Chapter 5: Rumors of War & The Beginning of Change

RAVEN

The stench of roasted meat and stale ale fills the Nightshade Pack’s gathering hall, mingling with the scent of sweat and ambition. The warriors laugh, their voices loud and rowdy, but there’s an edge beneath the revelry—an anticipation that thickens the air like the pressure before a storm.

I move silently between them, refilling tankards, carrying trays of food, pretending I am nothing more than the servant they see me as.

But I am listening.

My ears catch every word, every hushed whisper, every name muttered in the heat of discussion.

War is coming.

The Stormfang Pack has suffered a devastating skirmish near their northern border, and the news has spread like wildfire.

Some see an opportunity. Others see a warning.

Victor, of course, sees an opening for power.

"Stormfang is weakened," Kellan, one of the senior warriors, leans forward across the heavy wooden table, his expression serious. “Now is the time to strike.”

"Strike?" Another warrior scoffs, tipping his mug back before wiping ale from his beard. “They’re weakened, not broken. We start a fight with Stormfang now, and we may just hand them an excuse to rally against us.”

At the head of the table, Victor steeples his fingers beneath his chin, his expression unreadable. His face is the same cold, calculating mask it always is.

"It’s a risk," he admits, voice even. "But a calculated one. Kieran’s forces are stretched thin. Their borders are vulnerable. If we strike first, we could claim land before they recover."

I refill his goblet with careful precision, making sure not to spill a single drop.

I don’t dare meet his eyes, but I feel the weight of his presence all the same.

"Alpha Darius will never approve a full-scale assault," Kellan counters. "The council—"

"The council is weak," Victor cuts in smoothly. "They will wait, debate, hesitate—and by the time they make a decision, the moment will have passed. That is why we must move first."

I place a fresh platter of venison on the table, watching the way the warriors lean in. The way their hunger extends far beyond the food before them.

This isn’t just about Stormfang’s vulnerability.

This is about ambition.

Victor doesn’t want just a battle.

He wants dominion.

A chill rolls down my spine.

I can see it, hear it, feel it in the way they speak—Nightshade wants war.

And Kieran?

Would he see it coming? Would he be ready when Nightshade’s forces moved against him?

Not that it should have mattered to me.

Not after what he had done.

Not after he had chosen Seraphina.

But still…

Something inside me twists at the thought.

I force myself to push it aside, focusing instead on what I am learning.

Because this?

This is valuable.

The warriors, in their arrogance, in their drunken ease, are revealing everything.

Stormfang’s weak points.

Potential Nightshade allies.

Which packs would stand against them, and which would hesitate.

They talk freely, without thinking twice about the quiet girl refilling their plates.

And I?

I absorb every single word.

The hall hushes slightly as Lilliana sweeps into the room, her air of fabricated grace wrapping around her like a cloak.

She barely glances at me, as if I am no more than a shadow against the stone walls.

Instead, she places a hand on Victor’s shoulder, her voice silk and poison all at once.

"My love," she murmurs, "I assume there is no doubt in your decision?"

Victor exhales through his nose, mildly annoyed by her interruption but not enough to dismiss her.

"Our warriors want a fight," he says simply. "And Kieran Stormfang is a fool."

Beside her, Seraphina smirks.

"Then we take what is ours," she says, like she has any part in the conversation, like she has earned a place at this table.

I swallow back my disgust.

Seraphina has never fought for anything.

She doesn’t deserve to sit among warriors and speak of war.

And yet, here she is, draped in silks, draped in privilege, basking in the power her mother carved out for her.

"More wine, girl," Seraphina says absently, holding out her empty goblet without looking at me.

I step forward, taking it from her hands, keeping my face carefully blank.

I will not react.

I will not give her the satisfaction of seeing even a flicker of the rage burning beneath my skin.

I simply refill the goblet.

Seraphina leans in as I set the pitcher down, her voice a whisper only I can hear.

"You can keep pretending to be invisible," she murmurs, "but it won’t change anything. No matter how long you skulk in the corners, you will never be part of this world."

I do not react.

Not outwardly.

But inside?

Inside, something shifts.

A spark. A crack. A slow, creeping fire.

Because Seraphina is wrong.

I have already learned more tonight than these warriors will ever guess.

I have already memorized battle formations, supply routes, points of weakness, potential allies and enemies.

I have done more in silence than Seraphina has ever accomplished in luxury.

Slowly, deliberately, I lift my chin.

Just slightly.

Just enough that Seraphina’s smirk wavers.

"You should drink up," I murmur, voice soft. Deadly.

"Wouldn’t want you sober enough to realize how much of a fool you sound like."

Seraphina’s eyes narrow, but I am already walking away.

And as I move through the room, silent, unnoticed, absorbing every strategic whisper like a sponge, one thought echoes in my mind.

I might be the girl forced to serve the warriors.

But when war comes?

I will not be on the sidelines.

I will not be forgotten.

This is just the beginning.

Of war.

Of change.

Of my rise.