The river barge lurched as it struck a submerged log, and Celesse grabbed the railing to keep from pitching over the side. Two days on the water had taught her that river travel was slower, colder, and more miserable than she'd anticipated.
"Tithe Bridge would've been faster," the barge-master had said when she'd paid for passage. "But that only appears during full moons. You got another week to wait, and something tells me you can't wait."
He'd been right. The royal summons pulsed warm in her bag, a constant reminder of the enchanted seal tracking her compliance.
The Fenrial Crescent spread across a chain of islands arranged in a rough C-shape, with human settlements clinging to the inner curve and wolf territories ranging across the outer wilds. Resonance Palace sat on the neutral anchor island at the Crescent's center, accessible by boat year-round but connected to the outer islands only when the Tithe Bridge manifested its monthly crossing of ice and magic.
Celesse watched the palace come into view as the barge rounded the final bend. It rose from the island's rocky shore like a frozen wave—white stone and dark timber, towers reaching toward the gray autumn sky. Even from a distance, she could see the peculiar architecture: corridors that twisted at odd angles, courtyards that seemed too small to be practical, walkways that connected buildings in zigzagging patterns.
Howl-acoustic design. She'd heard of it but never seen it in person. The entire palace was built to manipulate sound—amplifying wolf vocalizations in some spaces, dampening them in others. A physical manifestation of the uneasy peace between wolves and humans, where even architecture had to negotiate power.
The barge docked at the palace's water-gate. Celesse paid the barge-master the last of her travel coins and shouldered her bag. Her boots hit the stone pier, and immediately the scent hit her: pine pitch from torches burning in iron brackets, wet fur from wolf guards stationed along the walls, and beneath it all, the mineral tang of the river.
"State your business." A guard stepped forward—human, wearing the palace livery of blue and silver, with a short sword at his hip.
Celesse produced the summons. "I'm expected."
The guard examined the seal, his expression shifting from suspicion to wariness. "Wait here."
He disappeared through a nearby door. Celesse stood on the pier, trying not to stare at the wolf guards positioned on the wall-walk above. They watched her with amber eyes, unnervingly still in their human forms but radiating the predator awareness that marked their kind.
The door opened again. A different figure emerged—tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the contained power of someone who'd spent years fighting. A leather patch covered his left eye, and a scar ran from beneath it down to his jaw. His dark hair was pulled back in a warrior's knot, and he wore practical clothes rather than formal livery: reinforced leather over a wool shirt, boots designed for running, knives at both hips.
Wolf. She could tell by the way he moved, by the flicker of gold in his remaining eye, by the scent of pine and cold wind that clung to him.
"Celesse Threadwalker?" His voice was a low rumble, neither friendly nor hostile.
"Yes."
"I'm Thane Ashmark. Beta enforcer of the Fenrial guard." He didn't offer his hand. "Follow me. Don't wander. The palace has... particular rules about where visitors can go."
He turned and walked through the door without checking if she followed. Celesse hurried after him.
The corridors inside were disorienting. Thane led her through a twisting series of passages that seemed to fold back on themselves. Some halls were wide and bright, lit by windows that let in the gray afternoon light. Others were narrow and dark, with only guttering torches to see by.
And the sound—gods, the sound was wrong. In one corridor, her footsteps echoed so loudly she winced, the noise bouncing off stone until it sounded like a dozen people walking. In the next, silence swallowed everything. She could see her boots hitting the floor but heard nothing, not even her own breathing.
"Howl-acoustic architecture," Thane said, not looking back. "Some chambers amplify sound. Others kill it. You get used to it."
"Why build it this way?"
"Because when the King united the wolves and humans seventeen years ago, both sides needed guarantees." Thane's tone suggested he'd explained this many times. "Wolves wanted spaces where they could communicate without human interference—pack assemblies, challenges, rituals. Humans wanted spaces where wolf vocalizations couldn't be used to intimidate or command. So the palace was built to do both. Amplification chambers for wolves, null-zones for humans, and everything in between."
They passed through a courtyard where wolf guards were changing shifts. The scent of wet fur intensified—several had just come from patrol, their clothes damp from the river-mist. One of them stared at Celesse as she passed, nostrils flaring slightly. Scenting her. Categorizing her.
She forced herself not to flinch.
"You're not pack," Thane said. It wasn't a question.
"No."
"Not guild either, or you'd be wearing their mark." He glanced back at her, his single eye assessing. "Independent threadwalker. Means you're desperate enough to take jobs no one else wants, or good enough that you don't need guild backing. Which is it?"
"Does it matter?"
"It will if you're planning to lie to the King."
The words carried weight—not a threat exactly, but a warning. Celesse kept her expression neutral. "I don't plan to lie to anyone."
Thane grunted and kept walking.
They descended a spiral staircase into the palace's lower levels. The air grew colder, and the scent changed—less pine pitch, more stone and earth and the faint mineral smell of underground water. Thane stopped before a heavy wooden door bound with silver hinges.
"Oath-Scribe's archives," he said. "She'll brief you before you meet the King. Try to remember that silver ink burns liars, and Renna's very good at her job."
He knocked twice and opened the door without waiting for an answer.
The archives were smaller than Celesse expected—a circular chamber lined with shelves that held leather-bound ledgers and scroll-cases. A desk dominated the center, covered in parchments and ink-pots. Behind the desk sat a woman in her late thirties, her dark hair streaked with silver and pulled into a severe bun. She wore the formal robes of an oath-scribe: black wool embroidered with silver thread that matched the ink-stains on her fingers.
"Celesse Threadwalker," Thane said. "As requested."
The woman looked up. Her eyes were gray—unusual in the Crescent, where amber and brown dominated. She studied Celesse with the same intensity Thane had shown, though her assessment felt less physical and more... evaluative. As if she were reading Celesse's worth from posture and expression alone.
"Thank you, Thane. You can go."
The enforcer hesitated. "Are you sure? She's—"
"An unranked visitor summoned by royal edict. I'm aware." Renna's tone was firm. "I'll call if I need you."
Thane shot Celesse one more warning look and left, closing the door behind him.
Silence settled over the archives—not the magical silence of the null-zones, but the ordinary quiet of a room insulated by books and stone. Renna gestured to the chair across from her desk.
"Sit."
Celesse obeyed, setting her bag on the floor beside her. This close, she could see the fine lines around Renna's eyes, the tension in her jaw. Whatever this was about, it wasn't routine.
"You're wondering why you're here," Renna said.
"Yes."
"The Wolf King has a degenerative condition." Renna's hands moved across her desk, selecting a blank parchment and reaching for one of her ink-pots—this one filled with liquid that gleamed silver even in the dim light. "The details are... sensitive. Most of the court doesn't know the full extent. We'd like to keep it that way."
"What kind of condition?"
"One that requires your specific expertise." Renna began writing, her script elegant and precise. "You're the only independent threadwalker in the Fenrial Crescent. Guild mages won't touch this—they lack the skill, and more importantly, they lack the discretion. Guild members report to their councils. You report to no one."
That was true enough. It was also the reason Celesse struggled to find steady work. No guild backing meant no credibility, no protection, no guarantee of payment.
"What's the job?" Celesse asked.
"Breaking a hex."
"What kind of hex?"
Renna's quill paused for half a heartbeat. "One the King needs removed. Urgently."
The evasion was obvious. Celesse leaned forward. "I'll need more details than that. Hexes vary—structure, anchors, casting method, the emotional resonance of the caster. If you want me to break it properly, I need to know what I'm dealing with."
"You'll assess it yourself. That's part of the contract." Renna continued writing, the silver ink flowing across the parchment in binding script. "The fee is ten thousand silver fenris. Payment upon successful completion."
Celesse's breath caught. Ten thousand. That was... that was everything. A guild hall. Apprentices. Legitimacy. Years of scraping by, erased in a single job.
"That's generous," she said carefully.
"It's appropriate for the risk." Renna finished writing and set down her quill. The parchment gleamed with wet ink. "The contract includes standard clauses—confidentiality, exclusive service during the work period, compensation for materials used. It also includes one unusual clause."
She turned the parchment so Celesse could read it. Most of the text was standard legal language, but near the bottom, one line stood out:
Payment upon completion or upon the King's death, whichever comes first.
Celesse read it twice. "Why would there be a death clause?"
Renna's hands trembled—just slightly, just enough to make the silver ink shimmer. She pressed her palms flat against the desk, steadying them.
"Because he has ninety days left," she said quietly. "And you're our last hope."
The words hung in the air like smoke. Celesse stared at the contract, at the trembling hands of the oath-scribe who'd written it, at the silver ink that would burn if any of this was a lie.
Ninety days.
Whatever hex the Wolf King carried, it was killing him. And she was supposed to break it in three months, or watch him die.
Watch them both die, she realized with cold certainty. Because if this job failed, she'd have nothing. No money, no prospects, no way forward. Just the slow slide back into poverty and irrelevance.
She picked up the quill Renna offered and signed her name at the bottom of the contract.
The silver ink warmed beneath her fingers—not burning, but acknowledging. The oath was sealed.
"Good," Renna said. She blotted the parchment and rolled it carefully, sliding it into a scroll-case. "You'll meet the King in an hour. He insists on assessing threadwalkers personally before allowing them access to his dreamscape."
"Why?" Celesse asked. "Doesn't he trust your judgment?"
Renna's expression flickered—something between sympathy and warning. "The King trusts very few people, Celesse. And after you meet him, you'll understand why."