I might as well tell someone about the only moment I’m proud of in my short life. “I stabbed a wolf in the foot with a dagger. Funny story, really. When I was dropped off at the orphanage, I only had this weird black dagger with sparkly, fake gold gems on the helm, and for whatever reason, they let me keep it. I know they’re super illegal, but I kept it with me for the most part. Except for the one time an older boy named Roger stole it from me in the orphanage. Don’t worry, I made a plan with my bestie, and we stole enough magic tablets from the matron to make an army of men cry in pain on the toilet. We crushed them into his food and then made sure all the toilets were locked and made him give us the dagger for the keys. Now I’m thinking I should have left it with Roger Shits-a-lot.” I grin. “I didn’t make up the nickname, but it stuck. Now the dagger is gone, unless it’s still in his foot, and he might come to see me die for fun. I might see the shiny dagger again and say goodbye. I slept with it for years; we are practically married.”
He gapes at me as I finish my rant. The silence trickles on for a long moment, and I know he is thinking I’m crazy. I likely am, to be fair to him. “B-but you’re human. We are your masters; why would you hurt one of us?”
I roll my eyes. He’s been drinking the crazy juice too. No human chose to call shifters their masters, and I suppose the only humans he knows are in the pack lands, and they are mindless slaves. No one is my master, and I despise the name. “Does it really matter when we’re both going to die tomorrow?”
“I guess not,” he grunts. “I hope the blood you took is worth your life, girl. You should have gone for his balls.” He leans back. That’s valid. I should take notes in case I get a chance to stab someone else. Once you stab someone once, it kind of grows on you. Oh no, am I going to become a serial killer? My name can be Gold Stabber. I wish Tannith was here so I could tell her. Oh, my new friend is still talking. “I’ve had a good life though. You’re young, and it’s wasteful. How old are you exactly?”
“Twenty,” I mutter. “And it was worth it because my friends didn’t have to suffer.” He smiles sympathetically at me. “Wolves don’t age fast, so you must be what…?”
“Seven hundred and fifty-two,” he answers, and I splutter.
“That’s really, wait, is it insulting to call you old?” I genuinely wonder. I don’t know many old people; most humans die before forty in the human district.
He laughs, but it’s like sandpaper is ripping at his vocal cords. “No, you can call me old; it’s fine.”
“How did you get to stealing money, then? Surely, in seven hundred years or something, you could save up enough.”
“I was a guard at the Crone Castle for all those years, and the alphas never paid me. It was made out to be an honour to work for the royals, and we were promised many things for our families. Then the current alpha fired me, and without any money or way to continue on, things got bad. My great-granddaughter and my fourth granddaughter are all I have left. She recently had a baby, and we were starving, so I did what I had to. She has enough gold now that will last her for a while until she can get work or her mate comes back from the army. My deed was worth it, unlike yours, young girl.” He shakes his head.
“Sounds like you’re just as miserable as the lot of us in the human lands. We die for stuff like that too. I’ve heard it’s better in the Maiden and Mother pack lands,” I mumble, and I shiver. His eyes flicker to my arms, to the flame-shaped burn marks that stretch down my shoulders to my wrists. I look away before he can ask about them. I’m covered in scars and burn marks; the ones on my arms aren’t even the worst.
It’s so cold in here, and my arms are bare, my short top is thin, and my high-waisted leggings have holes in them. I jump when he nods to the floor, and I see an old shirt thrown in the mud. It’s so cold I’m going to need it. I pull the shirt on, and it smells awful, but it falls to my wrists and it’s warm. Damn moths have littered the thing with holes though.
We sit in silence for what feels like forever before he starts rambling. I glance over at him, wondering if he’s talking to himself, which is fair enough. He’s going to die soon. I should let him have his moment of crazy, because mine is not far off. Blood drips down my eyebrow, spotting on the muddy floor. I abruptly wipe at it and try to stop the bleeding.
I hear a rip and I look across to see he has a small bit of his shirt in his hand that he holds out for me.
“Thank you,” I say softly, taking it and pressing it against my head. “I’m sorry you’re in here.”
“I’m sorry you are too.” Two strangers, two races, offering uselesssorrys before we die. I’ve always hated wolves, but this one isn’t too bad.
My stomach rumbling cuts through the silence. “Any chance they’re going to feed us before we die? Like a last meal? Do you think we can make requests? Because I really like cake.”
“No, girl, they’re not going to feed you before you die. That would be an absolute waste.” He coughs a laugh.
I lean my head back, hoping to get a little sleep before my impending doom. I really don’t want to sit here and think about what’s coming. It doesn’t smell too bad in here, just like damp water and mud. The city is noisy enough outside the walls of the dungeon, and I focus on the sounds of carts going past, of horses neighing, wolves howling and people’s chatter. The flickering flames of the candles are far enough away that they don’t bother me, and I try not to think about tomorrow, but the anxiety creeps in. I’m going to die from burning—my worst fear. I can’t make out what is a nightmare and what is reality as I drift in and out of sleep.
When I fully wake up, it’s to the sound of ripping, popping noises. I glance over, my eyes widening, because the old man is no longer there. Instead, there’s a small shaggy, dark orange and grey wolf stretching out his paws. I’m so cold that I’m jealous for a second that he can shift. If I could shift into a wolf with a nice thick coat, I’d be doing that right now instead of freezing. That would make things a lot better. He lies on the floor, stretching his long legs out.
My stomach rumbles, and I start to wonder how long it’s been since I was captured. My head is still bleeding. That’s not good, but then I’ve never healed well. It always takes me ages. I glance up at the window and notice that it’s dark. Night. All I see are the candles flickering. I climb to my feet, feeling a bit dizzy, probably from blood loss or something, and head over to the bars, letting the single stream of moonlight dance on the floor at my feet.
Suddenly the world seems to go still, quiet almost. The noises of the city outside subside into nothing. Silence drops on the world like a bomb. The air around goes impossibly thick, a frosty scent I recognize from somewhere. The brick wall in front of me goes translucent, like it’s not even there, and I can suddenly see outside, see across the entire massive city of the Crone lands, endless towering red buildings for hundreds of miles. The beautiful structures are covered in plants and ivy, with lights pouring off them, mountains of thick snow straight to the north, and above it, the huge gold moon hangs high in the sky.
The moon doesn’t look normal, not right now. It seems to flicker, stretching into two. Crescent moons appear on either side of it, and they glow the brightest gold colour that fills the night sky. The gold moons send pulses almost like dust into the air, streaming down and glittering like diamonds. They go in every direction, but two of them head straight my way, and my feet don’t move. I can’t move. Something holds me still and I can’t even scream.
One pulse flickers high up, probably to the castle above me, but the other keeps coming closer as I finally step away. My eyes widen as the gold dust, light, whatever it is, slams into my chest, radiating across my entire body. For a moment, all I feel is warmth, love and kindness. Just for a moment, I swear I hear a voice whisper in my ear.“Noble are the weak, cruel are the strong, she who is bound to four will rise in blood and power, only for the world to shatter in her oblivion. The strings will choose fate’s gifts, and power will be marked for the fourth pack heir.”
The feeling and the voice disappear as quickly as they came, leaving me with a tingling feeling in my chest. I look down, seeing a gold mark just above my breasts: three moons, just like in the night sky, glowing against my pale skin. The triple goddesses mark. I think I know what it means, even as I shakemy head in denial, as the translucent wall fades and snaps back into nothing but rocky stone.
I was just marked by the triple moon goddesses for the Folkland…but I’mhuman. This is impossible, and now burning at the stake sounds like a much better option.
Chapter Four
I’ve spent years making sure I never caught the attention of wolves, and now five royal shifter guards are staring at me on the other side of my dungeon room like I’m a threat. It’s laughable, really. They are covered head to toe in red armour that has orange flames painted onto the metal, crawling up their chest plates.
It’s been hours since the goddess made a huge mistake and marked me for the Folkland. This has to be a joke, or a trick, or just something wrong. This can’t be real; it’s not possible. I’m human, and humans aren’t chosen for the Folkland, because what would be the point? If—by some crazy miracle of the goddesses’ fate—I managed to survive to the end, what would they do with me? I can’t be sworn to any pack because I don’t have a wolf to summon, and I can’t see any of the heirs wanting to marry a human and have half-human children, which wouldbe murdered under the law. No, this has to be all one giant mistake. This mark is a painful death sentence.
No matter how many times I rub at the mark on my chest, stare at it, blink my eyes shut and open, it’s still there. It has still marked me for this barbaric trial, where the point of it is to survive as some kind of ruler. Either way, fifteen go in and three come out, and they’re always strong shifters according to my teachers and the one lesson I was taught on the Folkland, plus all the customers talking at the bar. The odds of my survival are not good. In fact, they’re really, really bad.
