Cameron stokes's Arc

Chapter 8 of 8

The king's word made his men kneel, but it did not make them trust her. Cameron felt it over the next three days. The guards opened doors for her and bowed low. Then they turned away and muttered. She heard the word they used. Outsider. She wore a dead woman's feather and spoke of a dream, and that was all they knew of her. The king would ride to the far packs at week's end. If she stood here alone, their bows would mean nothing. She found Asher at the edge of the camp, sharpening the silver-tipped knife he had given her before the wilds. He had guided her here and then left her to the guards at the border. She did not forget that. "They won't follow me," she said. "Only him." "Then don't ask them to follow," Asher said. He tested the blade with his thumb. "Show them what you are." "I don't know what I am to them." "You will." He stood. His green eyes held hers, and for a breath the edges went gold. He looked past her. "Something's in the tree line." She turned. Beyond the last tents, the pines moved wrong. A large shape slid between the trunks, low and fast. A wolf, bigger than any she had seen, coming straight at a cluster of guards who had their backs to it. Cameron did not wait for the king. She ran. The guards saw the beast too late and scattered. One fell. The wolf lunged for his throat. Cameron reached him first. She drove the silver knife deep into the wolf's shoulder. The blade cut deeper than steel ever could. The wolf screamed and twisted, snapping at her arm. She tore the knife free and struck again, below the ear. It dropped and lay still. She stood over the dead beast, breathing hard. Blood ran down her wrist. The fallen guard stared up at her. So did the others. No one spoke. Then the man she had saved rose to one knee. Not because the king had told him to. Because he chose it. He bowed his head. One by one the others followed. The silver feather hung at her throat, bright against her bloody dress. The king came through the crowd. He saw the wolf, the knife, his men on their knees. He looked at Cameron with something new in his face. "They knelt for me three days," he said. "They kneel for you now." Asher watched from the edge. He did not come closer. He gave her one small nod and stepped back into the shadows. Cameron cleaned the blade on her sleeve. She had standing now, earned with her own hand. But the dead wolf was no wild thing. Its coat was groomed, its collar cut from fine leather. Someone had sent it. The far packs had not waited for the king to ride. They had already struck inside his own camp.