That’s monstrous. They’re people, not animals.

“In the wolf’s eyes, all are sheep. Surely you have some knowledge of this—does your own husband not feed on their blood? You will understand when you join us, when you feel the strength and freedom of Wargyr’s blessing.”

My chest and stomach felt full of cold stones, dragging me down. I’d rather be dead, I signed sharply.

“Unacceptable. Miro Kyril has told me of your ancient lineage, your wealthy inheritance. To continue the metaphor, you are the prize among sheep. Your worth lies in your lands and your cunt, not your meat.”

Unseen, facing the darkness, I spat, letting Hakkon know what I thought of that. He laughed openly, unphased.

“You will be fresh blood, the mother of a new pack born on Veladari soil—lai Darran soil. We will raise them there in the safety of your family’s house, and grow strong on the fruitfulness of your land. He has told me of your research, your academics: you will learn the language of the blood-drinkers, and teach us. They will no longer control their own past or teachings. They will eventually die, as they should have done before.”

I stared down the passage, eyes gritty and sore, but the darkness pressed in on them like a solid thing. My hope was already guttering out, like the futile wish in my heart that this was all a nightmare, that I had even a sliver of a chance of escaping.

There was no hope. Miro had murdered my blood-kin, and put me in a position to be used by Wargyr’s high priest for unspeakable things, and as long as I prayed for Bane to stay away, to save himself… there was no hope left over for me.

So. Escape was no longer an option, then. All I could do was ruin myself, refuse to become a pawn for Hakkon’s plans.

I walked faster, trying to put him behind me, following twists and turns until I no longer knew which direction we faced.

It was hours later when Hakkon exhaled, tipping his head from side to side as sharp crackles and pops filled the silence.

“We are close,” he said quietly, as though speaking to himself. “Be good now, red one.”

Never.

Some time later, I heard Miro cry out.

“Stairs ahead, woman. Don’t stumble.”

I managed a sore, tired sort of trot, desperate to be away from Hakkon and the rancid smell of wargs emanating through the tunnel, and found a set of stone steps.

They led upwards in a spiral, and when I reached the top—an empty landing, with an ironbound door cracked open before me—I halted, unable to go any further.

Every fiber of my being screamed at me to turn and run, to flee the wargs that awaited me. The stink in the air… the scent of dirty and mossy stones gave way to their stench, a powerful animal reek of carrion and blood and fur.

“Oh, redling, don’t be afraid.” Hakkon touched a lock of my hair, examining it with a curiosity that was more speculative than lascivious, and it was more disturbing than if he’d felt any sexual urges at all. I could vaguely understand how to handle a man with desires; I had no idea what to do with a man who looked at me like livestock. “None shall harm you.”

It was only the need to get away from that touch that drove me through the door.

I pushed it open, stopping in the doorway at the sight before me.

We were in a tower, so much like the Tower of Winter that I felt an immediate, nauseating tug of homesickness, the taste of tears in my throat.

The curved stone walls were piled with crates and barrels, weapons and provisions. Lanterns, burning a dirty yellow with animal fat, had been hung from the ceiling, illuminating the scene.

Miro had been brought to his knees, kneeling before a man with a thick tangle of dark hair, clan tattoos on his cheeks, and bright white pinpricks in the vast pools of his pupils. Two wargs panted over either shoulder, their hungry eyes focused on Miro, slavering bright silver strings of drool.

“Stand down,” Hakkon said calmly, moving me aside with ease.

I was torn, the vengeance in me screaming for him to be eaten, the human in me praying he’d be released.

Miro’s breath came in short, sharp stutters. “I was told… I should marry Cirrien lai Darran. I will help you gain a foothold in Veladar, and bring more wargs in—”

“There’s been a change of plans, laddie,” Hakkon told him with a broad smile. “You see, you haven’t committed yourself to Wargyr yet.”

“I worship Wargyr, as my father did,” Miro protested, but Hakkon leaned down to stare at him in the eye, each word whispered, yet pelting Miro like stones.

“You’re not one of us.”

I didn’t think a human being could turn the color Miro turned then, a waxen white like a corpse, gray mottling his lips. “I…” He looked from Hakkon to the tattooed guard and back, his glassy eyes traveling over the wargs. “I…”

“You,” Hakkon agreed. “You will give yourself into Wargyr’s embrace tonight. Prove that you’re a wolf in the soul—” He pounded a fist to his own chest. “And not a lamb hiding in men’s clothing. You must hunt or be hunted. Until then…” He smiled at Miro, showing his sharp teeth. “You’re only meat.”

Please, no, I signed. Please.

The same numb terror had come over me again; I was no more than a dreamwalker trapped in a nightmare, unable to wake up.

Hakkon gazed at me impassively; he picked Miro up by the collar, bringing him to his feet, then plucked my pen from Miro’s pocket and held it out to me with another winning smile. “This is yours, I believe.”

I took it, because there was nothing else I could do. My fingers wrapped around the cold metal; I thought about the pointed tip, how sharp it might be.

It was not a weapon, and I could only count on one strike.

“Cirri…” Miro breathed, his breath catching in his throat.

I shook my head. What did he want me to do? He had brought himself to this, and all of my thoughts had to go into how to kill Hakkon, to take down the leader of the pack, with a pen and the strength of a single blow.

I would be torn apart afterwards, no doubt, probably so fast I would be dead before I knew what had happened… but without Hakkon leading them, the wargs in chaos, Bane might stand a chance at taking most of them down.

So I tucked my pen safely in my bag, holding it close. It was all I had.

“But my father was Forian,” Miro cried, his voice cracking. “I’m one of you!”

Hakkon tilted his head, all tolerance gone from his brown eyes. “What makes you believe I give a damn, boy? Half my men are from Nordrin, Serissa… does that make them less in the eyes of Wargyr? My own mother was a Veladari merchant. That blood means nothing. It is only the blood blessed by the Great Wolf that matters.”

Suddenly and inappropriately, silent and hysterical laughter bubbled in my throat. I leaned over, letting out the breathy sounds, not even bothering to hide my mouth as I laughed and laughed and laughed.

“What amuses, redling?”

All that time, I said to Miro, my composure fracturing further by the second. All that time you whined and complained about your Forian father, thinking you were mistreated and abused for it. You had everything. Bane gave you a home and asked for the same work ethic he asks of all of us. You could have been a true artist, loved by all. But you had to imagine some terrible injustice, you had to sell every soul in the Rift, my own family, Lady rest them, for your own ego. You had it all and you killed them for nothing. 

Hakkon translated my words to Miro, and the fracture inside me gaped wide open, spilling hate as the artist’s eyes widened and became liquid-soft, like the ashamed eyes of a little boy caught stealing.

You little bastard, I signed, and backhanded him across that pale, waxen face.

The sharp crack of my hand across his cheekbone filled the air. The pain in my hand, and the sight of the shock in Miro’s eyes, was so satisfying that I hit him again and again, until Miro was crying for them to stop me, and a hand took mine before I could rain more blows on him.