Page 131 of The Ashpaw: Part One

She bowed her head again, murmuring her thanks, as Reinn guided her to the empty space on the other side of Darion.

Fern could already feel the displeasure coming off him like waves of heat from a roaring fire. She knew her role today was simply to be a jewel in his crown—something to be admired briefly for its rarity and then ignored. But she’d drawn far too much attention to herself, and now her worry was causing her scent to turn bitter.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to Darion, already bracing for correction as his hand moved towards her, but it simply landed on the back of her neck, squeezed gently as a comfort, and then released her.

There was a lull. Fern wasn’t sure if she’d interrupted a conversation about to continue or if they’d been waiting to begin one, her entrance distracting them enough they’d forgotten themselves.

Karn then cleared his throat. “I would like to discuss our shared border along the Bloodmoons’ newly acquired territory.”

“His son and heir is Cyran. He defeated Darion in battle once and will never let him forget it. He also has three Naravekh and a pup from each of them, all surviving their first year.”

Three children wasn’t so unheard of for humans, but for wolfkin it was impressive, something certainly worth bragging about.

“I imagine he must be quite insufferable.”

Reinn rolled his eyes. “You have no idea.”

“There is little to discuss,” Cyran replied before anyone else could speak, lounging back in his chair. “The western ridge must be abandoned.”

Silence settled heavily across the room, and Darion’s expression hardened. “Abandoned?”

“It cannot be defended,” Cyran said.

Fern glanced carefully toward Darion, watching the muscle feather in his jaw. “It has been defended for nearly sixty years.”

Cyran lifted one shoulder lazily. “And now the Bloodmoons have siege forces twice the number they did sixty years ago. Even three years ago. Unless you mean to turn two thousand human men into Solvekh by the end of the year, but I believe their King might have something to say about that, especially since he still insists we had something to do with his missing prince. And then we’d have trouble on the Southern border, too.”

Alastair folded his hands. “The ridge protects several villages.”

“Then evacuate them,” Cyran said simply. “Unless sentiment has become the Sabletails’ latest military strategy.”

Reinn caught Fern’s eye from across the table, and he smirked knowingly.

Darion continued. “Retreat invites pursuit.”

“Poorly defended positions invite slaughter,” Cyran replied. “You learned that yourself at Blackwater Ford, if memory serves.”

Fern did not know of the battle, but she knew an insult when she heard one, and her wolf seemed offended on Darion’s behalf.

Darion’s fingers tightened against the arm of his chair hard enough that the wood creaked, and Fern was glad he no longer held her neck.

“A fortuitous victory,” he said coldly.

Cyran smiled. “If you believe my victory was merely owed to good fortune, then it is no wonder you lost.”

“I wasn’t aware you controlled the weather, now.”

Cyran’s lips curled.

“And your father?” Fern asked.

Reinn snorted. “My father stopped caring years ago. The only way to get him to show up to anything is to promise there will be ale.”

Arnet snapped his fingers and a Solvekh approached, filling his goblet.

“My nephew is a decisive one, I’ll give him that. But let’s not forget the villages along the ridge produce the majority of the region’s hops. Ale production will suffer if we move them before the harvest.”

“Brother,” Dane said, rubbing his forehead. “If you have nothing important to add, perhaps you should retire early and leave the conversation to those who actually make decisions.”