Two weeks passed.
The citadel was a masterclass in psychological warfare. No one kicked Rowan in the ribs here. No one locked her in a cellar. Instead, the violence was perfectly polite. It came in the form of maids who accidentally shrank her new wool tunics in the wash. It came from courtiers who switched to rapid regional dialects when she entered a room, laughing behind crystal goblets.
Rowan absorbed it all. She didn't complain to Cassian. The king was buried in war councils, trying to stabilize the trade routes Cedric had destroyed. They rarely spoke, passing only like ships in the dark corridors of the keep, but she felt his eyes on her during the evening meals. Watching. Evaluating.
The real test came on the night of the winter solstice banquet.
Breeda had forced her into a dress. It was a dark midnight blue velvet, heavily embroidered with silver thread at the cuffs and collar. It was high-necked, hiding the birthmark and the worst of the fading bruises, but the cut was tailored to her newly recovering frame. She looked lethal. Sharp angles and cold gray eyes.
The great hall of the citadel was blindingly bright. Hundreds of nobles sat at long tables, feasting on glazed pheasant and imported fruits. Rowan sat at the high table, two seats down from Cassian.
Opposite her sat Lady Genevieve. She was the daughter of the wealthiest southern lord, a stunning wolf with golden hair and a smile that looked like a bear trap. Genevieve had been vying for Cassian's bed and his crown for three years. Rowan's sudden appearance had derailed her ambitions, and the hostility radiating from the woman was practically radioactive.
"Princess Rowan," Genevieve called out, her voice carrying over the din of the hall.
The music seemed to quiet slightly. Heads turned. The court smelled blood.
Rowan slowly set down her silver fork. She met Genevieve's eyes.
"Lady Genevieve."
"I must say, your recovery is miraculous," Genevieve purred, lifting a goblet of crimson wine. "To endure such squalor for a decade. It must be so overwhelming to sit at a table with proper cutlery. If you need instruction on which spoon to use for the marrow, you need only ask."
A few quiet, mocking chuckles rippled down the table.
Cassian stopped eating. He didn't intervene. He leaned back in his heavy chair, his amber eyes fixed on Rowan. He was waiting.
Rowan looked at the array of silver tools beside her plate. She looked at the delicate crystal glass in Genevieve's hand. Then she looked back at the golden-haired lady.
"I know how to extract marrow, Genevieve," Rowan said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a strange, hollow deadliness that cut through the background noise. "You crack the bone against the stone floor. You use a splinter of wood to dig out the fat. And if a rival wolf tries to take it from you, you put the splinter through their eye."
The laughter at the table died instantly. Genevieve's smile froze on her face. Her perfectly manicured fingers tightened around her goblet.
"A savage jest. How quaint."
"It wasn't a jest," Rowan said, her face completely expressionless. She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the heavy oak table. "You all look at me and see a victim. You think because I scrubbed floors, I am weak. But you forget what survival actually requires."
She picked up a heavy serrated steak knife from the table. She didn't point it at Genevieve. She simply turned it over in her hands, staring at the polished steel.
"You play games with words and spilled wine," Rowan continued, her voice dropping into a low, terrifying calm. "You poison reputations. I have watched wolves tear out each other's throats for half a rotten potato. I know what real monsters look like, Genevieve. And they don't wear velvet."
She drove the knife down. The blade buried itself an inch deep into the solid oak table, right between her own plate and Genevieve's. The heavy thud echoed like a gunshot. Several lords jumped back. Genevieve gasped, pressing a hand to her chest, her eyes wide with genuine shock.
Rowan didn't blink. She stared into Genevieve's soul, letting a fraction of her own dormant alpha blood push outward. It wasn't the suffocating ocean of Cassian's power, but it was sharp, cold, and feral. It smelled like blood on the snow.
"Keep your etiquette," Rowan whispered. "And keep out of my way."
The silence in the hall was absolute. No one breathed.
Then a low, deep sound broke the tension. Cassian was laughing. It wasn't a chuckle. It was a rich, dark laugh that shook his chest. The king reached for his goblet, raising it in the air. He looked at Rowan, his amber eyes burning with something dangerously close to pride.
"To the north," Cassian roared, his voice filling the cavernous hall.
The terrified courtiers scrambled to lift their glasses, their hands shaking. "To the north," they echoed weakly.
Rowan let go of the knife. She didn't smile. She just picked up her own goblet, took a sip of the water, and resumed eating.
Under the table, out of sight of the court, a large, warm hand found her knee. Cassian's fingers squeezed briefly. A silent, physical anchor. An acknowledgement.
She had passed the test. The sharks wouldn't bite anymore. They were too afraid of her teeth.