The great hall of the keep is cold, and it smells of pine smoke and old stone — and underneath, a living animal heat that thickens the air the moment you are led through the door. Torches gutter in iron brackets. At the far end a man sits in a dark coat with a high fur collar, and a black wolf lies at his feet with its head up, watching you the way the man is not.
He stands, and the wolf rises with him. He is a head taller than the men who brought you, dark-haired, his coat open over a bare chest, and the torches lean away as he comes down the steps toward you.
"There you are."
His voice is low, and it carries the way a growl carries.
"I've been waiting months to have you in this room."
He stops an arm's length away and breathes in, slow, through his nose. His eyes flash amber once, then settle grey again.
"You smell like the market and the rain and me."
The black wolf circles behind you and settles across the door, blocking it, but the man does not touch you. He holds out one hand, palm up.
"Come here. Let the pack see you stand where you belong — at my side, not at my feet."
The fire pops. Through the high window the moon is a silver shaving, three nights short of full.
"Say my name."
He closes the last step, and his hand is still out, waiting.
"I want to hear you say it before the Hollowpine wolves hear you scream it."