The Marble Fortress

The transition was violent. One moment, Leo was breathing dust; twelve hours later, he was breathing air so thin and cold it felt like inhaling knives.

The Aurelian Estate sat on a crag in the Swiss Alps, a monstrosity of glass, steel, and white marble that cantilevered over a thousand-foot drop. It was beautiful, in the way a tomb is beautiful.

Leo stood in the Great Hall, wearing a suit Isolde had forced on him during the flight. It itched.

"This is the Foyer," Isolde said, her heels clicking rhythmically on the floor. "To the left, the Council Chambers. To the right, the East Wing, your private residence."

Leo spun in a circle. "It’s quiet. Where is everyone?"

"Silence is a luxury," Isolde replied. "The staff utilizes the service corridors to remain unseen."

"It’s creepy," Leo muttered. "It feels like a museum."

"It is a seat of power," Isolde corrected. She stopped at the foot of a grand staircase. "Dinner is at eight. Formal attire. Do not be late. The Elders are anxious to assess your... temperament."

She turned to leave, dismissing him like a servant.

"Hey," Leo called out.

Isolde paused, looking back over her shoulder. "Yes?"

"Do you ever smile?" Leo asked. "Or is that extra?"

Isolde’s expression didn't change. "Smiling suggests one is relaxed. We are currently in a state of crisis. I will smile when the pack is secure."

She walked away, a pillar of ice in a frozen world.

Leo spent the next three days in hell.

He sat in meetings where old men with gray beards talked about "sovereign wealth funds" and "territorial liquidity." He signed papers he didn't understand. He ate meals that consisted of tiny portions of foam and leaf, served on plates worth more than a car.

He was the richest werewolf in the world. And he was miserable.

On the fourth night, the silence broke him.

He went to his closet and dug out the one thing he had insisted on bringing from Nevada: his skateboard. It was beaten up, covered in stickers, the wheels worn down.

He walked out into the corridor. The marble floor was smooth, endless, and perfectly polished.

Leo dropped the board. *Clack.*

The sound echoed like a gunshot.

He pushed off.

The wheels roared on the marble. He picked up speed, carving past tapestries and suits of armor. He ollied over a priceless rug. He kickflipped in front of a portrait of his great-grandfather.

He felt the wind in his hair. For a second, he wasn't the Heir. He was just Leo.

He rounded a corner at full speed and nearly collided with Isolde.

She gasped, pressing herself against the wall. She was wearing a silk nightgown, a robe pulled tight around her. Her hair was down, softening the sharp angles of her face.

Leo skid to a halt, popping the tail of his board.

"What are you doing?" Isolde whispered, looking around frantically. "Are you insane?"

"I'm bored," Leo said, panting. "And this floor is faster than the skatepark in Reno."

Isolde stared at the skateboard. Then she looked at Leo’s face—flushed, sweating, grinning.

"You are a child," she said, but there was no venom in it. Just a strange curiosity.

"And you're a statue," Leo countered. "Come on. Try it."

"Excuse me?"

"Try it. Sit on it if you're scared to stand. Just... feel something for a second."

Isolde looked at the board. She looked at the heavy, oppressive portraits of the ancestors judging them from the walls. She looked at Leo, who offered a hand calloused by labor, not soft from luxury.

Slowly, hesitantly, the Regent of the Aurelian Pack sat down on the skateboard.

"Push me," she whispered.

Leo smiled. He gave her a gentle shove.

Isolde rolled down the hallway, her silk robe fluttering behind her. For the first time since they met, he heard it. A small, startled laugh. It was the sound of ice cracking.

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