"Elders debate," she says finally. "Clan law is old. Complicated."
"The law about humans not leaving?"
"Among others." She meets my eyes, and I see intelligence there that reminds me uncomfortably of my father's chief advisor. "You come at a difficult time, child. Clan faces choices. Hard ones."
Before I can ask what that means, angry voices erupt outside. Not the low murmur of debate, but sharp exchanges that cut through the wind like blade strokes. Even without understanding the language, I can hear accusation and denial, challenge and response.
The elder woman's expression tightens. "They argue about you."
"What are they saying?"
"Some say kill you quickly. Kindness, they call it." Her matter-of-fact delivery makes my blood turn to ice water. "Others say trial by combat. Prove worthiness or die with honor."
Combat.
My worst fears confirmed. I think of Lord Aldric's thick hands and wine-soured breath, weigh them against the certainty of death in whatever barbaric ritual these people devise.
Aldric wins that comparison by a considerable margin.
"Is there another option?"
The elder woman tilts her head, studying me with eyes gone suddenly shrewd. "Perhaps. If you prove useful enough to keep."
"Useful how?"
But she's already rising, brushing dust from her leather pants with brisk efficiency. "Rest now. Eat when food comes. Tomorrow..." She shrugs. "Tomorrow we learn what you are worth."
The tent flap closes behind her, leaving me alone with questions that multiply like rabbits in spring. Outside, the argument continues, sometimes rising to near-shouts before dropping back to urgent whispers.
They're deciding whether I live or die.
The thought should horrify me. Should send me into the kind of hysterical panic that marks well-bred ladies confronted with genuine hardship.
Instead, I feel something else entirely.
Anger.
White-hot fury that burns away fear and leaves only determination in its wake. I didn't escape one prison just to die in another. Didn't risk everything for a chance at freedom only to have it snatched away by barbarians and their ancient laws.
I will survive this.
Whatever trial they devise, whatever challenge they present, I'll find a way through it. House Cyrdan didn't build its fortune by accepting defeat gracefully.
Neither will I.
The argument outside reaches a crescendo that makes the tent walls shudder. I catch fragments now. Single words that pierce through the linguistic barrier with their venom.Kill.Outsider.Danger.
Enough.
I push myself upright despite the protest from every muscle, wrap the coarse furs like a cloak, and stride toward the tent entrance. My bare feet sink into the thick pelts covering the ground, but I force myself to walk with the same measured grace I used in Father's court.
If I'm going to die, I'll do it standing.
The cold hits the moment I push through the hanging furs. Wind tears at my makeshift robes and sends ice crystals stinging against my exposed skin. But what stops me cold isn't the weather.
Sweet Mother of Wolves.
I've stumbled into the heart of a war council.
