Author's note: 
Hey y'all! Thank you so much for continuing to read! <3 I hope you enjoy this chapter! Let me know in the comments section what your favorite part was! 

It was easy for Marjorie to lose herself among the boisterous laughter of the villagers. Folk she knew since toddling surrounded her at the banquet table, each of them gnawing on pork rib, lamb meat or fried fish. In Marjorie's right hand rested a wooden goblet half full of mead. In her other, a stewed leg of lamb full of vegetable juices and broth.

The village only ate like this on Wolf's Eve. For one unfortunate villager, this meal would be their last.

She glanced around the table and wondered which face would be taken tomorrow. Who would disappear the moment dusk fell over the sleepy settlement?

"Do not eat too much, now," Petyr knocked his elbow into her rib. He smiled around a mouthful of fish. "The more we eat, the better we smell to the Wolf."

"A fool's tale." Marjorie rolled her eyes at his warning. "I will eat as much as I wish. You fear a rumor made by your fellowman to scare you away from a feast. Please, take heed of your own words. You'll leave more for me."

She reached a hand to his plate and took a warm roll slathered in garlic butter. Before Petyr could process her theft, she stuffed it into her mouth and savored the taste.

When he opened his mouth in protest, a deep ominous horn echoed through the night air and swallowed the villagers' noisy conversation. The sound caused a thrill to travel up her spine and the anxious energy leftover sent her attention to the source.

"What in Mother's name," she whispered in awe.

Moonlight mirrored off the surface of the river and reflected the giant, dark silhouette of an oncoming vessel readying to dock against the shallow shoreline. The boat was taller than any building in Core, and finer than any other ship bobbing in the wooden pier. Aboard were the moving shadows of an armored crew. The metal of their chest plates and helmets sent a scattering of light on the river below.

The deep wail of an antler horn rung once again. This time, it brought Marjorie out of her seat. Petyr's hand wrapped around her wrist.

"Sit," he whispered between clenching teeth.

She turned to those around her. She was the only one who stood.

"Sit, please," he continued. A wary expression crossed his face. His hand traveled down to his leather belt, reaching for the hatchet he kept secured there.

Marjorie did not. Instead, she pulled away from his grasp and ran to the docks. The boat forced the river water to seep farther up the land. She only took a few steps before her leather boots squelched in a bank of fresh mud. Above her, a heavy wooden door slowly reeled down, revealing a boat full of stone-faced soldiers.

"Get back." Petyr's hand wrapped around her shoulder and pulled her backward.

The door flew open and landed on the same place Marjorie stood moments ago. Mud splattered over Marjorie's red cape and across Petyr's face.

Before she could reach up and wipe away the spatter, two dozen soldiers marched down the open hatch and filled up the bank. Their steps clapped against the gravel shore like thunder.

The men were donned in silver armor and armed with spears twice the height of Marjorie. The strange blaring horn continued to echo through the village, so loud she feared her ear drums would burst from the volume. She wondered if the harsh tune traveled to the edge of the forest, and if the Fewfolk knew of the arrival.

Murmurs from the villagers steadily grew louder. The entire crowd was doubtful of the newcomers. Petyr shared the same uncertainty. He gripped his hatchet in front of him, waiting for the moment he needed to strike in defense.

The strangers clapped their staffs against the wet ground. They formed together in a tight, neat square. Despite Marjorie's attempts to catch the eyes of the visitors, they kept their gaze fixated in front of them.

Petyr pressed his free hand into Marjorie's waist and brought her closer to him. She was annoyed by the way he clung to her like she was a helpless damsel. She didn't need saving. She pushed her palms against his chest and create a foot of distance between them.

"Who are you?" Petyr shouted out.

None answered. Instead, they continued beating their weapons.

Petyr clutched the wooden hilt of his hatchet until his knuckles turned white. Marjorie hated him for his courage. Petyr believed if he simply swung his axe, he could cut any danger down. The silly glory of young men lived in him.

Glory was the same calling that took her father's life, and many other Woodsmen's. 

Marjorie wrapped her fingers around his wrist to lower his raised weapon.

"There is no reason to strike," she assured. "We know not if they are friends or enemies."

Petyr didn't pull his eyes away from the armed men. "You should go home. For Mother's sake, leave with the women or flee to your Fewfolk grandmother's home—"

"No, I refuse to flee," she interrupted. "I am no coward."

He grumbled low but nodded. He knew she was stubborn enough to stay true to her words.

The villagers at the banquet tables were either inching toward the shoreline in curiosity or fleeing back to their homes to hide from the unwelcome visitors.

"Where do you think they come from?" Marjorie whispered to Petyr. She knew the answer, but she wanted to hear it from her friend.

Like all of the surrounding Woodsmen, Petyr ignored her question and instead, remained silent. Together, they waited like snakes readying to strike. If the newcomers took a single step out of line, blades would anchor into their freshly shined armor.

"Perhaps I could speak to them—"

"Marjorie, do not move an inch," Petyr hissed. "I believe it would be best if we stayed here," where you'll be safe, was added silently.

She flinched at the mothering tone in his deep voice. His worry mimicked a clucking hen watching after her clueless little young. That was what he must see in her—a tuft of soft feathers where her hair should be and brittle wings too weak to fend off or fly away from predators.

The beating staffs abruptly ceased. Without it filling up the valley, Marjorie could hear the gentle waves of the river lapping against the wooden walls of the ship.

The soldiers moved. They parted at the middle of their formation until a slender path divided the men.

The dim light of the fire did little to provide a glimpse of whatever moved behind the soldiers.

But then, a torch lit up at the end of the path.

Now, the clear silhouette of a person was outlined. They moved deliberately slow. Each step measured and careful as they attempted to sidestep puddles of fresh mud.

The figure was tall and lean, like Petyr. But too small and lithe to be the expected width of a grown man. Finally, they stepped close enough to uncover their face.

Her face.

A young woman donned in silver armor smiled at the villagers with thick lips painted in a deep crimson. Her pale white skin revealed blue blood vessels pumping in her slender cheeks and elegant hands. Her skin reminded Marjorie of the moon and how it hung above the village, perfect and from some place far away—farther than Woodsman's Landing, Mirkwood and even Beyond.

She was unlike anything Marjorie witnessed before.

The woman strode to the front of the men and took in the surrounding villagers with large, almond-shaped brown eyes. Her long dark hair fell behind her slim shoulders in an inky curtain. In many ways, she reminded Marjorie of an animal, or perhaps, a predator would be more fitting.

Her gaze passed over each detail of the bank and the feast above, not interested in any signs of a threat—but vulnerability.

The moment the woman's eyes fell on her, Marjorie puffed out her chest and straightened her back. She wanted to appear as an equal, unlike Petyr who shook from anxious adrenaline.

"I am Vivian, Wardeness of Beyond," the stranger said in a raised tone. Her voice was different than the villagers. Where they spoke at an idling pace, her words were sharp and quick.

Marjorie was unable to keep a gasp from escaping. Did women in Beyond normally grow taller than most men? Did they command armies like Vivian and clothe them in armor in preparation for war? Did they possess ships like hers, as wide as a river and taller than two-story homes?

"I have come to save you from a Wolf that stalks your forest and kills your people," Vivian's words rang out in the cool silence of the village. "The freedom you seek will be found with me. We leave at dawn." 

Author's Note: 

It's going DOWN! Things are about to speed up! What do you think will happen? 

Please like and comment! Also, if you would like to read another werewolf book, check out The Mad Prince and The Little Bird on my profile!