Rowan jumped as one of the guards flew into the hall. He stumbled over his feet as he reached the dais, out of breath and visibly discomposed. "The...the Wargrex, my lady!" But he barely had time to finish announcing their guests of honor.

A warg prowled into the hall a moment later. Then another, and another. After five, she stopped counting. Wargs both in wolf form and wargs that looked like men. If men could look like mountains. Their canine ears and their size, notwithstanding their rustic clothes, were all that distinguished them from the humans around them.

They were spreading out around the hall. Rowan sank into herself, trying not to be seen by the many fierce yellow eyes moving steadily over every gaping face, devouring every detail. A wolf passed close to her, lips pulled back slightly from wet white fangs. It was only a half snarl, but she nearly fainted at the sight of its teeth. Nearly screamed at the proximity and size of the wolf. Warg, not wolf. It was a beast of a creature with a shaggy roan pelt, its limbs and paws a darker, muddier rufescent. She quickly lowered her gaze, shrinking deeper into her veil, and pressed herself against Merritt when those bright yellow eyes met hers.

She didn't need to see anymore. Black, brown, grey, or fox-red—what did it matter? They were merely varying shades of the same snarling horror. A warg was a warg.

Those that weren't in wolf form were somehow just as feral and brutish-looking. Giants themselves, towering above the men-at-arms. They were dressed in oiled leathers and gleaming furs. Practical vestments, unlike the silks and foppish flowery nonsense she was dressed in. They wore no weapons. They had no need of swords and crossbows, their teeth and muscle were lethal enough. One had only to look at them to know that the humans of West Gate were pitifully outmatched. Even with their nixrath blades and arrows. Not that the High Lady would dream of pitting the strength of her army against the likes of these behemoths, even outnumbered as they were.

Rowan dared another glance, this time her eyes sought their leader out. The wargrex. Which one was he? The silent question was answered soon enough as the last of the wargs entered on two legs. There was no doubt, this was the wargrex.

He was unmistakable. It wasn't that he was larger, or fiercer-looking per se. Like the others, his clothes were unpretentious and without adornment. The only thing different about him was that he was wearing tusks and fangs and saber-like claws as ornamental shoulder pieces. A collection of fierce creatures he'd vanquished?

Despite the chill night, his arms were bare, his muscles like carved rock. She wasn't sure what it was about the wargrex that attracted every human gaze, including her own. But it was him. He dominated the room with little effort, his strides broad and powerful as he closed the distance between himself and the High Lady of West Gate.

A strange sensation washed over her. She pinched her eyes shut, reeling at the intense feeling of familiarity he evoked. The recognition she felt—it left her shaken.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw that the wargrex had stilled. His eyes were prowling over the hall, searching the crowd as though looking for someone.

Rowan melted behind Merritt, not wanting those fierce yellow eyes to land on her. She couldn't explain why, but she heeded the sudden wild instinct warning her that he was searching for her. Which was impossible. After a pause, she peeked around Merritt and saw that the wargrex was facing the High Lady again, but the hard thews in his shoulders and arms bunched with tension.

Elgret stood as he reached her. Even the added height of the dais gave her no advantage over him. She was forced to look up at him. Way up.

Still and all, she managed to appear calm. With a confidence she surely must not have felt, the High Lady smiled and greeted the wargrex as though he was merely a guest late to the feast.

"Thrax," said Elgret by way of greeting, a small incline of her head. "Well met, and welcome. It has been far too long." Then she switched to wargish, her words guttural and harsh. Wholly alien. Rowan hadn't known till now that her mother was fluent in wargish. It didn't surprise her, though.

The wargrex held the High Lady's gaze, unblinking. Rowan would have melted into a hot puddle by now had those fiery eyes been studying her so intently.

But it was not he that answered their Lady. No, he seemed intent on searching the crowd again. The warg that had entered first, was now standing beside the wargrex. The second-in-command? At a nod from the wargrex, the warg addressed the High Lady. But he used the warg tongue and therefore Rowan could not follow the conversation.

She glanced about the room and saw that very few West Gaters, if any, understood them at all. Most of the revelers who weren't besotted on drink were looking about with wild, disconcerted gazes. Including her own.

"What's he saying?" she whispered to Merritt. Surely her scholarly husband would know. But Merritt never got a chance to answer.

Her question, though she'd spoken in hushed tones, instantly snagged the wargrex's notice.

Her face blanched to have her earlier fear visited upon her after all—the wargrex's piercing attention transferring from her mother to Rowan. The weight of his gaze scattered hot ripples across her flesh.

Surprise gathered over his brow as he studied her face. He moved towards her, deliberate and slow.

Rowan shrank away as he neared, chills skittering up her spine. His face darkened when she gasped. If he came any closer, she was sure her heart would gutter out and die. She slipped fully behind Merritt and stumbled backwards. Her blundering misstep was met with warg laughter. And now, instead of being small and invisible beside her besotted groom, she was no better than an imbecile spotlighted on the dais by luminous wolf eyes.

All this happened in quick succession, though to Rowan it seemed a heart-stopping eternity. Merritt was still opening his mouth to answer her question, frowning over his shoulder at her antics, when the wargrex cut him off.

"Shall I translate for you, little bride?" He spoke softly yet his voice seemed to rattle the rafters. It was low and came from deep within his chest.

Strange that she felt her bones and blood vibrate with each word. She froze. "I didn't mean to interr—"

"My brother, Barthac," he said, gesturing to the second-in-command, "is in doubt of the High Lady's sincerity." Beneath his searing gaze, her face burned. He went on as though she wasn't wilting like a flower. "Perhaps you can answer him?" The wargrex's gaze seemed to devour every inch of her. "Is it true?"

Rowan trembled, looking to her mother for help, hoping for a sign.

But Elgret's eyes flared with ire. Answer the man, she seemed to say.

Rowan clutched her stomach, her voice falling to a whisper. "Is...what true, my lord?"

"I am no lord," he said. "I'm barely even civilized." This elicited more warg laughter. The castle foundations rumbled with their humor.

She flinched.

"Just Thrax. We are simple folk."

Simple? They were terrifying! And she still had no idea what he was asking?

He brought the crook of his finger below her chin as though to force her gaze up off the floor. But before he could touch her, she recoiled in shock.

The smile bled instantly from his face. "Answer me," he said. This time the words were clipped and devoid of humor.

She curled her fingers around her thumb, drawing on her father's ring for strength. "Is...is what true, Wargrex?"

The wargrex held his arms out to the side, encompassing the large hall that seemed so small now with all the giants crowded within. "Our welcome, Lady. We are in doubt of our welcome." With him towering over her like this, it was a wonder she hadn't fainted. "The food is cold, the platters half empty, and the braziers grow dim. So, you see, we feel neither well met, nor welcome. What say you to that?"

"Well, I..." Rowan felt the High lady's gaze like a stab. Answer carefully. Her mother's voice lived like a constant berating inmate in her head. "I...don't..."

Barthac laughed. "You what? Don't speak?" More laughter.

"I..." It was hard to think when the wargrex was pinning her with that potent yellow gaze.

He was the only one of his ilk not laughing at Barthac's jest. He had a watchful, searching look about him as though he was using all his warg senses to make sense of her. His nose flared.

Though his gaze frazzled her, she drew on some of her mother's icy resolve and wore it like an ill-fitting coat. Like a shield. What was the question again? Oh, yes, the matter of their welcome. "Had you arrived earlier, Wargrex, the food would've been warm and plentiful and the hall bright with firelight."

Barthac only grunted and muttered something in wargish to make the wargrex smile. She winced, feeling as though she was the butt of some warg jest.

"We would have come earlier," he said, not deigning to translate for her, "had we known of your mating..."

Mating? What a vulgar term.

"Had my patrol not overheard your guards on the wall, I'd not have known to come at all." His face turned violent of a sudden but it was like a flash of darkness that was there then gone the next second. "I'm glad we aren't too late."

That was debatable, the feast was all but done. "A rider was dispatched a few days ago with your invitation to my wedding." Not mating. "Either he never survived to deliver his message, or..."

The wargrex watched her with mild amusement. "Or what?"

His amusement spurred her on to say, "Or you did receive our invitation and, as usual, deigned not to answer."

Just when Rowan was feeling less like a scared child and more like her mother's daughter, the unthinkable happened. Merritt stumbled away from the encroaching wargrex. He did this so suddenly, it deprived Rowan of the crutch she'd made of him. With a squeak, she lost her footing and would have tumbled off the step altogether if not for the wargrex's preternatural reflexes.

Without having seen how it happened, she found his fingers wrapped around her wrist, his other hand pressed to the small of her back. In this unexpected position, her breasts were crushed against his granite chest. Lightening raced in the air, raising the fine hairs on her flesh. She was hit with a powerful surge of heat. Something primeval shifted inside her—like a lock sliding into place when he touched her.

The wargrex released her so suddenly that she almost tumbled again. Fulminating yellow pulsed in his eyes.

She tore her eyes away from him.

Barthac's voice broke the tense silence, but the words were foreign. It was a long moment before the wargrex's face relaxed into cool impassivity. Only his hand clenching and unclenching at his side—the one he'd used to grip her wrist—betrayed his agitation.

He answered his brother, speaking low so as not to be overheard. But his words sent a sort of shockwave through the wargs assembled. A score of yellow eyes descended upon her.

She balked, feeling her skin crawl beneath their gazes.

Thrax stalked off towards the High Lady. "Why was I not invited tonight?"

Elgret set her teeth. "You were in fact invited. As my daughter said, we only assumed your reply, like our runner, was ill met."

"So you say."

"I do say."

"We see no proof of your claim. The mating of your daughter is an occasion I would never miss." He spoke the last with vehemence.

Barthac said something in wargish to make the others laugh again.

"It vexes me to see no trenchers set for my kinsfolk," said Thrax, speaking so Rowan could understand.

"We shall remedy that with haste." The High Lady shot her steward a curt nod, but before Silas could leave to do her bidding, the wargrex loosed a growl that froze the old man in his tracks. "No need, Lady." His tone was menacing. "The insult is dealt already."

Elgret stiffened. "What...how then can we make it right?"

"Solatium," the wargrex replied. "We require solatium, of course."

Elgret nodded, slow, as though she'd expected as much. "Of course. Anything."

"Anything?" He stretched the word. His smile seemed more a warning than a peace offering.

Rowan's chest tightened.

Elgret inclined her head. "You have only to name your price." Human faces looked on with relief to know the wargs would soon be appeased and on their way back whence they'd come. The High Lady's coffers and larders could well meet whatever demand the wargrex made.

"Then I shall name it." Unexpectedly, Thrax turned to face Rowan. In that brief glance, something primal shook through her bones, and she knew what he would demand before he ever spoke it aloud. "Your daughter," he said. "I demand the hand of the High Lady's daughter."