at his quartermasters.
The hall dissolved into purposeful movement. Captains filed out through the arched doorways, their iron-shod boots clattering against the stone as they hurried to assemble their companies and secure their shares of the imperial silver. Within half an hour, the great hall stood empty, save for the crackle of pine logs in the central pit and the steady, heavy presence of the two who remained.
Malakor turned to Aurelia, the hardened facade of the warlord softening by a fraction as his gaze raked over her. The dark circles beneath her eyes were visible in the amber light, despite the fierce, untamed fire that still burned in her gaze.
"You pushed the silver tether to its limit when we entered the keep," Malakor murmured, stepping closer until his shadow enveloped her entirely. He reached up with his free hand, his rough thumb brushing the soft skin beneath her cheekbone with unhurried care. "I felt the drag in my chest. You are running on pure will."
"Will has kept me alive longer than bread ever did," Aurelia retorted softly, though she did not pull away. She leaned into the solid pressure of his hand, letting her eyes close for a fleeting heartbeat as his sovereign warmth seeped into her temples. "The men needed to see the power behind the blade, Malakor. If they think we are merely rebels with stolen silver, they will sell us to the highest bidder the moment the Concord marches."
"They will not sell us," Malakor growled, his voice dropping into a low, possessive rumble. "They know what hunts them if they break faith. And more importantly, they know what we offer: the head of every inquisitor who ever laid a tax on their blood."
He slid his arm around her waist, lifting her effortlessly from the stone step until her boots dangled an inch above the floor. Aurelia gasped, her hands coming up to grip his leather-clad shoulders as he turned toward the winding spiral stair that climbed into the ducal solar above the hall.
"What are you doing?" she whispered, her heart kicking against her ribs in sudden, intoxicating excitement.
"Taking what is ours," Malakor murmured, his lips grazing the curve of her jaw as he carried her up the stone steps. "The garrison is secured, the perimeter is held, and the silver is counted. Tonight, the empire can burn without us."
The solar at the top of the tower was vast, lined with heavy tapestries depicting ancient hunts and warmed by a massive hearth of carved basalt. A broad bed draped in heavy crimson wool and wolf pelts dominated the center of the chamber, looking out through tall, arched arrow slits toward the jagged silhouettes of the Dragon’s Teeth.
Malakor kicked the heavy oak door shut behind them, dropping the iron bar into its cradle with a heavy, final clatter.
He set her down upon the fur-draped mattress, his amber eyes burning with an unmasked, primal hunger that set her blood singing in response.
Aurelia sat back on her elbows, her dark hair spilling across the pelts, her breath coming short and shallow as she looked up at the man who had torn open the Veil to claim her.
"Tomorrow, we plan the siege," she said, her voice a sultry, breathless challenge in the quiet room.
Malakor unbuckled his sword belt, letting the heavy steel fall to the flagstones with a ringing crash, his gaze never leaving her mouth.
"Tomorrow," he promised, stepping between her knees, his large hands finding her hips with ruthless, undeniable possession. "Tonight belongs to the wolves."